A big thanks to everyone who jumped on this week’s poetry bus, and to the brilliant totalfeckineejit for letting me drive. I love the bus - it's a totalfeckinbrilliant invention!
Now for the official Passing of the Keys Ceremony – Argent at Delusions of Adequacy over to you!
Monday, April 19, 2010
The poetry bus is gathering speed - more links in this morning, all on the post below.
Despite some technical problems (like my feckin apostrophe key not working) its not too late to hop on board - The brakes are fine . . . . I swear!
And as a special thank you to all bus passengers who jumped aboard, a special, luxurious selection of chocolate biscuits will be served at this morning's tea break (hey! my apostophe's back!)
Posted by Pure Fiction at 10:28 AM
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Don't miss the Bus - Full instructions are listed in the post below:
A note to all Poetry Bus passengers: Tea and biscuits will be served halfway through the journey, when we'll be stopping off at the lay-by near the Rock of Cashel (and yes, chocolate digestives are available, Poetikat).
The driver would also like to inform passengers that the small odour problem has been addressed.
Big thanks to Totalfeckineejit for letting me drive the legendary bus and welcome to the two passengers already on board:
Rachel Fox over at More about the song -
And Jeanne Iris over at Revolutionary Revelry
Swiss is here
And following close behind here's Evaliin - welcome aboard guys
The bus is now open for business again Poetikat
And a big welcome aboard to last week's bus driver Niamh over at Various.
Peter Goulding's gone gothic over at The Stammering Poet
And Titus the dog tells a haunting story.
It's all about rugby over at NanU's
Enchanted Oak finds beauty in the precious
And totalfeckineejit is seeing fireflies
Welcome aboard to karen who's treating passengers to one she done earlier (For anyone who's tried this link and found it didn't work TRY IT AGAIN - please :)
And finally, better late than never Dominic Rivron
No - there s one more (feckin apostrophe key s gone again) Domestic Oubliette has made it by the skin of her teeth!
Wait up - heres another last minute passenger- its Argent!
Below is my own attempt (at something - I'm not sure what!)
The third eye
There is a place
My friend went there
when her third eye opened
and the next day she rang
from the supermarket
how she saw God
in the check-out girl’s face.
when my husband
and his parents
and his grandmother
by four elongated
who carried me
to the table
because I couldn’t walk
shot through their limbs.
And I thought then
that this was the truth.
That I just hadn’t seen it
Posted by Pure Fiction at 12:36 PM
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Yesterday upon the stair I met
a man who wasn’t there.
He wasn’t there again today.
I wish to God he’d go away.
Pull up a chair. It’s dark outside. I’ve just thrown another log on the fire (it may not be very seasonal, but stay with me on this, okay?). There’s a smell of wood-smoke. Someone takes off their shoes to warm their feet.
We’re drinking tea – nothing fancy, just Barry’s Gold Blend. Someone passes round the biscuits (Mcvities digestives). It’s the sort of night where being indoors in front of a fire is the best place in the world to be.
For a moment all that can be heard is the sound of satisfied munching. Then someone says, ‘has anyone got a story?’ And someone mumbles something about being too busy eating biscuits to tell stories. And then someone else clears their throat and says, well . . . My father used to tell a story when we were small. . …
He worked late nights as a sub-editor, see? And anyway, one night, after missing the last bus out of town, he got a taxi.
About ten miles out of town on a steep tree-covered hill, the taxi-driver told him a story.
He’d been travelling back towards the city after a late fare and he was struggling to stay awake when something loomed up on the road just inches ahead of him. It was a man, leading a donkey. To his horror, before he could fully register what was happening, the taxi-driver had driven over the exact spot where the man and donkey stood. But when he got out of the car there was nothing there . . .
The room shifts and spins and everything feels a little funny and someone says ‘I wish I hadn’t eaten those digestives’ and then suddenly we’re not sitting in a room anymore. Instead we’re sitting on a bus, and in the driver’s seat is a figure cloaked in white.
Over the tannoy a deep, musical voice says: ‘This week’s poetry bus will bring you back to a time when you believed that reality could bend and shift,
I don’t want stories about death, the voice continues.
I don’t want stories about horrible ghoosties and scary creatures.
I want proof, the voice rumbles. I want proof of higher life. I want uplifting stories of helpful spirits. I want stories of joyful moments of synchronicity that couldn’t have happened without the intervention of some higher power.
I want joy, I want tears, I want laughter, I want truth. I want moments or stories where the real world grazed the spirit one.
At the very least, I want a poem.
(and will whoever has removed their shoes please put them on again. A bus is a small, confined space. Show some appreciation for your fellow passengers, please.)
Ps: Have a look at this if you're still feeling a bit short on inspiration: (Yay - after many, many tries it actually works. Thanks Argent!)
Posted by Pure Fiction at 10:17 AM
Monday, April 12, 2010
Thanks a million to Niamh over at Various (http://variouscushions.blogspot.com) for this week’s prompt. I’m not the best with numbers or instructions, but I persisted until eventually I came up with the answer . . . . . 55. Right?
Just kidding. This week’s prompt actually forced me to come up with a new poem instead of digging into the archives, so double thanks to the driver. Very rough first draft below.
We say hello, on the street,
you and I.
Years ago I might
have spent time
wondering what prompts
the wide-collared shirts,
the sharp flick of limbs,
those nimble pointy shoes.
What exactly it is you do?
Did someone say installations?
Once upon a time
that meant something,
along with the mention
of free wine at an opening
down on the docks,
or an afternoon sunk in drink
at the Central Hotel
on Georges Street.
I knew your type back then –
I even fancied you once,
back when we’d recite
T S Eliot as a joke.
I grow old, I grow old
I wear the bottoms
of my trousers rolled.
Who knew it would
Ps: THE BUS LEAVES FROM HERE NEXT WEEK
Come back soon for detailed instructions – and bring your torches, comfort blankets, and a bottle or two of holy water. You never know what you might meet.
pps: The image above is by Japanese artist Kumi Yamashita, who creates installation pieces through shadow play. In this piece, 3D numbers are arranged on a wall so that they cast shadows, which combined, create the illusion of a woman’s body.
Posted by Pure Fiction at 10:07 AM
Monday, April 5, 2010
The poetry bus is being driven by Swiss at www.theswisslounge.blogspot.com this week, with some really great picture prompts.
The images there kept pulling me back, partly because I just couldn’t figure out what that spherical, moony looking thing was.
Was it the moon? Was it a planet? Was it the inside of somebody’s body? That’s what I eventually decided on, but at one stage I was convinced I could see ducks in there . . . .
See that down there?
That’s a whole world
Armies are formed
laid to waste.
in a matter of days.
Remember that chilli you ate?
Listen to it detonate.
Posted by Pure Fiction at 9:27 PM