"somerset" poems
Dear America,
Do not call my generation stupid.
We were the first group of kids to learn a computer.
Think about that society: A group of kids learned this intricate machine. Yes, I'm talking about the O.G. Apples with the green type where you had to save with a floppy disk and if you put a magnet to the screen it went purple forever.
Yes those, same kids grew up and created everything you see before you now.
Everyday.
Do not call my generation ignorant.
In a short time span of years, as children, we learned about oral relations with interns and terrorist attacks.
From Clinton's impeachment to the World Trade Centers/Pentagon/Flight93 Somerset.
As children we learned; emphasis on the children part.
Our minds grew knowledgeable of a world at hand long before society gave us credit.
We grew up.
Do not call my generation lazy.
When we were sixteen and just received our license, gas rose to the highest it had ever been in our country's history.
We got underpaid and disrespected jobs:
cleaning up bathrooms and serving your foot-longs.
The ability to travel on our own, it was our new found freedom.
Like the early travelers roaming new found lands:
Our wings were spread.
Do not call my generation weak.
We are the same group of people who entered college or the workforce with the worst economic fall since the Great Depression.
You ask, "What did it do to you?"
Buried us in more and more debt until it consumed our life.
But, we became enlightened.
We majestically thrived in the chaotic times by finding out who we are, what we are capable of and that life will take us our journeys before we even see it coming.
The light still shines even when you are buried the deepest.
It does not matter what you throw at us next.
We will rise and conquer. It's the world's hidden secret.
I'm proud to live in this time.
I hope you are too.
Never giving up is our morale.
Respectfully,
THE PERENNIAL MILLENNIALS.
cc: (No HashTag Necessary)
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 8:12 PM UTC
Around me architectural mastery:
sycamores, embankments, enduring ionic pillars.
I round a walkway bordered by trees,
enamel thawing, gliding off their low leaves.
Beneath the late-May’s pounding sun,
through the glittered trees’ reaches,
a gazebo crackles into sight.
Children in their prime, sunbathers, a wistful portraitist
encircle it carelessly:
a leisured chimney; the billows of life.
The foliage escapes into the river,
purplish, palpitating, cyclic creases
receive the dewy notes.
Kayaks licking acacia-gum-edged
ripples sputter and slip
through reverberations
of leveled white-water terraces.
Blackcurrants in clotted cream
slide on the plush lips of a young passerby.
The 8 above a doorway
dances motionless, silent in my periphery;
“Nicolas Cage just sold the spot”
pops from unknown lungs
inside the Circus crowd.
Unacknowledged, half-proud
hands built the Roman baths
alone, closed-in by such grace,
forgotten, then as now.
I wander these ancestral lanes
more or less alone, the same.
Jul 4, 2012
Jul 4, 2012 at 7:55 AM UTC
Georgiana Seymour,
Duchess of Somerset
crowned _'Queen of Beauty'_
at the 1839 Eglinton
Tournament, the first known
beauty pageant;
W
European festivals dating to the medieval era
provide the most direct lineage for beauty pageants.
For example, English May Day celebrations always
involved the selection of a May Queen.
In the United States, the May Day tradition
of selecting a woman to serve as a symbol
of bounty and community ideals continued,
as young beautiful women participated
in public celebrations; such as the beauty pageant
held during the Eglinton Tournament of 1839,
organized by Archibald Montgomerie, 13th Earl of Eglinton,
as part of a re-enactment of a medieval joust
that was held in Scotland; the pageant was won
by Georgiana Seymour, Duchess of Somerset,
wife of Edward Seymour, 12th Duke of Somerset,
and sister of Caroline Norton;
Georgiana proclaimed _"Queen of Beauty"_;
Entrepreneur Phineas Taylor Barnum staged
the first modern American pageant in 1854,
his beauty contest closed down after public protest;
However beauty contests became popular
in the 1880s; In 1888 the title of _'beauty queen'_
was awarded to an 18-year-old Creole contestant
at a pageant in Spa, Belgium. All participants
had to supply a photograph & a short description
of themselves to be eligible to enter; a final selection
of 21 judged by a formal panel.
