butter's stuff: the good, the ugly, and the incomplete

[butters]

sight: wood paneling
sound: distorted music recording
scent: Old Spice (or similar)
touch: faux leather
taste: bleu cheese


propped against a bar
knee caressing wood paneling like
secrets sliding over silk
distorted music played in her mind
a record of days when the scent of old spices
teased her nostrils
leather wasn't faux
and he fed her bleu cheese from a silver fork
watching her lips

 

[butters]

and should the lowly prawn rebel
refuse man's 'nipulation
across the chequered sea-board "hi!"
abandoning his station
meet with other shellfish ranks
to mingle, swim and sally
abandon those who'd use him "thanks!"
and join the peace-nik rally
the king and queen and boorish knights
would fret "orf with his head!"
the prawn would wear his coolest grey
whilst they turned lobster red

 

[butters]

cold fire: strange flames

beyond this world's bright arc
its shadowed scythe
that slices through the songless void
dreaming of sound
fire remembers itself
though not its shape
nor whisper of its heat
just that it was
it is
it will be

 

[butters]

grey and breezy
now
cat leaves the windowsill
questions 'why?' to a closed door?



how small the world
when held within a hand
distance dissolved
smooth sailing
no bumps
happy landings

and for the palsied hand
warm seas
and held between two pillars
trembling's hushed




the wonder of wonders
a wonder-filled hole -
sans bunnies -
fragrant and making a mind slip
from here to there and back again



love
is not hemmed in by
time's insistent barriers

erect walls
dig ditches
float green weed in broad, deep moats
fold earth's rocky mantle
thrust magnificent mountains rudely into a fair sky
and flood low valleys
love will not be drowned
nor sink nor fail to climb nor
slip from the cold rock's face
or bail from this world's pull
spill endlessly in frozen space
but will dismiss all obstacles with a smile

for in love's reality
obstacles are but thin illusions
the heart's capacity - boundless




monstrous ego
bonfire for the lonely
cold fingers warmed



a scared man
builds his card-castle high
protects it from stray breezes
one stamped foot
may bring it all tumbling down



been thinking a lot
about big dumb rocks

Sisyphus was a trier
i'll give him that



wrinkles
such are dreams on the fabric of sleep
when sleep is torn
dreams evaporate
into skuddering skies



sneezing, curtains drawn
tv flickering
voices become an endless white-noise
and the skin between waking world and sleep melted
without my being aware

bright dawn was muffled by the curtains
the black lions awake well before i
i dreamt of rivers running through houses
down hills
but always just far away enough to be out of danger

now i'm left wondering
if another river came
washed something away in the night



the heart is carried
by feet that stride
release the green perfumes of grass, the browns of dust
aware of the stones underfoot, potholes

it's carried in careful hands
at the speed of light
a swiftly-running river of thought
an airship painted with celestial bodies
and on the wings of a bird's song

it's carried on a journey
laughing on shoulders, breeze in its face and
sunshine in its hair
stormclouds and rainbows transient



a soft n fragrant bubble monster's
growing in my bath
it's really quite relaxing
and makes me want to larf



headache

eyeballs rattle in rusty tin
metal flakes and stray tobacco
a hand crushes the can



the sun is hidden
beyond a block of unalleviated grey
yet still
there's light enough for points of colour to dance in hanging prisms


oops ku rules broken. oh well, maybe i can abbreviate it

sun hides
behind a mass of grey complaints
colours still dance



today i saw three kites; two died with the wind, the third hovered, dived, struck.


cold war children
how swiftly we learned we shouldn't eat the radioactive mushrooms

or

how swiftly we all learned not to pick the radioactive mushrooms



if you come looking, you'll find me in the garden where the wild things grow.



"and don't forget to dot the i's", she said; he smiled, and stuck out his tongue.



if this is rain falling on my face, how comes it feels so very hot?


frothy mocha and wifi, fingertip world - pavement seats, pollution.



the bones of all old houses creak; some are sad - others ache, contented.



stream runs low, clear; halfway up the bank a rusty trolley, draped in weed.

