My Life as a Fish by Brian Edwards
Brian Edwards September 9, 2009 at 9:56AM My Life as a Fish
Prologue
My body is a tin can
rusted and rattled
by a single dried pea.
Some may claim
this is my soul— not me.
Corrugated innards allow
the pea to rasp
but he'll never be a raspberry
never sport a leaf or sprout
a seed. He utters only pea.
English is wrong wrong wrong.
His namesake is a tongue rasp
a side-slipped baseball cap
half a pair of breasts—
O to have breasts!
O to be the letter B!
1.
It's cold in here—
this ectothermal scale suit wrapped around a two-chambered heart pumping needles of pure ice to oxygen gorged gills is more semaphore than shield and although flesh made supple for locomotion and fattened for eventual consumption can cut the ocean with a ceaseless S my two gibbous eyes blind to sharks and shiny hooks are locked onto a neighbour's tail fin stuck in the school's slipstream and my mad uncontrollable mouth blabs in perpetual paroxysm with nothing much to say like a fringe performer at The Festival of the Deep and I never sleep but weep once a month a single sob squeezing a single tear from a glassy black eye that hits the water like a ball of light a perfect orb that rises unobstructed and breaks the surface of the ocean completely unnoticed.
2.
It's cold in here—
The ocean is where epochs come to die.
The ocean is where abstract horror assumes a set of teeth.
The ocean is a spy with a planet-sized eye.
The ocean sells secrets to the Moon.
The ocean swallows the Sun and spits it out like a tongue.
The ocean carries footprints on its skin.
The ocean carries Gods in its pockets.
The ocean cast the land out from His Kingdom.
The ocean is a callous landlord.
3.
The weight of expectation and the might
of metaphor, allusion and conceit
can force a fish to buckle and retreat
to fantasies of fingers, thumbs and flight.
For deities of the deep to promulgate
aquatic physicalities as a plus,
requires a fleet of bold astrologers
with strength to still fourteen tectonic plates.
The fate of fish, determined by the drift
of continents and appetites of sharks,
is better left decided in the dark
than writ in strips and acted out in skits.
The life aquatic offers many riches
to those who abnegate the mermaid's kisses .
~
Brian Edwards
My Life as a Fish
Prologue
My body is a tin can
rusted and rattled
by a single dried pea.
Some may claim
this is my soul— not me.
Corrugated innards allow
the pea to rasp
but he'll never be a raspberry
never sport a leaf or sprout
a seed. He utters only pea.
English is wrong wrong wrong.
His namesake is a tongue rasp
a side-slipped baseball cap
half a pair of breasts—
O to have breasts!
O to be the letter B!
1.
It's cold in here—
this ectothermal scale suit wrapped around a two-chambered heart pumping needles of pure ice to oxygen gorged gills is more semaphore than shield and although flesh made supple for locomotion and fattened for eventual consumption can cut the ocean with a ceaseless S my two gibbous eyes blind to sharks and shiny hooks are locked onto a neighbour's tail fin stuck in the school's slipstream and my mad uncontrollable mouth blabs in perpetual paroxysm with nothing much to say like a fringe performer at The Festival of the Deep and I never sleep but weep once a month a single sob squeezing a single tear from a glassy black eye that hits the water like a ball of light a perfect orb that rises unobstructed and breaks the surface of the ocean completely unnoticed.
2.
The ocean is where epochs come to die.
The ocean is where abstract horror assumes a set of teeth.
The ocean is a spy with a planet-sized eye.
The ocean sells secrets to the Moon.
The ocean swallows the Sun and spits it out like a tongue.
The ocean carries footprints on its skin.
The ocean carries Gods in its pockets.
The ocean cast the land out from His Kingdom.
The ocean is a callous landlord.
3.
Genetic expectation flaunts the might
of metaphor, allusion and conceit;
coerces fish to follow, or retreat
to fantasies of fingers, thumbs and flight.
For deities of the deep to promulgate
aquatic physicalities as a plus,
requires a fleet of bold astrologers
with strength enough to still tectonic plates.
The fate of fish, determined by the drift
of continents and appetites of sharks
is better left decided in the dark
than writ in strips and acted out in skits.
Aquatic living offers many riches
to those who abnegate a mermaid's kisses .
