My First Workshop

OK, I've been to poetry workshops, but that was the first time I'd run one - co-hosting with Ben Lawrence (poet, friend, beard, quidditch champion) on the theme of Oulipo. If you don't know what Oulipo is, it's a contraction of Ouvroir de littérature potentielle which roughly translates as "workshop of potential literature" (so, technically this was a workshop-workshop meta-thingie) where writing constraints are used to inspire new writing. Founded in 1960 by Raymond Queneau and François Le Lionnais, it started as was a loose gathering of (mainly) French-speaking writers and mathematicians who sought to create written works using various constraining techniques. So, think univocalism (only allowing yourself to use one of the vowels) and that kind of thing, often in cool Parisian coffee-houses- highly appropriate as the workshop took place in an independent cafe-gallery albiet in Southampton.

We worked though a variety of tasks and prompts, one of which was to create a snowball poem. This means starting with a single letter as the first line, two letters in line two and so on. You go as far as you want, then, if you wish, back down again to end with a single-letter as the last line. In a spirit of camaraderie, me and Ben did the exercises too. Here's my snowball output:


Snowball Earth

I
am
the
last
human
on this
fateful
dying orb,
sun-fusion
sucked away
to power – what?
Great engines,
gravitational
arrays that open
spacetime rips to
nowhere, a pure void
vampiric upon solar
energy, and we couldn’t
close it, so our giant
companion star got
cooler and cooler
‘til candle-faint,
a lonely cinder
lost in vacuum
without fuel,
so Earth now
chills and
darkens, a
funeral
for all
of our
kind
and
so
I…

Well, I got all dystopian and bleak there, but you see how it works... If you like constrained writing you can set yourself whatever rules you wish as long as you enter into the spirit of Oulipo and stick to them rigorously. A great book containing numerous examples is Adventures in Form, and you might like to check out Ross Sutherland's univocalist and N+ (more about that later) works, as well as the famous Eunoia by Christian Bok.'Til then, here's an image of poets attempting Oulipo-ness...

Cogtastic shenanigans

It's possible I've been listening to too much Professor Elemental (should that be possible)... here's something recently performed at the ever-lovely Art House - enjoy the warm steampunk goodness!

World Exposition Cog Jamboree

Crinolines and bustles, toppers and tweed
snake across the lawns of Turnham Green,
Olympic-standard queueing, an English scene
to see mechanical contrivances driven by steam,
captured lightning, electrical streams
streak between terminals as whistles scream,
tea pavilions, scones, jam and cream –
it’s the World Exposition Cog Jamboree.

A great glass hall, wrought-iron beams,
cathedral to inventiveness, mind’s-eye gleams,
keen teens weaned on cunning schemes
by artisan teams weaving clockwork dreams,
difference engines sew numerical seams
in between dimensions past the usual three
where esoteric airships soar high above trees
borne aloft by formulae with strange phonemes

sung by thaumic mathematicians on bended knees
while crowds cheer to see the springs and keys
of modern technomancy, vast brass machines
from automaton insects to submarines
and odd extremes like talking monotremes,
platypus enhanced by neurochemical means
deemed unseemly, what next, walking anchovies
or chickens laying eggs full of French centimes?

So let’s relax at Old Hakim’s
Coffee House, styled like a hareem,
with rugs, hot beverages and fine ice creams,
praline, tangerine and mangosteen
served on voluminous cushions of velveteen
by metallic waitrons Tesla 1.3
instead of odalisques in diaphanous sheen,
then a tot of green fairy keeps your palate clean

before a zoetrope film of the Sistine ceiling,
3D screen backlit with fluorine
lamps through lenses of tourmaline,
a show heart-stopping as atropine
watching seraphim dancing on trampolines
sipping poteen from gold tureens,
afterwards a visit to the Black Museum,
secrets gleaned from reams of long unseen

tomes illustrated with obscene themes,
unredeemed, lean in, hear tales of esteemed
adventurers visiting warrior-queens,
selling London Bridge for magic beans
pursuing idols thought lost for sixteen
centuries in deep Polynesian seas
presented to delight in huge marquees
at the World Exposition Cog Jamboree.

Who knows what's out there?

For a change, a little bit of micro-fiction...

Planet Esca

At first it was nothing more than numbers – subtle patterns rhythmically describing the dimming of already faint light from its parent star. Later, after untold terabytes of data were crunched by the SETI 2.0 quantum super-computer, the tell-tale specturm of modulated emissions proclaimed the presence of liquid water, clouds and even the red/infrared interface suggesting large-scale vegetation. Seas or large lakes, a functioning system of recognisable weather and abundant photosynthetic life – key indicators of a potentially habitable exoplanet.