 

[butters]

don't know how many of these are doubled up. too pooped to go check right now.

a smile builds
like dawn about to break

the sunrise in my heart
i reach for dark glasses
look to long shadows
bask in its heat






a little treasure box
of seas and beezz
for a waterchild on a buzzz
the value held only in the love
a box of ages



a week's gone by
i wonder how his present flies
and if it's reached its foreign shore
quite yet

still time
time aplenty
patience and love
brings all birds home to roost

this cat would grow wings, too
and fly straight, fly true
but some balls of string take time
to unravel
time and patience
brings all birds
all cats
home to roost



no game of cricket
imma like 'what?'
and like 'whoahhh'
and like 'Yeah!' and like
'Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!'
and like tongue-trippin'
spine-slippin'
yay-yippin'
bowled over and under and out

howzat?!




in the cool, dark spaces
dust sifts
silently falls
disturbed by small things
spinnerets waving
keen to weave a silken shroud
a soft bound cloud to keep you close
still
fresh....



the moth
being soft of wing
enchanted by the light
flies close
closer
into the flame
unaware of the nature of fire

the candle
knows only still or motion
its flame a ribbon of light
suspects the moth of
sabotage
wings there to snuff its flame




in her palm
a small pool

on its surface
a bear's coarse hair

no longer spinning
pointing west

published: persian sugar in english tea vol 2



drifting in some half-place
somewhere between worlds
she holds the river-rubbed pebble
throws it into the air
laughing
watches it shimmer, wriggle
transform before her eyes into
a bronze-green fish
fins splayed
diving into sparkling waters



the raincoat lay

face down
on grass that sang green joy to itself
blade to verdant blade
in a fingering of cloth
a memory
aligning with some vestige of hereditry
quite unattuned to animal remains
and the single leather shoe
exposed
and staring at the sky



we think we're so special
humans
homo sapiens
with all our sophistry, our
aspirations
our pangs and moral tugs of war
our conquered challenges
and more
ah, love
yes, that brightest beam
our gods, our buildings
discoveries and art in all its forms

and yet
what value our bones
our mouldered flesh
or ashes sat upon a shelf
as on the telly
some old china
more delicate than blood and meat
(survived four centuries, a feat!)
and now held up in high regard
outdoes us all, amassing sudden wealth



the slowwww crash
the crush the
subsummation
generates a glow below
as pressure builds above until
in one momentous movement kicks and
spills its tension

shock waves race across a broken sigh



eye in the sky
drag cursor
see the pathway run
shiny from rain
home to road
back again

imaginary feet walk me along
past shrubs and the sheen of water
ponds settling to maturity
awaiting spring, and you
your absence a hole to be filled in

outbuildings
fields to either side
this flat black strip
is longer than it first appeared
within the cross-hairs on my screen
perspective skewed

while the white-haired beast
who owns the tarmac
senses a presence -
demands 'who goes there? show yourself!'

 

[butters]

first and last thoughts
always him
gold
and rose

lips
tongue
cling
cleave

a midnight sun
scatters constellations
shock waves
on the fabric of us




running late
gloves off
kiss
gentle knockout
x




allusions and memories
a fade into healing
a fall into meaning
where all dreams are dreaming
and hearts and minds feeling
this unknown sensation
revealed through believing
- this peace




disappearing threads
ain't no fly-by-night moths
poets are a lively bunch
pen 'em in too tight
they explode
things get messy




bend
don't snap
there's always a way
though sometimes the way
is away

lit was the magical wardrobe
to other worlds
through furs to firs
snow clean on my tongue
the lampost
a smile to the past
past doorways to tomorrow




content cat
gets lazy when it comes
to writing
wants to curl
coil
doze in sunlit dreams
motes dancin' as colours that stream from a magic flute

cat needs a slap
to rouse
to bristle
find some gristle to bite down on and
spit out words in the shape of
images worth hearing

now a call to freedom
is a dangerous lure
makes feline eyes glint
claws feel themselves inside soft paws
but a wise puss knows
rampant freedom's not all it's cracked up to be
and a warm fireside holds appeal in its 'cosy'




don't have a high horse
to dismount from
but i totter

on the brink of collapse
ignomy
and a plaster cast

down the catwalk of life
staring down at the ground from
my elevated perch

moon-face reflected
in burnished patent

feet martyred
immolation
and not one lotus blossom in sight




all skin, tendon, bone
dark skin flushed with life
dentures bright in the april sun
neon pink track shoes
that look too heavy for such thin ankles and shins
cell-phone tucked into headband
music to keep her moving
she's picked up her years
light as a handbag
and runs a city marathon

she leaves me breathless -
exhilarated!