~
Brian Edwards
My Life as a Fish
"I would fain die a dry death"
---- from The Tempest
Prologue
It's cold in here—
this ectothermal scale suit wrapped around a two-chambered heart pumping needles of pure ice to oxygen gorged gills is more semaphore than shield and although flesh made supple for locomotion and fattened for eventual consumption can cut the ocean with a ceaseless S my two gibbous eyes blind to sharks and shiny hooks are locked onto a neighbour's tail fin stuck in the school's slipstream and my mad uncontrollable mouth blabs in perpetual paroxysm with nothing much to say like a fringe performer at The Festival of the Deep and I never sleep but weep once a month a single sob squeezing a single tear from a glassy black eye that hits the water like a ball of light a perfect orb that rises unobstructed and breaks the surface of the ocean completely unnoticed.
***
My body is a tin can
rusted and rattled
by a single dried pea.
Some may claim
this is my soul— not me.
Corrugated innards allow
the pea to rasp
but he'll never be a raspberry
never sport a leaf or sprout
a seed. He utters only pea.
English is wrong wrong wrong.
His namesake is a tongue rasp
a side-slipped baseball cap
half a pair of breasts—
O to have breasts!
O to be the letter B!
***
The ocean is where epochs come to die.
The ocean is where abstract horror assumes a set of teeth.
The ocean is a spy with a planet-sized eye.
The ocean sells secrets to the Moon.
The ocean swallows the Sun and spits it out like a tongue.
The ocean carries footprints on its skin.
The ocean carries Gods in its pockets.
The ocean cast the land out from His Kingdom.
The ocean is a callous landlord.
***
I'm a fat little fishy
with fat greedy eyes that flit
inside a fat head atop
a fat, fat bod,
too fat to fit
inside the fattest sincere wish.
And somewhere in this deep
dark room, exists
a family of fat, fat fish,
swum in circles, joined in wishes
that when the moment fits
and when the greedy Big Fish sleeps
fatty fish shall shake 'em loose
rattle thum chains
make a break for sand—
but when the dreams of land
kick in, then come the stomach pains
so hard, that fatty fish knots 'nother noose.
***
What a stupid place to build a city!
No it didn't sink,
despite the research
grant. Old rickety city
hall, right here erected
on a Jeckyll 'n' Hyde tip.
Good guys Bad guys side-by-side,
gargoyled and cast,
scowl down from the past
at a puzzle
of dot-to-dot heads,
huddled in whispers to topple
Big Fish.
—Oh Oh, any little fishy dare
swim this high
get a hook in him eye
grip a vice on her lip—
***
Dinosaurs of the deep keep watch
with one disgusting, thrusting eye,
wake up when good fish go to sleep
to dreams where dino-plots best hatch.
Some dinos, rhino-shaped and fat
relish a booze with militant types
and have been known to wield a stick
for hassling gentle, mental cases.
That damn eye cannot be trusted,
one false fart and we're all busted.
Democracy's not done and dusted
till Mayoral chains lie strangled, rusted.
***
It's all about persona.
The wearing of masks—
who do I want to be today?
Okay. Today I am gay gay gay.
How many lovers you say? Don't ask.
Would you ask the number of previous owners
were you to buy a cat
or small appliance?
It's rude to peek up a stranger's skirt.
The norm round here? Well it still hurts
to deconstruct the science
of who or why or what.
Oh the who's who of ABC,
especially the B,
means everything to me.
So what if that sounds twee?
Today I'm gay and full of glee!
Tomorrow who knows what I'll be.
***
Rumours of snow filled the cave.
Visitors from another planet—
and it is another planet, innit,
out there, all the front-eyes,
wielding guns and clever paper.
Belly up, costumed in shadow,
recalling once the bottom of a boat
and pinky fingers and a frightening
lack of consonants and all is bubble,
bubble, bubble, till it isn't.
Drowning fish, except he wasn't
really a fish, not yet, not then,
still whipped in beards and long
monologues, vultures waiting, waiting
like a slow hand clap and magical white
aliens falling all around him— look.
***
Be grateful for the flakes that fall
from fins, deformed, fingered, skin wrapped—
rainbow shavings, shattered starbursts,
Nirvana in the shape of food.
Gulp gulp gulp.
The tail you chase is not your own
but what it represents has grown
on you like a watery wart.
Just don't get caught trying to slip
the hoop, the hook—
poison is the risk you take
for swimming in a stolen lake.