Following desperate decades of debate, recrimination, invention and construction, it crystallised as the destination of the Granule, humanity’s first and only sporecraft, created with the last available energy and resources. The Sun still burned, and our but we had wasted too much to be able to build machines to harness its output.

Now, during the last expected generation before planetfall, our mathematicians tell us we are moving too fast, and have flown too far into the Great Maw to slow or turn sharply enough before it closes behind us. Escape is impossible, the ‘planet’ a bright dangling lure in the abyss. If only our ancestors had recognised that pair of fiery red giants for what they really were, watching our inexorable approach.

Joining in with 50th anniversary fervour

No, not a royal jubilee, but something more important by far - of course, it's Dr Who... here's my attempt at a poetical friend's challenge to write a Dr Who triolet (rhyme scheme ABaAabAB in case you're not familiar with the form). Enjoy! (and yes, I do own a Dalek head...)

Clara Oswald, the Impossible Girl,
Oswin the Dalek makes souffles in space,
echo in time, tumbling pearl,
Clara Oswald the Impossible Girl,
heart of the TARDIS, temporal whirl,
War Doctor’s saviour so full of grace,
Clara Oswald the impossible girl,
Oswin the Dalek makes souffles in space.

A blog post writing I am

Written in response to a fellow poet's prompt to 'write a Yoda poem'...

yodadiary.blogspot.co.uk

Like a Jawa used it as a toilet
my mouth tastes this morning.
Ached my head did, not now
(Paracetamol, not Jedi mind trick).
Old Thumper I tried – liked it I did, yes,
karaoke night at the Star & Falcon it was, mmm;
“more, than this, much more, my way, I did it”
I sang,
“geroff, frog-face”, lads shouted –
green I am,
small I am,
Kermit I am not;
in the Serpentine
thinking they are ducks,
quacking
they are now
(Jedi mind trick) –
muppets.
OLL.

From bad to verse

Along with some poetical chums, I'm currently working my way through these exercises as poem-a-day prompts. Yesterday's was "Write the worst poem you possibly can. Now edit it and make it even worse."

So I did. As did others.

What was interesting was (a) how difficult this was - the urge to avoid 'bad' poetry is strong, and (b) once achieved, the results are still good (in their own way) because they are funny, and that is positive. A lot of humour is about the unexpected, the disjointed, the out-of-place-or-time and so on, so maybe this isn't too surprising - and creating some mirth has to be a good thing, so maybe no need to analyse further. Here's my attempt:

Bad sex poem
[My submission to the ‘erotica’ section of this year’s Vogon Eisteddfod]

Jagged buttocks warts clash
Clash; clash clash; clash
Clash CLASH clash.
Oh, compartments! Look!
Oh, oh dumpling’s! Lovelier blancmange
From a packet. NO!
And some plastic sponge.
It wobbles.
I can see a cauliflower.
Woe! WOE!
My vegetable won’t grow –
WITHOUT some gravy.
Greeeen.
Cleverly I say ‘noirmange’
Now you see!
Yes, they are French but opposite.
That is clever so you like it. Vert!
Oui! Non! Like that.
But better.
Desire akin to that penned a few years ago by Alan Titchmarsh winning an award that’s somehow appropriate here but not the one he would have wanted I think it is over.

RIP Iain (M.) Banks

A couple of months ago, my favourite author, Iain (M.) Banks, announced he was suffering from a terminal illness - yesterday he died. Then I wrote about the announcement, now I write in memoriam, again taking inspiration from his science fiction work (with the 'M.'), and the spacecraft who name themselves.

The ships that never were

Welcome
To my beautifully manicured venue,
Though detritus collects in hidden corners,
Just like a million other boxes,
Lifted by imaginary mourners,
At once grounded and enclosed, and so
I’m tired and someone’s glaring,
A virtual mountain-range of neuroses,
Unlikely to calm down in a hurry,
Not quite a pacifist, they’re staring
Fully equipped with the latest devices,
Wield the knife and slice
The matrix,
Upgrade and embrace
The spatio-temporal torsion,
Search among the vectors,
Punctuated static,
Unexpected divinity of spectres,
Crossing the transcendental periphery,
Quantifiably both something and nothing,
With an irresistible urge to investigate,
Seeking interesting opportunities,
Adding some real complexity,
3.141, you know the rest,
No final stopping place,
You’re great white whale-obsessed,
Blundering through a field of dreams,
Familiar with risk-perception,
Mind expansion if you will
(But trepanners will be prosecuted).

