*pop* - another book reviewer!

I've just posted my first book review -- it's on POD People, a blog for review and commentary on self-published works.

I review Fire Pearls, a collection of short poems about love. The review is here; I welcome any thoughts on it.

Last Day of the Holiday

My two-plus-week holiday ends tonight. My parents left yesterday after their visit, and everybody in the family was out (work, day-care, all that racket).

So, I ended up with a day to myself.

I'm not a patch on Ferris Bueller; I have a track record of whiling away free days doing nothing much, then going into a funk for being such a useless git and wasting my liberty.

So, what to do today? As my Lovely Wife suggested, something that wouldn't leave me depressed.

The first order of business was a given: Local cafe, big breakfast. Scrambled eggs, Italian sausage, bacon (ours is more like Canadian than American: thick, but less hammy), sauteed mushrooms, hot tomatoes, toast. No baked beans this time, which is good; they only get everything else all soggy.

So, big breakfast and a double macchiato. I'm full and wired. Wonderful. Now what?

Golf? Nah. Shopping? LORD, no. Sit in the car and do crosswords? Ye... NO.

I could feel it happening: a day wasting away. Time to move -- Time to Do Something.

So. Feeling decidedly chunky and unfit, I decided to get out the bike. It was a beautiful day -- hot, sunny, slight breeze. A day to do things with. Something out of character.

But -- where? Then I thought: the one place where I feel more alive, more hopeful, more inspired every time I go: The Domain. It's a massive park (it's Sydney's equivalent of Central Park), and it contains the Royal Botanical Gardens, the Art Gallery of NSW... and the 'Boy' Charlton Pool.

So, I did. Rode from our house in the Inner West (Five Dock, if you must know) to 'Boy' Charlton Pool, in the city, near the Botanical Gardens. It's kind of ridiculous in a Best Of Sydney way. Here it is:


Yes -- that's the Opera House in the background. This place is in an amazing location, and it looks out over another bay.

Afterward, I stopped at the kiosk opposite the Art Gallery of NSW. Couldn't think of a coffee -- I ached everywhere -- but I bought a lemon squash and went looking for a place to sit and drink it.

Then, I found it -- the perfect spot. Just down from the AGNSW: a statue. I love statues. My favorite place in Paris is a sculpture garden (I think it's the courtyard of the Palais de Justice) .

So, here's the statue where I sat, sipped and pondered -- it's Robert Burns.


I love -- LOVE -- a city with statues of poets.

I pedalled home, feeling a little more accomplished, a little inspired, and very well vacationed.

The Growth

Well, here it is -- day sixteen of the beard. I'm enjoying it more than I thought; it adds a lot of grey, but I rather enjoy that.

Operation barba rossa (e grigia)

I'm five days into growing a beard -- yesterday is usually the day when I decide that enough's enough, and I hack it off (to the great relief of my wife and my chin). This time, I pushed past the barrier, and I may go further: I'm on vacation, and I have another ten days of liberty.

Also, my parents are visiting; my dad, influenced by the months he and Mom spend each year in Alaska, has grown a beard. I'd never seen him in one before; he grows a good one, but it's still an adjustment. But Dad's presence and unabashed delight in his thick, wise-looking beard has pushed me past the four-day wall.

Why? Several reasons:

• Growing facial hair is still novel to me at the age of forty-two
• Because I can
• It will set me apart: it's not a goatee
  
• I still like to emulate my Dad
• It's handy to stroke pensively, which could be a boon to my fledgling writing career
  
• Independence - my wife doesn't like the idea
  

Why not? Several reasons:

• Not all men look good in beards; naff appearance is a risk
• They itch
• A beard is more practical in the Pacific Northwest than it is in Australia
  
• There's an awkward 'tween stage, what I think of as the Carol Brady stage for people trying to grow their hair long
• It will probably make me look older, which doesn't have the appeal it did when I last grew one, at twenty-two
  
• Ridicule - my wife doesn't like the idea
  

It's coming out with a much greater proportion of grey than I have in the rest of my hair; the five-day spikes are all copper and silver. My hair is either brown or auburn, depending on season and whether I'm in the sun. I've got a few grey hairs, but not a lot yet.

I'm fearful, but curious, that I'll end up with some sort of two-tone deal: Karl Marx or Michael McDonald, without the blowdried look.

Even blogging about it sounds like a commitment. But, either way, I'm guaranteed a new blog topic for at least one more post: there's either a progress report, or a Ship Abandoned message.

Also, there's a Great Beards in History discussion waiting to happen. For example: Greatest goatee in history? I'd have to vote for V.I. Lenin, although Colonel Sanders would be up there too.