***
On those mornings, rare,
I remember to put the right way
my head, on—
and this is misleading
this suggestion that I am responsible
for anything above the waist—
I like to squint
at the people I pass, hard,
till each is a hieroglyph, animate.
And then I am a Pharaoh
arranging my subjects, like this
and this— and this is also misleading.
For Pharaoh's head be heavy.
All that gold! All them camels!
Oh, how often I am late having listened
to the voices of my ancestors on the waves
leading me to a brighter squint.
Oh, how many pyramids
I have crushed on a whim.
***
I accidented it on purpose, of course,
left a wing right out there, sticking,
for her to trip and curse
all damn fools disguised as swans
draped in all the wrong centuries.
I used to believe this
was temporary, this,
used to think I could swim to shore,
close my eyes, tap my ruby reds
and skim across the surface of the storm
never having left my bed, my bed—
oh to be nestled in my bed, or better yet
an egg, an egg inside a bed, or in a nest,
curled inside an egg inside a nest in bed
—It's cold in here.
***
O were but I stormed here
by an exiled daughtered sage
bearded and vengeful
armed with spirits and dainty sprites
so that I, entranced, might wander
shipwrecked and mind-wracked
into said maiden's heart
via her virgin breast
O stick a fin in it fishy, such dreams
aren't made on stuff like yours.
***
Epilogue
The weight of expectation and the might
of metaphor, allusion and conceit
can force a fish to buckle and retreat
to fantasies of fingers, thumbs and flight.
For deities of the deep to promulgate
aquatic physicalities as a plus,
requires a fleet of bold astrologers
with strength to still fourteen tectonic plates.
The fate of fish, determined by the drift
of continents and appetites of sharks,
is better left decided in the dark
than writ in strips and acted out in skits.
Aquatic living offers many riches
to those who abnegate the mermaid's kisses .
~
Brian Edwards
My Life as a Fish
"I would fain die a dry death"
---- from The Tempest
Prologue (in which the author submerges both himself and his readers in a preposterous proposition)
It's cold in here—
this ectothermal scale suit wrapped around a two-chambered heart pumping needles of pure ice to oxygen gorged gills is more semaphore than shield and although flesh made supple for locomotion and fattened for eventual consumption can cut the ocean with a ceaseless S my two gibbous eyes blind to sharks and shiny hooks are locked onto a neighbour's tail fin stuck in the school's slipstream and my mad uncontrollable mouth blabs in perpetual paroxysm with nothing much to say and I never sleep but weep once a month a single sob squeezing a single tear from a glassy black eye that hits the water like a ball of light a perfect orb that rises unobstructed and breaks the surface of the ocean completely unnoticed.
***
My body is a tin can
rusted and rattled
by a single dried pea.
Some may claim
this is my soul— not me.
Corrugated innards allow
the pea to rasp
but he'll never be a raspberry
never sport a leaf or sprout
a seed. He utters only pea.
English is wrong wrong wrong.
His namesake is a tongue rasp
a side-slipped baseball cap
half a pair of breasts—
O to have breasts!
O to be the letter B!
***
The ocean is where epochs come to die.
The ocean is where abstract horror assumes a set of teeth.
The ocean is a spy with a planet-sized eye.
The ocean sells secrets to the Moon.
The ocean swallows the Sun and spits it out like a tongue.
The ocean carries footprints on its skin.
The ocean carries Gods in its pockets.
The ocean cast the land out from His Kingdom.
The ocean is a callous landlord.
***
I'm a fat little fishy
with fat greedy eyes that flit
inside a fat head atop
a fat, fat bod,
too fat to fit
inside the fattest sincere wish.
And somewhere in this deep
dark room, exists
a family of fat, fat fish,
swum in circles, joined in wishes
that when the moment fits
and when the greedy Big Fish sleeps
fatty fish shall shake 'em loose
rattle thum chains
make a break for sand—
but when the dreams of land
kick in, then come the stomach pains
so hard, that fatty fish knots 'nother noose.
***
What a stupid place to build a city!
No it didn't sink,
despite the research
grant. Old rickety city
hall, right here erected
on a Jeckyll 'n' Hyde tip.
Good guys Bad guys side-by-side,
gargoyled and cast,
scowl down from the past
at a puzzle
of dot-to-dot heads,
huddled in whispers to topple
Big Fish.