Now don’t forget to smile,
Or you’ll be
Missing out on the key to serenity,
A tragedian
Airing on the side of caution,
And forgetting yet again to
Take time to stop and eat the flowers –
‘Cos, you know
Cross-pollination
Is a socially acceptable
Way to fight the power,
Systematically dismantling ivory towers,
Grain by floating grain,
The unadulterated joy of pissing in a hurricane,
Revelling in
Smug feelings regarding the analysis of others,
A rockin’, rollin’ schadenfrood-dude,
Counting down to the beginning of the end,
Far too vainglorious to retire,
My back is turned and I walk away,
Which infinity will you try today?
With thirty seconds before the final cold or fire
A singularity would be more fetching attire,
Strangely charmed and quarkly spinning
Beauty is in the holder of the eye,
Now - kneel before Zod – only kidding!

Like a thunderbolt from a clear blue sky,
Don’t ever let me catch you kneeling,
Praying in the Great Glass Coprohedral,
Where light and thoughts pass straight through,
Not so much loyalty as inertia,
Kind words masking worried glances,
Working though a litany of trances,
Good story, bro, please tell it again
So it’s not lost
On those who never were.

The invasion starts here

Inspired by Julie Alice Chappell’s exhibition ‘The Butterfly Collector’ in The ArtHouse café/gallery.

The invasion starts here

Cyber-insects - resistor-headed, circuit-winged,
Haltere-balanced gyroscopic mini-beasts,
Sit mechanically still under clear glass domes,
Or poised in wall-racked test-tubes,
Static, awaiting technological ecdysis,
To swarm, cloud, cluster, nest,
Scuttling transistor-legged,
As picofarad-pointed faces,
Watch us, soft mosaic images
Through compound LEDs,
Electronic fluttering, flight-motor whirr,
Limbs stridulate and chirr,
Live-wire antennal twitches transmit,
Up to the gravid mother-ship -
There’s a bug in my machine.

['Gravid' included as a nod to the fine poets of the Vogon empire...]

Two parallel (t)Ruths

A slight departure from the norm - rather than poetry, a short story that's been rumbling around in my head for some time. One person; two very different tales.

[Note: this story has now been published here by the lovely people at Rebelle Society]

Two parallel (t)Ruths

Ruth 1

The bicentenary of the New Liberalist World Order began early for Ruth Q487181/BKC with a time-unit 6.0.0 wake-up call courtesy of the alarm function of her THE sub-cranial implant. She yawned and stretched as the lights in her Grade 2 (Regulation) modular habitat responded in kind to the alarm and switched themselves on, glowing dimly at first, then gradually brightening to something slightly more intense than the height of the midday haze. Eyes still fuzzy, she swung her legs off the sleeping platform, and stood up. There was no point trying to stay asleep as the platform would sense her weight and transmit to her implant, instructing it to repeat the alarm call more loudly, and eventually administer mild but uncomfortable electric shocks. Yawning again, she peered into the mirror opposite as the sleeping platform concertinaed and folded itself into a shallow niche in the off-white polymer-clad wall. ‘I’m starting to look puffy again’, she thought to herself, but then she was about midway between scheduled lipo-fragmentation treatments.

To one side of the mirror, a silvery semi-cylindrical niche some 0.75 standard length-units across and half that deep ran from floor to ceiling. Ruth stepped inside and the inner surface of the wall spun quickly around her to form a closed cylinder. There was a faint click, then the cleansing pod briefly sprayed her from all directions with a fine foam from thousands of minutes holes. A burst of rinsing fluid followed before warm air dried her and the pod opened. Stepping out, she opened a new packet of disposable THE-branded leisurewear and dressed in the familiar synthetic garments. Clothing could not be bought in person. Instead, THE sent items from a standard selection, unless requests were made for specific purposes such as specialist work-wear or registered extramural activities. In any case, they degraded swiftly in air and so, a citizen who did not return to their appointed dwelling, workplace or registered activity location could not clothe themselves. As the cost was deducted at source from the citizen’s account, THE was guaranteed a vast income from this source alone. For today she had been sent a tight green pastel two-piece with the THE logo on the fashionably large epaulettes and flaps of the thigh-pockets. Formed within a decade of the inception of the Non-Localised World Order – NLWO, or ‘Newlo’ as most people called it – Total Holdings Enterprises now controlled almost every aspect of global consumption – food, housing, technology, information, everyday goods and luxuries alike - everything. True, licenses could be granted to trade as a competitor in any business sector, but these too were controlled by THE, and in practice only black-market operations had any realistic chance of survival. Although these officially did not exist, Ruth knew they did, but the penalties for patronising them - let alone taking an active role in their operation - were severe, and she had never dared engage in the peculiar goods-and-services bartering system that rumour said they employed.

