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Re: I'm reading...
<div class="ubbcode-block"><div class="ubbcode-header">Originally Posted By: TeeTee</div><div class="ubbcode-body">Magic I'd love to hear about the poems, what are the subjects?
</div></div>
The work is divided into the following sections:
<ul>[*]Landscapes[*]Encounters[*]Personalities[*]Performances[*]Retrospectives[/list]
Mi cyaan show you them all ('count a Carpal Tunnel) but here's a good one.
<span style='font-size: 14pt'>Soufriere</span>
by Shake Keane
(Part One of The Volcano Suite, written after St. Vincent's volcanic eruption in 1979)
<span style='font-size: 14pt'>The thing split Good Friday in two
and that good new morning groaned
and snapped
like breaking an old habit
Within minutes
people
who had always been leaving nowhere
began arriving nowhere
entire lives stuffed in pillow-cases
and used plastic bags
naked children suddenly transformed
into citizens
'Ologists with their guilty little instruments
were already oozing about the mountainsides
bravely
and by radio
(As a prelude to resurrection and brotherly love
you can't beat ructions and eruptions)
Flies ran away from the scene of the crime
and crouched like Pilate
in the secret places of my house
washing their hands
Thirty grains of sulphur
panicked off the phone
when it rang
Mysterious people ordered
other mysterious people
to go to mysterious places
'immediately'
I wondered about the old woman
who had walked back to hell
to wash her Sunday clothes
All the grey-long day
music
credible and incredibly beautiful
came over the radio
while the mountain refreshed itself
Someone who lives
inside a microphone
kept things in order
Three children
in unspectacular rags
a single bowl of grey dust betweent them
tried to manure the future
round a young plum tree
The island put a white mask
over its face
coughed cool as history
an fell in love with itself
A bus traveling heavy
cramped as Calvary
thrust its panic into the side of a hovel
and then the evening's blanket
sent like some strange gift from abroad
was rent by lightening
After a dream
of rancid hope and Guyana rice
I awoke to hear
that the nation had given itself
two hundred thousand dollars
The leaves did not glisten when wet
An old friend
phoned from Ireland
to ask about the future
my Empire cigarettes
have lately been tasting of sulphur
I told her that.</span>
<div class="ubbcode-block"><div class="ubbcode-header">Originally Posted By: TeeTee</div><div class="ubbcode-body">Magic I'd love to hear about the poems, what are the subjects?
</div></div>
The work is divided into the following sections:
<ul>[*]Landscapes[*]Encounters[*]Personalities[*]Performances[*]Retrospectives[/list]
Mi cyaan show you them all ('count a Carpal Tunnel) but here's a good one.
<span style='font-size: 14pt'>Soufriere</span>
by Shake Keane
(Part One of The Volcano Suite, written after St. Vincent's volcanic eruption in 1979)
<span style='font-size: 14pt'>The thing split Good Friday in two
and that good new morning groaned
and snapped
like breaking an old habit
Within minutes
people
who had always been leaving nowhere
began arriving nowhere
entire lives stuffed in pillow-cases
and used plastic bags
naked children suddenly transformed
into citizens
'Ologists with their guilty little instruments
were already oozing about the mountainsides
bravely
and by radio
(As a prelude to resurrection and brotherly love
you can't beat ructions and eruptions)
Flies ran away from the scene of the crime
and crouched like Pilate
in the secret places of my house
washing their hands
Thirty grains of sulphur
panicked off the phone
when it rang
Mysterious people ordered
other mysterious people
to go to mysterious places
'immediately'
I wondered about the old woman
who had walked back to hell
to wash her Sunday clothes
All the grey-long day
music
credible and incredibly beautiful
came over the radio
while the mountain refreshed itself
Someone who lives
inside a microphone
kept things in order
Three children
in unspectacular rags
a single bowl of grey dust betweent them
tried to manure the future
round a young plum tree
The island put a white mask
over its face
coughed cool as history
an fell in love with itself
A bus traveling heavy
cramped as Calvary
thrust its panic into the side of a hovel
and then the evening's blanket
sent like some strange gift from abroad
was rent by lightening
After a dream
of rancid hope and Guyana rice
I awoke to hear
that the nation had given itself
two hundred thousand dollars
The leaves did not glisten when wet
An old friend
phoned from Ireland
to ask about the future
my Empire cigarettes
have lately been tasting of sulphur
I told her that.</span>
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