—Oh Oh, any little fishy dare
swim this high
get a hook in him eye
grip a vice on her lip—
***
Dinosaurs of the deep keep watch
with one disgusting, thrusting eye,
wake up when good fish go to sleep
to dreams where dino-plots best hatch.
Some dinos, rhino-shaped and fat
relish a booze with militant types
and have been known to wield a stick
for hassling gentle, mental cases.
That damn eye cannot be trusted,
one false fart and we're all busted.
Democracy's not done and dusted
till Mayoral chains lie tangled, rusted.
***
It's all about persona.
The wearing of masks—
who do I want to be today?
Okay. Today I am gay gay gay.
How many lovers you say? Don't ask.
Would you ask the number of previous owners
were you to buy a cat
or small appliance?
It's rude to peek up a stranger's skirt.
The norm round here? Well it still hurts
to deconstruct the science
of who or why or what.
***
Rumours of snow filled the cave.
Visitors from another planet—
and it is another planet, innit,
out there, all the front-eyes,
wielding guns and clever paper.
Belly up, costumed in shadow,
recalling once the bottom of a boat
and pinky fingers and a frightening
lack of consonants and all is bubble,
bubble, bubble, till it isn't.
Drowning fish, except he wasn't
really a fish, not yet, not then,
still whipped in beards and long
monologues, buzzards waiting
like slow hand claps, snow white
aliens falling all around him— look.
***
Be grateful for the flakes that fall
from fins, deformed, fingered, skin wrapped—
rainbow shavings, shattered starbursts,
Nirvana in the shape of food.
Gulp gulp gulp.
The tail you chase is not your own
but what it represents has grown
on you like a watery wart.
Just don't get caught trying to slip
the hoop, the hook—
poison is the risk you take
for swimming in a stolen lake.
***
On those mornings, rare,
I remember to put the right way
my head, on—
and this is misleading
this suggestion that I am responsible
for anything above the waist—
I like to squint
at the people I pass, hard,
till each is a hieroglyph, animate.
And then I arrange my subjects,
like this and this—
and this is also misleading.
Often I am late having listened
to the voices of my ancestors on the waves.
***
I accidented it on purpose,
of course,
left a wing all the way out there, sticking,
for her to trip and curse
all damn fools disguised as swans
draped in all the wrong centuries.
I used to believe this
was temporary,
used to think I could swim to shore,
close my eyes, tap my ruby reds
and skim across the surface of the storm
never having left my bed, my bed—
oh to be nestled in my bed, or better yet
an egg, an egg inside a bed, or in a nest,
curled inside an egg inside a nest in bed
—It's cold in here.
***
O were but I stormed here
by an exiled daughtered sage
bearded and vengeful
armed with spirits and dainty sprites
so that I, entranced, might wander
shipwrecked and mind-wracked
into said maiden's heart
via her virgin breast
O stick a fin in it fishy, such dreams
aren't made on stuff like yours.
***
Epilogue (in which the author contradicts all he previously claimed)
The weight of expectation and the might
of metaphor, allusion and conceit
can force a fish to buckle and retreat
to fantasies of fingers, thumbs and flight.
For deities of the deep to promulgate
aquatic physicalities as a plus,
requires a fleet of bold astrologers
with strength to still fourteen tectonic plates.
The fate of fish, determined by the drift
of continents and appetites of sharks,
is better left decided in the dark
than writ in strips and acted out in skits.
Aquatic living offers many riches
to those who abnegate the mermaid's kisses .
~
Brian Edwards
My Life as a Fish
"I would fain die a dry death"
---- from The Tempest
Prologue (in which the author submerges both himself and his readers)
It's cold in here—
this ectothermal scale suit wrapped around a two-chambered heart pumping needles of pure ice to oxygen gorged gills is more semaphore than shield and although flesh made supple for locomotion and fattened for eventual consumption can cut the ocean with a ceaseless S my two gibbous eyes are blind to sharks and shiny hooks and remain locked onto a neighbour's tail fin stuck in the school's slipstream as my mad uncontrollable mouth blabs in perpetual paroxysm with nothing much to say and I never sleep but weep once a month a single sob a single tear from a glassy black eye that hits the water like a ball of light a perfect orb that rises unobstructed and breaks the surface of the ocean completely unnoticed.
***
My body is a tin can
rusted and rattled
by a single dried pea.
Some may claim
this is my soul— not me.