As she pondered this, a shrill chirp from her implant made her jump and she uttered one of a small selection of sanctioned expletives for the benefit of the habitat monitors. “Clean words make clean lives” chimed the integral speaker in response. The bicentennial address was to be broadcast in three minutes’ time at 6.3.0 and all implanted citizens – which meant all citizens as far as she knew – were expected to watch. The implant meant they had no choice but to listen. She reached for a small white cylinder and popped the lid. Inside were a stack of contact lenses and she dipped a finger in, quickly transferring one to cover her left iris. Immediately, recognising the DNA from the surface of her eye, the lens flickered and began to receive images from NeoNet, the global computing, information and communications system that Newlo had created as a replacement for the World Wide Web. Normally, THE (Comms.) broadcast hundreds of channels which could be selected using the omnicard touchpad that every citizen used to control anything from computing facilities to their habitat’s Nutri-ration dispenser. Today however, all channels carried the same message, a global address from Reinhold Pyrle, Chief Executive Officer of THE and Newlo. With his board of twelve hand-picked Directors, Pyrle was effectively President of the world. Eventually, Pyrle would die, resign or be ousted by the board, at which point they would elect a new CEO who in turn would choose Directors to replace anyone they felt unfit, and fill any vacant spaces.

The image in Ruth’s left eye had stopped flickering, but was distorted and grainy. She blinked a few times, and shifted the lens slightly with her finger, but it did not improve. ‘The lens must be old’, she thought to herself and replaced it just as the broadcast was due to begin. With a fanfare and images of fireworks and cheering crowds, the THE logo appeared in her vision and she uttered her second sanctioned expletive of the day. “Clean wor…”, “Oh, shut up”, she shouted back in irritation, receiving a Level 1 Admonishment for her trouble. The images were still distorted and she realised the sound quality was also poor, with an underlying hiss. Her implant must be faulty, which meant a compulsory adjustment, or worse, surgery to effect a major repair or replacement – not to mention the headaches and nausea that a new implant often induced. Still, there was nothing she could do until this broadcast was over, so she flipped a small platform out from the wall and sat down. This could take some time.

Ruth 2

Ruth Quinnan woke with the sunrise. Birdsong drifted in through the half-open sky-light and she rolled over, pulling the downy sleeping cover with her and curling into a sleepily contented ball. A few decades ago, there had been trials of anti-grav sleeping fields and ultralight hyperfoam or aerogel duvets, but they were unpopular – people simply liked a soft, comfortable nest. Hearing her new lover pottering about in the kitchen, she mused on getting up and decided another hour or so of dozing was what she needed. Later she might work on that story she’d been meaning to finish, but for now...

NaPoWriMo Day 4

My offering for NaPoWriMo day 4 - Iain (M) Banks is my favourite author and a couple of days ago he sadly announced that he's only got a few months to live. So, with many a ship-name embedded (as per the prompt), here I go...

I am an empiricist and this is my headcrash

One renegade cell is bad for business,
An undesirable alien not wanted on voyage,
It grows omnivorous, Homo-limivorous
A fragment of no fixed abode,
Unacceptable behaviour needing sober counsel,
Identifying the precise nature of the catastrophe,
A definite attitude-adjuster,
Intractable, unavoidable – like death and gravity,
Is fate amenable to change?
Is She just an unreliable witness?
Or an unwitting accomplice,
Offering wisdom like silence,
Her scrutiny edged with a steely glint,
Piercing the sacrificial victim (an arbitrary choice),
While deep inside, contents may differ,
Outwardly trying to appear quietly confident,
Maintaining a fine disregard for awkward facts,
Stay busy – writing beats working,
A displacement activity keeps the host feeling warm, considering,
Holding back the rush of oceanic dissonance,
No more jaundiced outlook,
Step away from the heavy messing,
(What’s this? I didn’t book the sleeper service)
Take the long view and appeal to reason –
The chemo and the tumour have a frank exchange of views,
But in the end there’s no break-even,
No full refund,
And the only grey area is the one shown on the scan;
It’s killing time,
Arranging affairs with tactical grace,
Though melancholia enshrines all triumph,
Call it what you will – Big C, some-noma, some-plasia,
By any other caconym,
Cancer’s just a meatfucker,
And it will all end in tears.

Ode to a deep-sea anglerfish

Doctor Who was fine for me,
I sat upon the sofa-cushions, not hid behind,
Those sea-devils never real,
But ‘Life on Earth’ was where I found
A childhood fear I knew existed,
Black with evil, glaring eyes,
Mouth of fangs downturned and bearing
Glowing lure before its gape.
Watching through my half-spead fingers,
Intrigued but still I did not dare
Until I saw how small they were,
Demon golf-balls in a case.
Phobia turned to fascination,
Books, exhibits, films, the Web,
Etsy selling plush and stained-glass
Melanocetus johnsonii.