secretary to the old lady
hawking her wares on threadneedle street
he would lose himself in reverie
of drawn-out summer afternoons
camaraderie
and messing about on a river

the wild wild woods
as counterpoint
a shiver in the back of his mind
reduced to bedtime stories
because to keep that shiver inside -
all literary pretensions aside -
would be like allowing the weasels
to take over his thoughts
the horse to bolt
the cart to overturn
the car to crash and spill and
Trouble with a Capital T
(trouble avoided at all costs
precision his watchword
stamped on ledgers and fine-print and
speeches)

sunny banks and those
complexities of friendship
the river runs
and runs




some line break adjustments:

secretary to the old lady
hawking her wares on
threadneedle street
he would lose himself
in reverie
of drawn-out summer
afternoons
camaraderie
and messing about on a river

the wild wild woods
as counterpoint
a shiver in the back of his mind
reduced to bedtime stories
because to keep that shiver
inside -
all literary pretensions
aside -
would be like allowing the
weasels
to take over his thoughts
the horse to bolt
the cart to overturn
the car to crash and spill and
Trouble with a capital T
(trouble avoided at all costs
precision his watchword
stamped on ledgers and fine-print and
speeches)

sunny banks and those
complexities of friendship
the river runs
and runs




size ISN'T everything
if people could choose their sizes
and shapes
above and beyond the surgical knife
the diet
one choice
a one-off
a once in a lifetime change
i'd opt
for the kylie minogue model
circa 2000
such a feminine shape
and so petite
but then...
the cancer

i think i'll stick
with what i have
make the breast of it




so much depends
upon

the yellow
notepad

glazed with
possibilities

between the wide
white spaces




the sad scud of clouds across an ever-decreasing sun
spiralled his thoughts into grey
all grey
and the day had begun
so very well

not everyday
will be sunshine or rainbows
but at least there are wellies
for when things get
a little muddy



above the houses
an angry drone
circulating
in a star-blank sky
at least
i can't see the stars for the light reflecting
on black glass
the suburban net curtains
and impossible angles




fighting back
i'd feel like a rogue dictator
employing chemical warfare
against an opponent so tiny
it seems criminal to even contemplate
if the guerilla tactics
this miniscule David has adapted
over millennia
weren't so damned effective
everything hurts

this Goliath
knows a few tricks of her own
won't be defeated
in a fight more even than might first appear

 

[Epmd607]

""""""""""""""""""""""""""
don't have a high horse
to dismount from
but i totter

on the brink of collapse
ignomy
and a plaster cast

down the catwalk of life
staring down at the ground from
my elevated perch

moon-face reflected
in burnished patent

feet martyred
immolation
and not one lotus blossom in sight
"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

If I can offer a criticism. The first nine lines of this poem flows well, really enjoy the collapse/cast stanza. As reader I anticipated another half/end rhyme within the last six lines. Just the vaguest semblance of order, some sort of symmetry could make it more memorable/rememberable.

 

[butters]

""""""""""""""""""""""""""
don't have a high horse
to dismount from
but i totter

on the brink of collapse
ignomy
and a plaster cast

down the catwalk of life
staring down at the ground from
my elevated perch

moon-face reflected
in burnished patent

feet martyred
immolation
and not one lotus blossom in sight
"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

If I can offer a criticism. The first nine lines of this poem flows well, really enjoy the collapse/cast stanza. As reader I anticipated another half/end rhyme within the last six lines. Just the vaguest semblance of order, some sort of symmetry could make it more memorable/rememberable.

criticism and critique are always welcome food for thought

so maybe add in a third line to the two-liner bit, tying it up with 'cast' soundwise?

 

[Epmd607]

criticism and critique are always welcome food for thought

so maybe add in a third line to the two-liner bit, tying it up with 'cast' soundwise?

Continuing the -apse/-ast probably isn't necessary, so much as finding a new halfsie to go with a 'perch' or 'sight' seems like it would work out. A modernist trick would be to end on a half or full rhyme, but there is plenty of room to use a 'perch' or 'patent', pair one of them off to a not-yet-existing word and leave 'sight' unpaired.