Masnavi made me a hero

Well, sort of. I wrote a piece of a Masnavi poem - eight lines in aabbccdd form (see Absolute Write forums, Poetry - Games and Exercises), and I did like it. The thread, started by a friend, is here -- you'll need the Poetry Forum password, which is citrus.

Thank you, Kie, for bringing this form to our attention and engaging us in it.

A dear friend also liked it, and she named me in her Myspace Heroes list for it. She's a glittering soul, and she's introducing me to some fabulous poetry.

Thank you, Tina.

Anyway, here it is:

I lurch and straggle on this path alone,
a crippled beetle on a bloody stone:
the first and second simple steps I take
draw taut the chain from abdomen to stake.
The life I knew was happy ere I woke:
in sleep, a swan; awake, a Kafka joke.
Exhausted now, I pray for grace of death,
or music: strains of Locomotive Breath.

A poem for a birthday, not a birthday poem

For a good friend.

Fangs of Conscience

I stand atop an embankment
pitching rounded stones
into the red-raw clay below.
Tea-trees list in the breeze
and dangle their branches in the cool
of an unrippled pool.

The stones clack like dice
and form a sloppy cairn
below my feet.
On the hill behind me, a cow
hoods its lips over a stand of clover
and fulfills its ambition to eat.

Out of rocks, mud on my cuffs,
I look on my works and despair
in the chill air.

Help me assimilate:

You hear that voice; I know you do. Ease his pain.

Now's your chance; make that voice go away. You -- yes, YOU -- can cool my fevered brow.

Please - just tell me:

What does W00t! mean?

Where'd it come from? Is it cool, 733t, trekkie, street, emo, what?

Or, you can keep walking. The choice is yours.

Hey, Bob... Be my uncle, already!

I write poems and generally do an ordinary job of coming up with titles.
In Australia, "ordinary" means "incredibly bad".

Suddenly, I find myself inspired; I have a list of titles that are not bad.
In Australia, "not bad" means "excellent".

Now, all I have to do is write a slew of poems, hang them on these titles, and Bob's your uncle.
In Australia, "Bob's your uncle" means "you're all set".

...

(drums fingers)

Bloody Bob. Late again.
In Australia, "late again" means "late again".

Auto-Meditation

stomp your boots and leave
your crumbs of outside on the floor
drape your soggy overcoat
on any chair you find

shoulder past the door
into the hollow tv chair
flip the buttons, tour the globe
by thumbing the remote - on

seven, news is on the air
but as the reader monotones
thoughts escape your head like sheep
bolt through a trampled fence

tail on tail, the dullard drones
to do a lesser nothing there
following themselves in blank
disinterest: life like sleep

peace in empty meadows: there
is nothing left to stir, aggrieve,
tantalise, or vex your mind
you have yourself to thank

Call me *what*?

Today, in an email exchange, a friend gave me a winking, good-natured insult. And then she called me 'sugar'.

I didn't think people spoke that way anymore. It felt what I imagine as Southern: sophisticated, dignified and clever. I've never been so delighted with an insult; it made me as happy as many a compliment has.

This is why I'll never be a politician; I'm too easily swayed.

Which reminds me: Why hasn't the leather garment industry ever used the slogan "easily suede"? It just seems a natural.

Elementary, My Dear Everett

You know, Rupert Everett could have taught both Elvis and Billy Idol something about the art of sneering.

I've just watched a Sherlock Holmes mystery on telly -- The Silk Stocking Murders, I believe -- and Everett was brilliant as a somewhat dissipated, haughty Holmes, barely tolerating in the beginning his capable, helpful, but plain, colleague Watson. The impatience is borne of a desire to be left alone in his vice -- to loll in morphine addiction.

But even in the guise of pasty and sallow poor health, Everett is still as enviable to other men, in his way, as any James Bond ever was. I've been a fan of his ever since I first saw Another Country. He casts an air of unquestioned superiority that doesn't alienate, but commands admiration... from a respectful distance. And, like Jeremy Irons in the Brideshead days, he makes a cigarette look like the most wonderful treat a man could ever want. (Only occasionally did cigarettes actually measure up to that vision.)

Gradually, as he's drawn into the case, Holmes' attitude toward Watson softens. He only becomes interested in the case when it appears interesting enough: beautiful society debutante, found strangled with a silk stocking, dressed in clothes that aren't her own.

As they move on, Holmes looks upon Watson as inconsequential but useful, then indispensable, and finally, as a warm friend. Watson suffers along, and appreciates the change, but it doesn't move him unduly. He's a steady sort.

Everett creates in his Holmes a sort of Harry Higgins-like character: despicable, unassailable in his superiority, but finally fond and likeable. Rex Harrison might have appreciated Everett's Sherlock Holmes. It adds a strange depth to the character I hadn't seen before.