Such events were not regarded as respectable;
But beauty contests came to be considered more
respectable with the first modern _"Miss America"_
contest held in 1921;
Still the oldest pageant in operation,
the Miss America pageant was organized
in 1921 by a local businessman as a means
to entice tourists to Atlantic City, New Jersey;
The pageant hosted the winners of local
newspaper beauty contests in the
_Inter-City Beauty Contest_ & was attended
by over one hundred thousand people;
_Sixteen-year-old Margaret Gorman of Washington, D.C.
was crowned Miss America 1921, having won both the
popularity and beauty contests, and was awarded $100_
Sep 1, 2018
Sep 1, 2018 at 10:04 AM UTC
Along the sidewalks of Somerset Street
People pass upon purposeful feet
Rice and noodles up for all
We each hear the call
Come! There is much here to eat.
From the western end we embark
Just near where we usually park
On the street's sunny side
Past diverse shops we stride
Windows hung with ducks roasted dark.
To the place we were aiming to get
A table with chopsticks is set
There we eat such a meal
That it fills us with zeal
A lunch that we won't soon forget.
Oct 13, 2013
Oct 13, 2013 at 2:01 PM UTC
Men of the Twenty-first
Up by the Chalk Pit Wood,
Weak with our wounds and our thirst,
Wanting our sleep and our food,
After a day and a night --
God, shall we ever forget!
Beaten and broke in the fight,
But sticking it -- sticking it yet.
Trying to hold the line,
Fainting and spent and done,
Always the thud and the whine,
Always the yell of the ***
Northumerland, Lancaster, York,
Durham and Somerset,
Fighting alone, worn to the bone,
But sticking it -- sticking it yet.
Never a message of hope!
Never a word of cheer!
Fronting Hill 70's shell-swept slope,
With the dull dead plain in our rear.
Always the whine of the shell,
Always the roar of its burst,
Always the tortures of hell,
As waiting and wincing we cursed
Our luck and the guns and the Boche,
When our Corporal shouted, "Stand to!"
And I heard some one cry, "Clear the front for the Guards!"
And the Guards came through.
Our throats they were parched and hot,
But Lord, if you'd heard the cheers!
Irish and Welsh and Scot,
Coldstream and Grenadiers.
Two brigades, if you please,
Dressing as straight as a hem,
We -- we were down on our knees,
Praying for us and for them!
Lord, I could speak for a week,
But how could you understand!
How should your cheeks be wet,
Such feelin's don't come to you.
But when can me or my mates forget,
When the Guards came through?
"Five yards left extend!"
It passed from rank to rank.
Line after line with never a bend,
And a touch of the London swank.
A trifle of swank and dash,
Cool as a home parade,
Twinkle and glitter and flash,
Flinching never a shade,
With the shrapnel right in their face
Doing their Hyde Park stunt,
Keeping their swing at an easy pace,
Arms at the trail, eyes front!
Man, it was great to see!
Man, it was fine to do!
It's a cot and a hospital ward for me,
But I'll tell'em in Blighty, whereever I be,
How the Guards came through.
3.1k
was a bit hot in somerset today
i sweat
cool breeze off the beach
into the shop
it rains
flowers bloom
men sigh
i cry
Dec 14, 2012
Dec 14, 2012 at 4:29 AM UTC
her subtleties and jewels
are billboarded for the drawing of crowds
but the faces sketched by the grease lights are not
the kind that such an exquisite artwork of womanhood
like her should bring out on such a soft spring night
so they fold her up and pack her away
careful not to crease her fine linen soul
and place her neatly away in her cedar chest
knowing i will sneak her out later for wine and ballroom dancing
bring her back to the circus of the obscene
just as dawn creeps into the cool crisp sky
a single tear in her eye for her lost teenage years
when she only wanted to rebel a bit
but spent the time posed neatly like a porcelain doll
she was a lifesize lovesick reproduction in technicolour of herself
all thouse years ago
better to have gone away
better to have been a roadside companion
of the weary walkers
than grown old as one of the window decorations of the world
shes there now in the sun faded backdrop to the shopping season
but ill rescue her someday
well live in somerset and sell glass trinkets
her introspection is the short film version
but her poems are the epic novels
of such sweet romance
it sways the most hardened to the tender embrace
to the love of soul to soul kisses
she weaves such a tender tale
but her nights are spent alone
watching a winter moon
cross the summer sky
her hand aching for the hand that once held it
aching for the love that abandon her to this fate
i hope someday to fill that void in her world
wedged between the cardboard cowboy's forever smile
and the caped crusader sleeping off his drinking binge
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 1:08 PM UTC
Cinderella’s mop,
A fish on ice.
