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Bigsby

Aberdeen Music Poetry Corner

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The dwarf with his hands on backwards

sat, slumped like a half-filled sack
on tiny twisted legs from which
sawdust might run,
outside the three tiers of churches built
in honour of St Francis, brother
of the poor, talker with birds, over whom
he had the advantage
of not being dead yet.

 

when i first read this poem, i really never understood it. but i've studied it for the last week. i've got to admit i love it

A priest explained
how clever it was of Giotto
to make his frescoes tell stories
that would reveal to the illiterate the goodness
of God and the suffering
of His Son. I understood
the explanation and
the cleverness.

A rush of tourists, clucking contentedly,
fluttered after him as he scattered
the grain of the Word. It was they who had passed
the ruined temple outside, whose eyes
wept pus, whose back was higher
than his head, whose lopsided mouth
said Grazie in a voice as sweet
as a child's when she speaks to her mother
or a bird's when it spoke
to St Francis.

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Anyone seen this yet? Thoroughly heartbreaking.

 

Coming back to this, I'd like to hear a version where the crowd aren't giving it the whole "ooh, ahh. awww." Ruins the atmosphere IMO but still a brilliant performance.

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this thread hasn't been bumped in a while heres another one of my favorites from Norman MacCaig

 

The hospital smell
combs my nostrils
as they go bobbing along
green and yellow corridors.

What seems a corpse
is trundled into a lift and vanishes
heavenward.

I will not feel, I will not
feel, until
I have to.

Nurses walk lightly, swiftly,
here and up and down and there,
their slender waists miraculously
carrying their burden
of so much pain, so
many deaths, their eyes
still clear after
so many farewells.

Ward 7. She lies
in a white cave of forgetfulness.
A withered hand
trembles on its stalk. Eyes move
behind eyelids too heavy
to raise. Into an arm wasted
of colour a glass fang is fixed,
not guzzling but giving.
And between her and me
distance shrinks till there is none left
but the distance of pain that neither she nor I
can cross.

She smiles a little at this
black figure in her white cave
who clumsily rises
in the round swimming waves of a bell
and dizzily goes off, growing fainter,
not smaller, leaving behind only
books that will not be read
and fruitless fruits.

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Ooh. This thread is interesting (after the first page nonsense).  I've been attending a local writers group recently which got me writing poetry for the first time in years. I might post some later (not making any great claims on it's quality mind).

 

In the meantime some of you might like this new magazine which has launched recently in the NE:

http://poetsrepublic.org/

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This is a poem we learned in a training course and it's quite grown on me. It's "the language of us and them" by Mayer Shevin.

We like things

They fixate on objects

We try to make friends

They display attention seeking behavior

We take breaks

They display off task behavior

We stand up for ourselves

They are non-compliant

We have hobbies

They self-stim

We choose our friends wisely

They display poor peer socialization

We persevere

They perseverate

We like people

They have dependencies on people

We go for a walk

They run away

We insist

They tantrum

We change our minds

They are disoriented and have short

attention spans

We have talents

They have splinter skills

We are human

They are . . . ?

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The Poets' Republic are having a launch event tonight at Stonehaven Community Centre, doors 7pm until 10pm with guest poets, free wine and an open mic.  

 

http://poetsrepublic.org/

 

If it goes well they're looking to host similar events in the future.

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