 

[butters]

my head, my thoughts... so in a whirl right now. just finished that book. the most exquisite lovestory - she's an artist, he's a chef, the other guy is a stuttering misfit aristo who sells postcards and knows everything there is to know about history, who all end up living together in the rambling dusty mansion belonging to the aristo's family while some long drawn-out legal squabble's being sorted in order to prevent squatters.

they all find love through the other. franck, (the chef) his mother is losing it and has to move into a home, she (the artist) persuades the two guys that the mother must live with them. their personal histories, the gentle joy they bring eachother, the homeliness, the fear of opening up, of losing... oh, it's so wonderfully written.

...the way art is spoken of, through an artist's eye, how close they are to their painting, how they lose themselves in their work, in lines, colour, lighting... oh, you would understand it all! how she prepares her inks, her paints, licks her brushes, how subject determines medium, how she calms herself before beginning where it's been too long... you would. and you are a softy and i guarantee you'd cry in places. which is maybe why you shouldn't read it. *still crying here, because of the beautiful.*

one of the most beautiful books i think i've ever read. and it's all about the small things. how huge the small bad things can be, how they can accumulate, how a soul can balance between bliss and the abyss on the smallest turn of a phrase. how hard it can be to free oneself to say 'don't go. i love you.'

 

[butters]

jus' keepin' teh scribblins' together, init?

when very small
the bath tub
oh
it was a pool
a languid pool
where toes they did not meet the taps
and knees were not obliged to bend
and i could float
suspended in the mo
ments
that flowed into minutes
into hours in my head
where thoughts they floated too
and the mournful notes
the wind played on the pipe outside the window
on long grey afternoons
were the night songs of trains on distant tracks
tunes of a distant land brought closer by imagination....





to dream of you
the undertow is strong
and i am half-lost
already in the weed-wrap of dreams
that flow past my half-closed eyes
like escaping bubbles of oxygen
rising to the ever more distant light
even as i sink back
not fighting the underwater roar in my ears
the shell is inside my head
and i am its voice....

i sleep
to dream
of you






with palm soft
and fingers lightly curled
(so as not to drop and bruise )
i weigh the fruit of other minds
take note of curve
of dimple, scent and heft
gaze at the peel
small blemishes and bloom
and as imagination bites
firm press of teeth into the flesh
i drool
and wonder why
oh why
can't i grow fruit like this?





inside each apple
resides a star
some break free
when the apple falls
to burst open on the ground
scattering juicy spray
white pulp
a scrap of red skin that clings
dented, torn

others remain
secret
perhaps sensed by blind worms
that maggot their way through the fermentation
brown decay
growing fat and blue-veined on sucrosis
sensed - but not appreciated

when wasps have had their giddy fill
and grubs have shrugged and shuckled their way loose
when birds grow glutted
look for fresher flesh to pick
star-seeds may slip to decorate the grass
but hid, still, by its stems
by most are passed.

 

[butters]

citrus and salt
crystalised light sparking
reflections of times gone by
broken images, bright
sharp regrets
in a land all arid




he watches from half a world away
close enough to feel the stir
as lashes brush the fabric of reality
so close he can almost
taste what she's doing
with that raspberry held to her mouth
tongue wriggling to dip inside
lips closing against soft sweet plumpness
pressed between palate and tongue
to release a
flush of fresh juices
the bright note in her eyes

he remembers to breathe
and leans moments closer
to lick the errant cream from off her lips




a poet's words can
crush the grain on its stem
freeze water where it stands
call down the moonless night
and banish stars from murky heavens

if you let them

or if they have that way
that way of taking words and spinning them
of teasing and twisting zeros and ones
into living pictures
perfumes and textures

their words can
lift a veil
bring dawn to eyes that hurt for lack of light
bring solace to a heart grown small for want of joy
bring visions of a future's promise held

if you let them




Dear Harry,

crumpet's hot
butter's melting



cyan notes its
that approach sits
on the limb and
curling round
whispers hiss a
serpent's kiss and
richard's nowhere
to be found

wherefore, art?