A picture of a
Spinning top,
A neighbour’s lights.
A framed page,
A line of ancient words.
Somerset at five am,
A line of birds.
Foreheads locked
At midnight,
Spent and heavy.
All the lives that
Have been lived
Already.
Bones of sailors
Sleeping through
The ocean.
Thumbtacks sorting out
A month’s commotion.
The moon’s ghostly
Pockmarked
Other half –
Still, moving,
A rebellious photograph.
Sep 24, 2013
Sep 24, 2013 at 3:51 PM UTC
On our bikes, day after day
Wheeling along the West Country Way
From Georgian Bath, that Jane Austen knew
To Glastonbury Tor, our challenge still new
Where are we now, is it this way or that?
Another cool stretch on a railway track
No one fell off, no one got hurt
Except now and then by a few cross words
And so over Exmoor, our longest day yet
It was football, not cider in our Somerset
Sea views and fresh air in Westward **
We could have stayed longer but on we go
The hills are getting longer, tall hedges either side
Our legs are getting stronger now we've found our stride
The Eden project was on our route
So we had to stop and see
The scene was complete in a bio-dome
With David Attenborough filming for tv
Past holes in the ground where they dug the clay
Along old canals our journey panned out
Then over a beer at the end of the day
Out came the map for the mileage count
On through the ancient landscape we go
Past the odd castle or stately home
Past sheltered coves and beaches of sand
And on to the end -Lands End-
Where we ran out of land
Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 4:39 PM UTC
Let me tell you what I want….
I want to read Somerset Maugham and Aldous Huxley and Leonard Cohen and Mary Oliver
I want to hike bits of the Appalachian Trail and take long walks in the hills around Snowdonia
I want to ride about in the DC Metro and the London Underground
I want to explore small towns and big cities
I want to eat lunch in quaint little bistros and have dinner at the table in my yard
I want to browse through antique stores and fancy boutiques
I want to play with dogs and rub their bellies
I want to take long drives without a destination in mind
I want to waste an entire Sunday at home talking about everything and doing nothing
I want to build a fire and watch a movie
I want to sit on the couch and sip tea
Most of all, I want to do these things with you
Don't let your addiction take this away
With all the bits of my heart….
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 9:12 PM UTC
Do not call my generation stupid:
We were the first group of kids to learn a computer. Think about that society: A group of kids learned this intricate machine. Yes, I'm talking about the O.G. Apples with the green type where you had to save with a floppy disk and if you put a magnet to the screen it went purple forever. Yes those. And those same kids grew up and created everything you see before you now. Everyday.
Do not call my generation ignorant:
In a short time span of years as children we learned about oral relations with interns and terrorist attacks. From Clinton's impeachment to the World Trade Centers/Pentagon/Flight93 Somerset. As children we learned; emphasis on the children part. Our minds grew knowledgeable of a world at hand long before society gave us credit. We grew up.
Do not call my generation lazy:
When we were sixteen and just received our license, gas rose to the highest it had ever been in our country's history. So, we got underpaid & disrespected jobs at Dairy Queen and Subways across the land cleaning up bathrooms and serving your foot-longs. Yet, it was for our new found freedom. The ability to travel on our own. Like the early travelers roaming new found lands, our wings were spread.
