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  • "The Scream" by Edward Munch.



    It was the night-gat

    That caused it,

    The oil-sea swim

    The gripping of the souls

    With the music of a dead universe.



    They stole "The Scream"

    The other day,

    Perhaps someone knew all this was arriving,

    The twisting blood-skies

    The swirls under the bridge;

    The bridge to end all bridges

    Of the gat that plucks

    Out all of our organs

    And leaves us as zeros.



    It would have been quite beautiful

    If it wasn't so painful.

    The strings plucked by a hand

    That was no longer human

    If it ever was so.

    The drunken colours

    And the smells that no one

    Had ever smelt before

    As people plopped

    Like seaweed under a boiling dawn sun.



    Then the music died,

    The stars re-appeared in the sky

    The figure on Oslo Bridge stopped screaming

    As the birds sang again

    The flowers re-appeared

    And we walked on our way

    Across the bridge of life

    As if nothing had ever happened.



    The few of us watched

    As others vanished from our sight,

    Some going up with their angels,

    Others going down

    Into the centre of the earth.



    ---

    Lord Pineapple.

  • Pillhouse Blues

    ____________

    Too many pills,

    One for the heart

    One for the blood

    One for God knows what

    And even one for the liver.



    What sort of pill does one take for the liver?

    Does the stomach cop say

    "Not this way mate,

    That's for ruddy heart-tablet

    You need to go down there."



    I wonder at times

    If any of them works

    As every day I feel a little older

    And in a little more pain.



    But I take them all "just in case"

    Aware that my great-grandfather died at forty

    (Pillless, but living in a place called "Pill").



    On top of the above

    There are other tablets,

    The aspirins (one a day)

    And there's the antihistamines

    To stop myself scratching

    Like a dog with fleas.



    I can't go away

    Without taking a bag

    With more bloody pills in

    Than a doctor's bag.



    I have pills everywhere,

    At home, at work,

    (In case I forget to take them at home)

    And in my bag

    In case I go out for the day

    Or if I am taken ill outside.



    The worst danger is forgetting

    I have taken the damn things

    And take some more

    And so end up dizzy

    Needing me to take other pills.



    That copper inside my stomach

    Must be very very busy

    Directing all this medic-traffic...



    Perhaps he needs a pill...



    ---

    Terence Cuthbert.

    __________________

     


    I have always wanted to live by the sea

    To watch the sea and to hear the waves

    To stroll on the sands

    To skim pebbles

    To smell that sea-smell

    And hear those sea-noises.



    Each time an inland common tern

    Barks across the city roof-tops

    I think of the sea

    I dream of the sea

    I long for the sea.



    I have always wanted to live by the sea

    To thumb-snap the bladder-wrack

    To go crabbing like a child

    To make sand-castles

    And eat an ice-cream

    In a pretty little cafe

    On the promenade.



    And wash away all the shit

    That you have ever given me

    When you pretend to others

    That you love me,

    And they not seeing your fist-marks

    Upon my body.



    I have always wanted to live by the sea

    And watch you drown,

    You slimy bastard.



    ---

    Marie St. Denis


  • And the rain turned to dust

    And the dust to powder.



    I thanked God gracefully

    And went on my way



    To where the world was pure sand

    And love was in your eyes.



    ---

    The Rev Tobias Trontby

     

    ----

     


    "The Camel"

    ____________



    I saw a camel in our street,

    it had two humps

    and it walked along

    with an Indian on it's back.



    It was a lovely sight,

    spoilt only by a silly man

    peeping his horn in his car behind.



    Elgar joked that

    the man must have the hump too.



    I never found out why

    a camel was in our street.

    Mummy checked the local paper

    for simply days afterwards

    but there was no circus in town,

    anyway circuses today

    don't use animals,

    they taught us that in school.



    ---

    Sophie Lucy Morgan (aged nine)

     



    Note: For some reason my time zone has changed to USA, anyone knows how to change it back?

  • And the winning pseudonyms are...


     


    Interesting how it turned out

    After all we said might happen.

    Nobody expected this,

    It was a complete surprise.



    Did it really become like this?

    Was this the death of man

    Or a new beginning?



    Some stupid Christians had killed themselves

    Thinking that their saviour had risen.

    The rest of us just sat around

    Smoking pot, drinking beer,

    Calming down the fearful,

    Playing with the children.



    It were the blues and greens that made us,

    (even us who had been blind) gasp.

    Nothing had prepared us for this.

    We sat on the hill above the shadows

    That had searched through every house.



    Interesting how it turned out,

    Who would think that Earth

    Would end this way



    So full of happiness?



    ---

    The Poet Known As "Empty Chairs"


    -----------------------------

     

    (Tiffy Witherington got more votes but her poem too was about death! So...)

     


    "Another Country"

    _________________________



    They say when you are dead,

    The past is another country.