dear coffee maker,

don't take this wrong
but there are days
i look at your proportions
and wish for bigger jugs



dear sons,

see that?
it's called a sink
it's where the magic happens
to conjure clean plates
if you want me to
abracadabra your dinner

that is all,

mum x



Dear Cat,

do i look like a doorman?
do i?
there's an open window
and don't pretend
your years mean you can't
leap on the sill nor
bend your furry form to suit...
oh, come on, quickly then...
now scoot!




deep orange blossoming
falling into the silence as
red

read

reddy or not

the volume's turned all the way down, baby
and the mad girl spins meanings
to words without sound
words in her head
where a burning orange world turns red
and falls





sometimes
sometimes
death is not death
but rebirth

and sometimes death is
release
a sigh

now between
death and birth
that's the interesting place

we have no maps
maybe it's the stuff of myth
it's certainly a mystery

for me
when bones slough off their need to
carry loads
i wish for

wait

i used to wish for
simple cessation

now
i'm not so sure




a slow, grey mob
stir dust as they deliberate
along well-worn paths
shorter legs hurrying
in and out of thickset boles
adults on the quest for water

now
to be inside the head
the mind
of any individual there -
what a trip that would be
led by the nose




the sad scud of clouds across an ever-decreasing sun
spiralled his thoughts into grey
all grey
and the day had begun
so very well

not everyday
will be sunshine or rainbows
but at least there are wellies
for when things get
a little muddy




above the houses
an angry drone
circulating
in a star-blank sky
at least
i can't see the stars for the light reflecting
on black glass
the suburban net curtains
and impossible angles




fingers arch
spread above keyboard
wait
wait
on an exhalation of breath
lower
feel the warm responsive keys
inhale
focus
fill with the moment
the images
but more than that
the poem
its essence
feel it
breathe it
become
now express yourself
as fingers find their way




in the room
tv on mute
moving pictures
mobile faces
the off on burst of click click clicking
from the keyboard in use
the other one
not this
this is a muted ook ook
negligible
an undistraction
the rain has stopped
but through the open window
the sounds of an asian celebration
and the passing through of jets
out of sight above the clouds
clouds that have cut me off from the sunlight
and now the moon
fixing me here
laptop on my thighs
tasting the orient
even as strawberries and ice cream
still linger on my tongue




lights flares...

X

 

[butters]

she watches as he sleeps
fascinated by the flesh of him
the fires inside
his head
thoughts alight
banked till morning
retaining heat
sparks
the very stuff of art

she shivers
desiring all that he is




you take up your words and dip them in tints
dabble them across the page
in mobile, motif hints where sounds wash and
direct the focus
front and back
with feet upon the green ground
i'm staring at your sky-tracks
drinking in the perfect scent of
grasses cut and crushed
left in open-mouthed admiration
of the final image



friends

i offer you
simplicity
a fire
around which to sit
in e-space
to hold back the night
around which to share stories
to open hearts
to share
a cup
a draught
a bite to eat
food for thought
nothing loud
nothing abrasive
nothing that smacks of demand
manipulation
dis-ease
bring your own sticks
we've marshmallows

 

[butters]

poetry
is found everywhere
in a field of poppies
in a ditch
a parking lot
a shadow
a smile
a child's laughter
the whisper of the wave that
hurries back through the sand
reluctant to be parted from its parent...
and in bricks and mortar
stone blocks
and in quicksilver minds
stuttering hearts




a handful of crushed ice
smoothed
wetly
over red neck and shoulders
cold meltwater dribbling
down his chest
back
cool rivulets fingering intimate recesses
goosebumps raising
hairs lifting
a smile raised
a kiss




stone sink

water washes
splashes over hands stained
trawling gravel for gold
rejecting bridle and bits
for a handful of mane
thoughts
d
r
i
p
smooth bowl
overflows
mica glistens

 

[twelveoone]

my head, my thoughts... so in a whirl right now. just finished that book. the most exquisite lovestory - she's an artist, he's a chef, the other guy is a stuttering misfit aristo who sells postcards and knows everything there is to know about history,

this sounds scary. it wasn't Vienna, was it?

 

[pelegrino]

poetry
is found everywhere

I just wish I had more time (and more internet access) to read more of you, Butters.
What I've been reading so far is beautiful well designed and thoughtful poetry that pays me back manyfold.
This last one reminded me of a great Greek poem called "Axion Esti" by Elytis and I tried to find an English translation to send to you but there aren't any free on the net.
Thanks!