Do not call my generation weak:
We are the same group of people who entered college or the workforce with the worst economic fall since the Great Depression. And what did it do to us you ask? Bury us in more and more debt until it consumed our life. But, we became enlightened. We majestically thrived in the chaotic times by finding out who we are, what we are capable of and that life will take us our journeys before we even see it coming. The light still shines even when you are buried the deepest.
It does not matter what you throw at us next. We will rise and conquer. It's the world's hidden secret.
I'm proud to live in this time.
I hope you are too.
Make someone's life better today.
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 10:37 AM UTC
There is a reckless quality to Street
bathed in street-
light, hiding shadows
In plane sight angles shift
behind other angles, deliberately Obtuse
as if to say 'Here I am!'
Here I am
Not
(look again)
Sep 26, 2010
Sep 26, 2010 at 8:44 AM UTC
The ancient town of Glastonbury stands proud
known for its famous Tor.
And leylines that converge in fertile earth
surrounded by human history.
Mystical, today commercialised they flock
soaking up power and to rock.
As this isolated Somerset town is engaging
colourful characters thrive.
Bringing the past and its history to life
as Pagan and Christian mingles.
Once an island surrounded by marshland
an aura of magic is at hand.
Here there's a sense of timeless wonder!
The Foureyed Poet.
Aug 5, 2012
Aug 5, 2012 at 10:35 AM UTC
You just have to realize
He said to me
People have there ups
their downs, their in-betweens
their plays, their acts
their big dramatic scenes
They play their own parts
Then they are on their way
Sometimes they come back
Sometimes they stay away
Finally to play their part to someone else
In another place on another day
So give your lines
Say them well
And if the world likes them not
Let it go it go to hell!
David Somerset written unknown date
Edited 6/11/2015
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 11:58 PM UTC
I sang ' Here's to you Mrs Robinson'
downed a pint of Thatchers
while the guitar played
& in the empty streets
there was the Moon
coarse & incomplete
these strange suburban nights
bring back memories of loss
& of the coming of agelessness
I never learnt how to drive
& still rely on the bus
unable to graduate from life
yet I hope my torn sunsets
& wasted loves
have made me wiser
whispering mantras
not afraid of being the outsider
forever drawing maps
*Thatchers is a cider from Somerset, England.
Jun 28, 2015
Jun 28, 2015 at 3:33 PM UTC
I wish I wish
that you and I
Could loosely link our hands -
And fly
To a little house in Somerset,
Where it’s always sunny
And always wet.
It’s green and gold with dragonflies
That whip themselves from sky to sky
With water pearling on their tails.
My sister’s house stands small and frail,
With roses big and peach and pale
Quivering like nervous girls
Encircling her door like curls.
The walls are dreams of drowsy pastel,
From the bannister
Hangs a satchel,
And the kitchen has a wooden table
That thrums with memories of drunken fables
Told in whispers late at night,
(A boy crying, jangling beads,
Overrun with strangling weeds,
His sister’s fingers,
Evergreen,
Plants flowers where the weeds have been.)
And she’s an artist, don’t you know,
She knows which way the colours go,
And long ago
She took some wire
And shaped it with a pair of pliars,
And added beads of deepest red,
Like globs of blood that’s been well bled
'Til it became a piece of art,
A huge
Muscular
Anatomical
Heart,
And she placed it on the mantleplace.
It throbs there at a steady pace,
A beating heart
Like a coronet
Placed on the head
Of Somerset.
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 5:18 PM UTC
11/15/2015
it has been a while since
i've been to the wetland coppice
teetering close to the neck of
a somerset sourland hummock
soft rushes and pickerel ****
wild lavender and marsh elder
a Canadian goose choking on a
birch branch
it died.
it has been a time since I've been there
timber rattler and weasel
playing in the grounsel
September,
like Wallace Stevens: lonely in
Jersey city.