    You can tell those whom have died before you,

    What has happened since they have died;

    But you can not go back yourself.



    When I am listening to Gregorian chants,

    I remember how the past saw death,

    As another life

    In another country.



    I light a candle,

    It's shadows are flickering

    In the gloomy church

    With the dry-rot smell.



    They say that "the past is another country",

    e.e. cummings wrote those very words too.



    I see the souls of those

    Who have walked before I,

    Living forever in a past

    And in another country.



    I pray.



    "Our Father

    Which art in Heaven..."



    I gently pinch out the candle,

    Lock the big church door,

    And watch the souls pass through me

    Into another country.



    ---

    Reverend Tobias Trontby. +

    ----------------------



    you can join The Church Of The Three-Headed Jesus.

  • Can't wait any longer!

     


    (from) Poems Of Cyprus. 1957-60



    (This poem is about a true incident on The Island Of Cyprus, in 1958, when I was eleven years old. "E.O.K.A."(link) was the illegal Greek terrorist group)

    ---

    In the end

    It was the heat that got him,

    Drove him mad.



    Like a lot of people

    Who came from cold wet drizzly England

    He said the heat

    Is what brought him there.

    and oh, he was prepared for it

    Mosquito nets, light clothing

    And (as the cliche-joke goes:)

    "More fans than Elvis!"



    But day after day

    Temperatures in the hundreds

    Drive most people peculiar,

    By now, few of the tropical diseases were killers,

    And Cyprus wasn't really all that violent,

    Most of us survived

    Without personally knowing anyone

    Killed by E.O.K.A.



    But no one said about the heat

    The boiling sun

    The constant bottles of water,

    The sticky clothes,

    The stinging eyes...

    He wasn't the first to go mad,

    Might not have been the last.



    Colin was my friend

    Not a bad kid

    Never really understood me

    But was still my friend,

    After all there was not many English people

    One could make friends with,

    Most were nasty little snobs

    Who spoke of the "natives"

    As if they were pigs in a slaughter-house.



    It was Colin who discovered his father

    Shot through the head,

    "I could tell" he said to me

    When him and his mother

    Were heading back to old blighty

    "I could tell that he was dead."



    They thought at first it was murder

    They even arrested his bodyguard.

    But of course they let the Greek go,

    For it was the heat that got him

    Drove him mad

    They said.



    ---

    Terry Cuthbert.

    -------------------------

    (from) Poems Of Cyprus. 1957-60

    _______________________

    Mustafa

    _______

    My father had a Turkish bodyguard

    His name was Mustafa.

    I called him "Taffy"

    Even though he had a moustache.

    He was a lonely person,

    His parents were back in Turkey

    And his intended wife

    Had fled to America.



    Mustafa taught me origami,

    He made the usual Japanese models

    And made up many of his own

    Like spiders and scorpions.

    He also taught me

    How to make tanks and planes

    Out of cigerette-packets.

    Mustafa would spend hours

    Off-duty, (though he lived elsewhere)

    Just showing me how to create

    Out of paper, card and cloth.



    He also took me

    To his Mosque,

    And taught me the basics of the Koran.



    I remember vividly

    Playing (non-gambling) card-games

    With the Imran,

    In fact I remember that

    More than anything Islamic;

    I was a poor budding Muslim

    When you think about it!



    Not once did any of the Turks

    Make fun of my mental short-comings.

    To them,

    (Unlike to some of my father's English friends)

    I was never

    "That daft kid of Ray's",

    But a human being.



    One of my sons is now an origami-expert,

    Better than I ever was,

    Though of course it was I who taught him.

    My son has Japanese friends

    Who are more charmed by his origami

    Than by my haiku.



    Mustafa...

    I wonder what happened to him,

    I suppose if he's still alive,

    He'll be in his late sixties.



    ---

    Terry Cuthbert.

    ________________

     

     

    postscript:


    OnFriday/Saturday, you have a choice.



    You can have a poem by either Sophie Morgan, or the Rev Tobias Trontby, or perhaps you want Tiffy Witherington or Marie St. Clare. Or Jacques du Lumière or (The poet known as) "Empty Chairs".

    They have all "wrote" poems over the last ten days.



    Who will it be?



                  YOU DECIDE!!!

    btw: on Three_Headed_Sarahs site is exciting news of a  gospel of The Christ Child, just discovered by The dead Sea. A MUST FOR CHRISTIANS EVERYWHERE!

  • Terry is writing a number of interesting poems, and the first we'll post next Thursday. He promises himself to answer all his comments, eMails, poison-pen letters. begging notes and advocates.


    Our mothers will be back in the autumn (funny Americans say "The Fall")


    The Three-Headed Goliaths.


    "It'll take more than a stone, Dave!"

  • NEW EDIT. Terry will be back on Friday the 13th. Now ain't that lucky? meanwhile, as some of you have seen, we have put a poem on The_Clowne_from_Clown site, though without a comment box.


