JONO RETURNS
For one so comparatively young in
years Jonathan McFarlane has probably staged more come backs than
many a mature performer. What a return this turned out to be ! Jonathan
posted his finest poem to date, and one so full of delicate sensitivity
and implied understanding of another human being that it has to be Echo
Poem of the Month for June.
We've seen Jono develop from the total
computer technophile, to gathering self knowledge and understanding, we've
seen him venture into the realms of fantasy and now - with a kind of brilliant
gentleness - into poetry of deeply human understanding. This is well done,
Jono. |
The room now silent and
empty,
Memories my only company.
Always were so softly spoken,
No need to have said that
final prayer,
to forfeit what lay ahead,
Memories of music still
linger,
Memories of the softness
still around,
Only
now I stand alone,
Oh sweet
child, what did they do?
excerpt from
Softly Spoken
by Jonathan McFarlane
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At almost the opposite extreme came
Trish Hague-Blackford's memorable Let me die - please. A
cry from an old note book. We don't see nearly enough
of Tricia these days, and she has never given us permission to publish
her poetry. However, those who are interested can read more of her
poetry on her own website.
Four bottles of bourbon was not
enough, on this drunken spree
for all she wanted was to kill
herself, to make herself feel free
excerpt from 'Let me die - please'
Tricia Hague - Blackford
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Tricia was not the only one to deal
with the inner experience of drunkenness - though the entire flavour of
the individual poets and their experience seems to have very different
angles.
SWEET RETURNS - SIMON CAMPBELL
Simon Campbell - another who has indicated
his preference to remain unpublished - returned to the echo in June. This
was a real delight to me - and I'm sure, to other old hands. His first
posting, Floral was one of those uniquely 'quirky' Simon
adventures into the place where the worlds meet and all things are possible
- if not immediately joyous or good. I get more fun from the pub
than you do was prefaced by a gem of an introduction. Those
who had never met Simon before must have felt they knew him by the time
they had finished reading this posting. Here is that introduction:
It would be cool if you viewed
this, perhaps in the manner that you might view, say, a dried flower arrangement,
which is being presented to you to by, say, an eager but perhaps naive
16 year old, who perhaps has arrived unannounced on your doorstep, and
you with your hair all still wet from the shower.
I drank and my brain smeared down
down through myself into the floor,
going somewhere,
my head was flickering,
a caravan park rolled through the
building,
ducks swam around the rusted shopping
trolleys,
suburbs moved through me at the speed
of blood.
excerpt from I get more
fun from the pub than you do, Simon Campbell
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| PORCELINA SPRING
Porcelina is another who has not given
us permission to publish her poetry. She hasn't, on the other hand, said
'no'. Her one offering in June was a very fine 'filk'. Fixing my
Complexion has, in my opinion, to be one of the most impressive
works to come out of the 'filking' passion that has pervaded this year
on the echo. To the tune of Losing My Religion by R.E.M. |
That's me in the clinic
That's me under the knife
Fixing my complexion
Trying to improve the view
And I don't know if I'll afford it
But it'll never be enough
I haven't had enough
I thought I'd have collagen
I thought I'd have liposuction -
I think I've got a big behind
Every wrinkle
Every passing hour
I'm thinking of complexion
Trying to keep all of my youth
from Fixing my complexion,
filk by Porcelina Spring.