November dead
cold bright annihilating days
i sometimes walk a mile
cutting across dead garden snakes
they sit in the living room, playing
the Nile is full of waste and bile
i wait alone by this little grove,
hoping that my fickleness of
Conversation topics
can help me now
but my mind, it raced
like a dead horse at a betting show
Sunday morning,
Saturday night really
I read Wallace Stevens in the field
And dream about jersey city
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 1:32 AM UTC
The ancient town of Glastonbury stands proud
known for its famous tor.
And ley lines that converge in fertile earth
surrounded by human history.
Mystical today commercialised they flock
soaking up power and to rock.
As this isolated Somerset town is engaging
colourful characters thrive.
Bringing the past and its history to life
as Pagans and Christians mingle.
Once an island surrounded by marshland
an aura of magic is at hand.
Here there's a sense of timeless wonder!
The Foureyed Poet.
Nov 17, 2012
Nov 17, 2012 at 11:50 PM UTC
Crazy starry-eyed mannequin
Taken to the stars again
Heroic catalyst of my youth
Left us with the inevitable truth
proof of the elusively loose and uncouth
I'll see you in the sky
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 4:24 PM UTC
again, this thing about the cartesian res cogitans
(thinking thing), substance and extension...
i’m pretty sure the darwinistic expression
of early model does not suit this model,
my own version i wrote once, res vanus (empty thing)
fits the gig better - we who can now snuggle in duvets,
who housebound the wild boar,
who milk cows with technological octopi tentacles,
who switch hot dogs with popcorn in the dark,
who ice-skate at somerset house at christmas,
who take diamond bling and christmas tree bulb bling
to equal the same credit on plastic,
who with polystyrene foam beat nature
by showing nature it couldn’t digest it on whatever
level of insect and parasite,
well have all the luxuries now, and we found them
not so much from thinking but from emptiness,
there is more chance of the eureka in res vanus than
there is in res cogitans - it’s the spontaneity you see,
and less need to narrate: love, lost love, aching love , ex lovers.
what else is there? it’s the easier assumption to have
with the niche topic in relation to kant’s noumenon (thing in itself),
i don’t know why i want to mention this orientation
to further the explanation -
early man was defined by res vanus - the sensual overload,
the prime, being empty and forced into the heat and the cold
and the mystic tiger hunger -
and still as defined by res cogitans, we pause and feel empty,
not so much in terms of emotion, but in terms of thought,
however we no longer gather at the campfire,
few people crowd by a lightbulb to talk fables with a
memory of achilles ajax and hector...
we need neon rainbows to huddle -
whether that be by eros shooting the neons of piccadilly circus blind,
or by televisions or computers,
rarity a fire that crept into the ribcage and gave way to
a macaw song of cross-dimensional sophistication off mayan jungles.
Nov 21, 2015
Nov 21, 2015 at 12:11 PM UTC
Janice wore
the lemony dress
her gran had bought her
for being good
at the dentist
it had a bow
at the back
and flower patterns
here and there
I never got a dress
when I went
to the dentist
I said
you're a boy
she said laughing
mind you
I was promised a trip
to the seaside
in the summer
but I think
we were going anyway
so it wasn't much
of a gift or bribe
I said
we walked on
by the Duke of Wellington
(public house)
and under
the iron railway bridge
which made loud noises
when the trains
went across
especially the steam trains
Gran said
not to get
the dress *****
or I’ll be for it
Janice said
I never asked Janice
why she lived
with her gran
and not her parents
my mother said
best not to ask
so I didn't
where we going?
Janice asked
I thought maybe
Bedlam park
we can watch kids
playing football
or watch those
in the swimming pool
or the tennis players
Janice said
it was a good idea
and so we went
on our way
I can get us
some ices
I said
have you some
money then?
she asked
sure I have
never come out
without a least
a few coins
I said
have to do a few chores
but at least
I get a few coins
to spend
Gran gives me money
now and then
if I've been good
Janice said
but have you money now?
I asked
no
she said
can't have been good then
can you?