 

[butters]

this sounds scary. it wasn't Vienna, was it?

it was a beautiful book - nothing expected, all - well, you maybe read it.

and Paris. it was Paris.

I just wish I had more time (and more internet access) to read more of you, Butters.
What I've been reading so far is beautiful well designed and thoughtful poetry that pays me back manyfold.
This last one reminded me of a great Greek poem called "Axion Esti" by Elytis and I tried to find an English translation to send to you but there aren't any free on the net.
Thanks!

goodness!

thankyou . i just keep them all together here (when i remember) so as not to lose anything in the event of pc malfunction - stuff i might later use in rewrites or cannibalise, or even decide they stay as they are. so, this is kinda my filing cabinet but not yet in any real order.

 

[Magnetron]

i just keep them all together here (when i remember) so as not to lose anything in the event of pc malfunction - stuff i might later use in rewrites or cannibalise, or even decide they stay as they are. so, this is kinda my filing cabinet but not yet in any real order.

I have an Invision forum for this exact reason. Locked it up so I am the only poster. Each poem is a topic. I bump all the stuff to the very top that I have yet to revise, put on my website and submit here.

 

[butters]

I have an Invision forum for this exact reason. Locked it up so I am the only poster. Each poem is a topic. I bump all the stuff to the very top that I have yet to revise, put on my website and submit here.

i did start building a site - put up a few bits... meant to go back and make adjustments, add material... and now you've just reminded me i entirely forgot about it COMPETELY! holy pfft.

 

[Magnetron]

i did start building a site - put up a few bits... meant to go back and make adjustments, add material... and now you've just reminded me i entirely forgot about it COMPETELY! holy pfft.

Slacker.

 

[butters]

Slacker.

yeah, pretty much

 

[butters]

there's a circling storm
trees toss thin boughs
like a nervous horse expecting white lines
lightning's whip-strike
here comes the rain
slantwise on the barn door
jim









he searches there
often
for telltale signs of confirmation
or rejection?
a torn heart knows
to be wary
to watch for omens

but despite the dark endured
her sky's wide open
untroubled by the nature of clouds
because she's free
and gives freely

 

[butters]

there's a circling storm
trees toss thin boughs
like a steel-shod, nervous horse
nostrils flared as
lightning's whip-strike
dazzles, white lines
here comes the rain
slantwise on the barn door
jim








title = riderless(?)

tying in riders on the storm/the doors/jim morrisson's death/bolting (horse and barn doors) the barn door... dunno. maybe overkill.

there's a circling storm
trees toss thin boughs
steel-shod, nervous horse
eyes roll 'n' nostrils flare
whip-strike white lines
here comes the rain
slantwise on the barn door
jim

 

[HarryHill]

there's a circling storm
trees toss thin boughs
like a steel-shod, nervous horse
nostrils flared as
lightning's whip-strike
dazzles, white lines
here comes the rain
slantwise on the barn door
jim








title = riderless(?)

tying in riders on the storm/the doors/jim morrisson's death/bolting (horse and barn doors) the barn door... dunno. maybe overkill.

there's a circling storm
trees toss thin boughs
steel-shod, nervous horse
eyes roll 'n' nostrils flare
whip-strike white lines
here comes the rain
slantwise on the barn door
jim

I like it, getting lean n stormy in a hurry what is jim, short for jimminy? this has a lot of ways to go

 

[butters]

there's a circling storm
trees toss thin boughs
like a steel-shod, nervous horse
nostrils flared as
lightning's whip-strike
dazzles, white lines
here comes the rain
slantwise on the barn door
jim



title = riderless(?)

tying in riders on the storm/the doors/jim morrison's death/bolting (horse and barn doors) the barn door... dunno. maybe overkill.

there's a circling storm
trees toss thin boughs
steel-shod, nervous horse
eyes roll 'n' nostrils flare
whip-strike white lines
here comes the rain
slantwise on the barn door
jim

I like it, getting lean n stormy in a hurry what is jim, short for jimminy? this has a lot of ways to go

jim morrisson - you started this one with that Doors link yesterday

of course, i don't know what he died of, only the rumours... and went straight for white lines when they might not have played any part. poetic license - or laziness.