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EWAN ELLIOTT
Ewan looked about himself with a hard
eye in the month of June. Many of his poems did not 'come off' as complete
works but they contained some of the finest lines, and some of the keenest
observations that I have ever read. Perhaps most poignantly in Realization
Dawns
You wonder where it went,
if it was ever there
A first love looked
at you through opaque glasses
Blossoms swept aside
for nought but roses
Straggly hair, washed
and 'bounced' with stuff
Red tints in red hair
made more lustrous
Beauty made more so,
she is beginning to realize
Some of Ewan's work this month reads
like overheard fragments from other people's conversations. Such poems
as Monolithic stay in the mind and for the life of me I can't
work out why they seem to 'drift off'
Structures so hard
And morals so severe
Rock hard but shaky
Put to the test they are not
so sound
Built on shifting sands
Of persuasion and convenience
They sure look good
These oak like stands
The world of communication once
again fascinates Ewan and produces some of his better works. In Prepaid
Smiles
Prepaid cards to scrape ice of the windscreen
Cellular secretary sapping money
Oh, but I am connected
Every where I go my little phone follows me
Those machines produced yet another
'Yeah, me too' moment in Fighting the Machine
Collapsed on the line
Fiddling around with
bytes, bits and options
Phone calls to friends,
advice given
Panic eased momentarily
But it still doesn't
work
Growl, growl, growl
Youth and health continue to exercise
their fascination in Tide, one of the more powerful
of Ewan's poems this month
The rising tide of youth swamps
all
For youth belongs to the youth
No room for the middle aged
or old
They have lived with that all
their lives
So far - Now is their time
Stand aside - don't be a fool
And again in A gripe, a whinge
which was, to my mind the best thing Ewan posted in the month: This is
powerful clean, direct writing. It hits home without fuss - and yes, it
hurts.
Were did this pot gut come from?
The tired feelings, the thinning?
The broken marriages?
O youth were did you go, were did you go?
Sold for fragmentary nights of joy
For hangovers supreme
For it is all gone and sold
Gone forever.
excerpt from A gripe, a whinge
by
Ewan Elliott
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ALICE THORPE
I had a very quiet month, I see as
I look through the folders. Probably the high point was a response to Simon's
return - in verse of sorts..
Come
in love, never stand so hesitant
upon the door. We spoke
of you
only the other day,
while we poured
all over your other
verse,
wondered over you, exclaimed
wish you were here so
we could
jaw all over the entrails
of your poetry, the
mind you show
us.
Heart on the sleeve posted
in both Wordlovers and the Poetry Workshop is a wistful little
poem. I seem to have been ageing a bit this season, for the only 'real
poem posted in the echo was a response to Ewan's question, 'Where
has Youth gone'? It covers a similar theme but from a rather more physical
point of view.
Oh!
but my youth's still here,
leaps thoughtless to its feet without a care,
turns back to wonder at these creaking limbs
BOB KING
Bob had a genial month, gently teasing
Alice over her bout with the 'flu. Alice in Wonder
was a fanciful, merry thing, much appreciated by Alice.
Well never mind they
all declared
Alice will soon
be back and scared
by all the poems
dropped in her lap
waiting for her
moderator's cap.
Earfuls was four lines
of enchantment,
Oh don't care is
such a sin
and won't move
is akin
so just let your
ears dance to the song
of wonderland
from whence they come.
Whimsy was obviously flavour of the
month for Bob, his main work . Spells was all froth
and bubble. Not my personal favourite, but still warmly admired by many.
Allow this mixture to slowly
cool
then paint it over the window
sill
when all is done just sit
and wait
'cos none of this will change
your fate.
excerpt from Spells by Bob
King
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EDDIE KYLE
Eddie have been cleaning up in more
ways than one. His two best offerings this month were reflective retrospective
poems. Both Betrayal and Dubious had
an edge, and an interesting perspective. Dubious had a grievous,
regretful 'edge to it:
I
knew reshaping my life had its risks,
I knew soul searching
can be intense.
I can sit and
write about it now,
We could talk
about it for a while,
But my defeated
sighs and watery eyes,
are from your
dubious smile.
I was particularly struck by Betrayal
Isn't it nice to see that
In the end nice guys do come
last,
We stick around to see your
downfall,
When your present stays just
like your past.
except from Betrayal, by
Eddie Kyle
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ENVOI
This month saw, for the first time,
cross posting of the best 'wordlover's poems into the Echo. Both poems,
by Loadstar, have been published on the web. One into nexus/prose and the
other into Scribble. The Great Spirit has been published
on two other Websites, one of them a poetry site in it's own right, and
owned by a Cherokee. It mak take a while for the cross posting to be more
effective than it has been so far, but it certainly looks most promising.
The deep midwinter
month, traditionally so slow a time that we have indulged in challenges
and debates in order to keep ourselves moving, has been a genial, warm
time in the Scribble echo. I found much to delight me, merry poetic exchanges,
and the kind of warmth that breeds confidence as well as comfort. July
has already continued this pleasant company without in the slightest diminishing
the poetry in either muscle or depth.
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