I said smiling
I’m always good
she said
but Gran can't always
afford to give me coins
we crossed over
by the traffic lights
and went on our way
into St George's Road
I told her about
maybe staying
with my aunt and uncle
in Wraxall
where's that?
she asked
near Bristol
in Somerset
I said
what will you do there?
last time I went scrumping
with my cousin
is it countryside?
she asked
yes
there are cows
and sheep
in the fields
and mushrooms grow
there too
Janice asked about
the place and who
lived there
and asked questions
upon questions
as girls tend to do
once they get going
and I thought
of the chickens
my uncle kept
at the bottom
of his garden
which he let me fed
when I stayed
and fed them worms
and other stuff
Uncle gave me
but I told Janice
about holding the worms
in between my fingers
she ******* up
her nose
and said
she'd never want
to hold
one of those
then we came
to Bedlam park
and went in
and was reminded by her
to keep her
lemony dress clean
so we avoided
the swings and slide
and just looked in
from the metal fence outside.
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 4:06 AM UTC
The little girl looks at her reflection
In the train window
She begins play acting
oblivious to those around her
The old man in the corner seat
cannot suppress a smile
Suddenly their eyes meet
And she takes cover
The crowd swells in as people jostle for space
The intercom resonates
Train door is closing..
Please mind the platform gap
She turns to her mother
Pleading to play a game with her
She recites the names of the stations
Novena, Newton, Orchard, Somerset..
The young lad sways to and fro
Unable to control his sleep
He is shaken from his dream
By the lady beside him
Suddenly it turns dark
The train passes a tunnel
The little girl hugs her mother
And eagerly awaits the light
All around people tapping
smartphones and tablets
Checking out social media and games
Absorbed, riveted and focussed
The girl runs to the window
Amazed by sight of boats in a row
serene waters and blue clouds
Skirted by green trees
Events change along the train ride
one after another like patterns
Of a kaleidoscope
Surprises waiting to unfold
© copyright skm
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 4:53 AM UTC
I take Rowan to pick blackberries.
I knew where they’d be
Up through the allotments beyond the windmill,
brambles hanging heavy in the sunshine
We each carry
what we could find in the kitchen:
me a jug, he a plastic box. He clutches
it to his chest with both hands,
stepping carefully over cracks in the pavement.
Here then,
The clutches of fruit perch
like children sitting on a gate.
Rosehips and sloes peep yet
through the leaves, biding their time.
I say,
look at the colours.
Green then red and then
finally
shiny, glowing,
deepest purple.
And oh how the fattest fall just so
into your hand,
as if they have been waiting
Soft bubbles bursting with juice
Our fingers and chins
turn pink
I give him the biggest and sweetest.
I like the **** ones, sharp as a high summer sky.
The evening sun sends our shadows on and on
As I stop to watch him he grows,
transforming
right in front of me, long fingers and a wide wide grin, daisy faced, I must tilt
My head to meet his eye.
Now his hands find
the furthest blackberries
just
beyond
my reach.
Aug 24, 2020
Aug 24, 2020 at 12:23 PM UTC
I’d just come back
from Somerset
the night before
after staying
with an aunt and uncle
and was walking down
from the Square
when Enid
was walking up
from the baker shop
off of Rockingham street
I’ve missed you
she said
got back last night
I said
her left eye
was bluey green skin
how’s your old man?
I asked
still thumping
his daughter happily?
she looked away
up at the flats
behind us
I walked into
a lamppost
she said
wasn’t looking
where I was going
I noticed four
finger size bruises
on her arm
but said nothing
about them
yes I know lampposts
kind jump out at you
when you pass by
she looked at me
I ought not
talk to you
she said
why?
my father said
he doesn’t like you
and I mustn’t
talk to you
but you are
I said
besides
I don’t like
your old man either
so that make us
kind of balanced
I better go
she said
but stayed
looking at me
if I see your old man
on the stairs
of the flats
I’ll trip him up ok?
no no
she said
her mouth
staying open
I was kidding Enid
relax
she gripped
the white paper
bag of rolls
in her hand
and looked up
at the flats
missed you
she whispered
glad you’re
back again
and I watched her
walk up the slope
to the flats
the sky was dark grey
promising rain.
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 1:43 AM UTC