Poetry : Sat 19 Aug
Yesterday I spent quite a bit of time soaking up the atmosphere at the Pleasance Courtyard. It drizzled a bit in the morning, but people braved the weather to queue outside venues and I caught snippets of conversation which loosely inspired the following poem.
Chatting in the queues
Getting a hot recommendation
And insiders' tips
On where to get free tickets;
How to get around;
How to see twelve shows a day
And still be found
Doing the same the next day
And for three days after that;
How best to tease the 'flyerers' -
And as you think that,
you look up towards the sky,
but don't know why
And suddenly, unexpectedly
find peace in a mist-kissed view
of Arthur's Seat:
Two ramblers strolling across the skyline -
serene, joyful surveyors
of an awe-inspiring show
put on by nature.
I caught a couple of shows at the Courtyard and came out to relax in the covered area towards the back of the courtyard, and my mind drifted back to a show I'd seen last week by Nicole and Martin whose supreme theatrical and storytelling skills remain vibrant in my mind, inspiring the following poem
By an inverted double base on his chin.
The laughing river of consciousness within me
Flows up the neck
Spacewards, outwards,
Fizzing at the point of contact
Where the faintest stubble caresses
The smoothness of wood grain
And the roots of the wood of a
New tree of life
Take root within me.
I find that great theatre, like great poetry or great art of any kind is able to stop time and compress space, creating a doorway through which I can escape and transcend the material to touch - however briefly - the sublime. I wonder to what extent strict classical forms of poetry facilitate and enable that process. And yet, the poetic is tangible. It's there all around us - all we have to do is be ready to see it - in our own way.
Rainfall dance on cobbled earth.
I turn to a stranger, point and whisper,
'Isn't that beautiful?'
He didn't get it.
I try to put the beauty of the dance
into words -
The upward thrust of light,
The downward fall of rain -
But point to the simultaneity of the event
Which, for me, was where the beauty resided -
And he said, 'Very sexual'.
He didn't get it.
That long-drawn-out simultaneous elemental
tantric orgasm
Was nothing to do with humping and penetrating
But he didn't get it -
Or at least he didn't get my way of getting it.
But that's OK, in it's way - isn't it?
The rain subsided eventually and late at night, I walked through a covered passageway which leads from Bristo Square away from the Pleasance Dome towards South College Street. A group of four or five lads were sheltering in the passageway, creating a collaborative rap poem. The rhythm was infectious and I caught myself bobbing along to their beat as I passed, exchanging smiles with them, enjoying the raw primacy and spontaneity of the moment. Several hours later, I come back through the same passageway by day.
And draw the sleepy echoes of their beat
Back to the dingy passage from the dirt
in the sloping walls,
From behind the flaking plaster up above
And fill the empty space
With silent music
and with love.
Pass by there, gentle souls, sometime today -
You may still hear it speed you on your way.
Yesterday, the topic of the daily poetry competition at the Pleasance Dome was 'Scotch Eggs' and this morning I came in to find a record number of over 50 entries. Among some poetic drawings of eggs in tartan, kilts or the Scottish flag, several stood out as particularly moving, witty or poetic.
They do not come from Scottish hens
I'll make that very clear
And so I hope this poem helps
To scotch the whole idea.
John Dredge
Scotch eggs and lemon
The only antidote
to haggis.
'DWWJ'
A poor man's Ferrero Rocher
Charmaine
But the winning entry was this one
Naked embryo
Tightly wrapped in shredded pig
Farmyard massacre
Sam Taylor.
Sam wins two free bowls of Soul Food from Momma Cherri's Soul Food Shack at the Pleasance Dome.