The only problem is that now, I want a cigarette.

In lieu of deep thoughts

Q: What were James Brown's last words?

A: "I don't feel good."

Amazing performer. Take this test - listen to a James Brown song. You've heard him before -- millions of times -- but you still can't keep still. He still sounds cool, x decades later.

======================

Two bumper stickers on one car, seen in last Wednesday's commute:

"I can't sleep: Clowns might eat me"

and

(with a photo of a floppy stuffed-toy bunny)
"Have a good day, you worthless turd"

I so wanted to follow this car and find out where it was headed.

What I Like About myspace

So I've finally capitulated and set myself up in myspace (myspace.com/poetinahat, in case you're wondering).

 

WHY?  *shrug* Some people I thought would know better *ahem* were already there.  What's the harm?

 

In my first few days, I've decided that I LOVE it.  Well, at least one thing about it:

 

The music.

 

There's music - free to listen to - of every description there.  I've spent time just checking for stuff I've been missing for years - or never got around to hearing - and found it there.  Fantastic.

 

My first spin was James White and the Blacks.  Their angular, strident, wiseass funk was one of the best things to come out of the late 70's.  I figured he'd be a longshot, but... BANG.  There he was.  What's more, his signature tune - Contort Yourself - was top of the list.

 

Soon after, I chased down another New York avant-garde genius, Richard Hell.  His torn-t-shirt poetry, with the jangly backing of the Voidoids -- like the Blacks, a virtuosic band -- still feels new on every listen.

 

To me, this is music that has lasted.

 

Since locating and revelling in these treasures - reminding me of a deluded, but happy, time of my life - I've gone on to chase down other old and new favorites.  Folks like Jon Cleary and the Absolute Monster Gentlemen, who are a brilliant New Orleans combo I'd recommend to anyone.  Sparkling piano, throaty vocals and a sweet, sweet grooving rhythm section.

 

On and on: artists I should be more familiar with, but haven't been: Bonnie Raitt.  Link Wray.  Keb' Mo.  Stan Getz.  George Harrison.

 

Then there are the Eighties bands who still fascinate me, and left some astonishing work: Bauhaus/Tones on Tail/Love and Rockets: a brilliant Goth lineage.  Wall of Voodoo: one hit from a brilliant album.  Wire: taut, experimental, funny.  Jonathan Richman: one twangy guitar, songs about, oh, the ice cream man.  The Fall: sarcastic, dismissive, confusing, infectious.

 

There are, happily, lots of bands from my home, Australia: Karma County, The Sleepy Jackson, Gelbison, 78 Saab.

 

And, of course, there's the new groups: Faithless (not usually a big fan of trip-hop - or whatever they call it - but this duo get it very right), Scissor Sisters (I don't know about the rest of their stuff, but 'Filthy/Gorgeous' is a killer), and all the stuff I haven't kept up with in, oh, fifteen years.

 

Many of the band sites appear to be maintained by the artists themselves, or by some authorised person.  And the way sites connect to each other by 'Friends' lists means that one find leads to many others.

 

I'm remapping my past by music, and filling in the gaps along the way.  It's, in a way, more expressive of me than a journal.  More confusing too.

 

So, myspace -- even if I don't meet a single person -- has been loads, loads, loads of fun already.  And I haven't even really delved into the community aspect of it at all yet.  Just the jukebox bit has been brilliant.

 

If you're on myspace, I invite you to drop by my page; in the words of trumpeter Chet Baker, let's get lost.

Facial Responsibility

I recall reading that, during his career as a lawyer, Abraham Lincoln rejected an apparently well-qualified prospective employee. His colleagues protested and demanded to know his reason.

"I didn't like his face," Lincoln declared.

The other men scoffed and protested that his reason was absurd. Lincoln noted that the rejected applicant was forty years old. "After the age of forty," he said, "every man is responsible for his face."

I'm forty-two. I guess this is it. Well, Face, let's get on with the show.

Welcome, you and me, to my blog; it's my first time here too. Stick around; let's see what happens with my face if I do

this ...writes a series of ribald sonnets... or
this ...posts tirade against reality tv... or even
this ...transcribes the front page from Le Figaro, June 13, 1968

Anything yet? Einstein hair, Marty Feldman eyes, peace-sign nose ring?

By the way, the Lincoln anecdote is from The Little, Brown Book of Anecdotes (Clifton Fadiman, ed.; published, of course, by Little, Brown). It's a brilliant book -- loads of fun. It's as close to Instant Erudite as there is.

Steve, can I have the book back? You've had it for two years now.