    All those who have signed, we'll come to some of you, others seem to ignore  us (WE KNOW WHO YOU ARE!) and only go to terry's sites. So Sandy, Grahame, Angel, Peter, Jeni...We know where you live...


     


    Terry got upset cos trying to say something nice he received a nasty flame back. All he wanted to do was small-talk. So he's taking two weeks off of this. See us at Three_Headed_Sarahs
     site. We are her sons, the Goliaths. If you don't like us, think we are silly, crazy, nasty and so on and will only read Terry's stuff, then hard luck!


    The Three-Headed Goliaths. "It'll take more than a stone Dave" at the Three_Headed_Sarahs

  • Today I have The_Clowne_from_Clown
    site up but I will not leave you without a poem, and if I answer you from this site or that, I will answer you. (There is no need to sign both blogs!)


    Meanwhile, to confuse you and annoy some of you, one of my Texts. From my book called "Texts", sadly, long out of print!


    Text Ethelred the Unready.

    ______________________

      Ethelred the Unready enjoyed the circus, especially the clowns who made his tits pop out of his kingly frock in this dark satire of the Canutes from hell. (& its not "knut" as the BBC will have it, & that's straight from the horses anus. he was not nutty just because he wanted to prove that he was not greater than God, if that is the legend) "What an incredable sunset" said Ethelred inbetween prayers to the Goddess of Milton Green.

      If Canute was always ready to burn Alfred's cakes, well, the cakes of the old woman he was minding for her. Danes to arms, rally, rally! they cried out of the biscuit tin, and Alfred was cooking and Canute was drowning and Ethelred the Unready was deep in prayer to the Goddess of Milton Green. No wonder the danes could rape the women and play chess with the men at freedom, as one Dane asked a child "Have you seen the latest "Rosie & Jim" video? It lasts 120 minutes. Watch it whilst I rape your mother, there's a good boy."

      Why was Ethelred praying to the Goddess of Milton Green? It's hard to tell, his form of anglo-saxon is almost unknown, for forget the green knight, forget beowolf or whatever he was called, for anglo saxon was not like that, and even the word cvnte was polite, in fact that is what they called canute. A Cvnte. 

      Still, Ethelred was ready for one thing, that was getting dressed up as a New York cop, why he did this no one really knows, after all he wasn't gay nor was he an officer of the law, he was just an ordinally bloke who happened to be king. Edgar was not happy you know, there were Danes to the left of him, Danes to the right of him, and even one in him, and all uncle Ethelred the Unready did was pray, dressed in a cop's uniform like an unicorn on heat.

    ---

    Horace Smith Esq. (the fictious writer of the texts, but not the book-author's name)

  • A song for "Little Egypt's" Poetry Challange site. See: LittleEgypt

     

    "Sweet Daughter"

    ________________



    When something is reflecting

    In a field without water

    Then it must be your eyes

    My loving sweet daughter.



    How the music moves in the grass

    How the flowers can dance a celtic reel,

    They know how much you mean to me

    They know how wonderful I feel.



    When something is reflecting

    In a field without water

    Then it must be your eyes

    My loving sweet daughter.



    And the pollen that's in your hair,

    Through the hazy sun it slivers

    As your sweet voice laughs on

    Over the mountains and the rivers.



    When something is reflecting

    In a field without water

    Then it must be your eyes

    My loving sweet daughter.



    ---

    Lord Pineapple
    ______________________________

    And today's Poem:

    ------------------------


    Consider this thus:

    a man whose silence is broken by

    a ticking clock

    and sighing chimes,

    knows not the time

    as he wipes his eyes

    in blades of grass,

    and cleans inside his ears

    with straw twigs.



    It would be easy

    just to go to sleep

    and never to wake again

    as the clock melts his brain

    and his heart stops beating at

    the table in the corner of the pub

    the half-sipped beer.



    Consider this thus:

    the moment when they realise

    that he will never wake again

    to hear the ticking of the clock

    or the chimes it makes,

    or never again will he wipe his eyes
    on blades of grass
    or clean out his ears
    with twigs of straw.

    ---
    Lord Pineapple

     

    ---

    ALL your lovely comments will be answered in the next three days, and all your poetry and so on will be read carefully.

     

    Listening to "Pan Pipes Play Celtic". Track 11 "Shepherd Moons" is the most beautiful, it inspired that song above!  Honestly! Indeed it could be the tune to it!

  • We are far away from it,

    the love I mean,

    far from it, far from it.



    Far from the mountains

    that calls your name,

    far from the seas that scatter

    the sand from the shore.



    We are far from the love

    that two hearts can give

    under the soft rain

    down the soft walls.



    Far from the dreams

    and the beautiful old stones,

    far from the words

    that the melting sun gives to us.



    We are far away from love,

    and further away from each other.



    ---

    Lord Pineapple.

LordPineapple

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