Corrugated innards allow
the pea to rasp
but he'll never be a raspberry
never sport a leaf or sprout
a seed. He utters only pea.
English is wrong wrong wrong.
His namesake is a tongue rasp
a side-slipped baseball cap
half a pair of breasts—
O to have breasts!
O to be the letter B!
***
The ocean is where epochs come to die.
The ocean is where abstract horror assumes a set of teeth.
The ocean is a spy with a planet-sized eye.
The ocean sells secrets to the Moon.
The ocean swallows the Sun and spits it out like a tongue.
The ocean carries footprints on its skin.
The ocean carries Gods in its pockets.
The ocean cast the land out from His Kingdom.
The ocean is a callous landlord.
***
I'm a fat little fishy
with fat greedy eyes that flit
inside a fat head atop
a fat, fat bod,
too fat to fit
inside the fattest most sincere wish.
And somewhere in this deep
dark room, exists
a family of fat, fat fish,
swimming circles, spinning wishes
that when the moment fits
and when the greedy Big Fish sleeps
fatty fish shall shake 'em loose
rattle rusty chains
and break for sand—
but when ideas of land
kick in, then come the stomach pains
so hard, that fatty fish knots another noose.
***
What a stupid place to build a city!
No it didn't sink,
despite the research
grant. Old rickety city
hall, right here erected
on a Jeckyll 'n' Hyde tip.
Good guys Bad guys side-by-side,
gargoyled and cast,
scowl down from the past
at a puzzle
of dot-to-dot heads,
huddled in whispers to topple
Big Fish.
—Oh Oh, any little fishy dare
swim this high
get a hook in him eye
grip a vice on him lip—
***
Dinosaurs of the deep keep watch
with one disgusting, thrusting eye,
wake up when good fish go to sleep
to dreams where dino-plots best hatch.
Some dinos, rhino-shaped and fat
relish a booze with militant types
and have been known to wield a stick
for hassling gentle, mental cases.
That damn eye cannot be trusted,
one false fart and we're all busted.
Democracy's not done and dusted
till Mayoral chains lie tangled, rusted.
***
It's all about persona.
The wearing of masks—
who do I want to be today?
Okay. Today I am gay gay gay.
How many lovers you say? Don't ask.
Would you ask the number of previous owners
were you to buy a cat
or small appliance?
It's rude to peek up a stranger's skirt.
The norm round here? Well it still hurts
to deconstruct the science
of who or why or what.
***
Rumours of snow filled the cave.
Visitors from another planet—
and it is another planet, innit,
out there, all the front-eyes,
wielding guns and clever paper.
Belly up, costumed in shadow,
recalling once the bottom of a boat
and pinky fingers and a frightening
lack of consonants and all is bubble,
bubble, bubble, till it isn't.
Drowning fish, except he wasn't
really a fish, not yet, not then,
still whipped in beards and long
monologues, buzzards waiting
like slow hand claps, snow white
aliens falling all around him— look.
***
Be grateful for the flakes that fall
from fins, deformed, fingered, skin wrapped—
rainbow shavings, shattered starbursts,
Nirvana in the shape of food.
Gulp gulp gulp.
The tail you chase is not your own
but what it represents has grown
on you like a watery wart.
Just don't get caught trying to slip
the hoop, the hook—
poison is the risk you take
for swimming in a stolen lake.
***
On those mornings, rare,
I remember to put the right way
my head, on—
and this is misleading
this suggestion that I am responsible
for anything above the waist—
I like to squint
at the people I pass, hard,
till each is a hieroglyph, animate.
And then I arrange my subjects,
like this and this—
and this is also misleading.
Often I am late having listened
to the voices of my ancestors
on the radio.
***
I accidented it on purpose,
of course,
left a wing all the way out there, sticking,
for her to trip and curse
all damn fools disguised as swans
draped in all the wrong centuries.
I used to believe this
was temporary,
used to think I could swim to shore,
close my eyes, tap my ruby reds
and skim across the surface of the storm
never having left my bed, my bed—
oh to be nestled in my bed, or better yet
an egg, an egg inside a bed, or in a nest,
curled inside an egg inside a nest in bed
—It's cold in here.
***
O were but I stormed here
by an exiled daughtered sage
bearded and vengeful
armed with spirits and dainty sprites
so that I, entranced, might wander
shipwrecked and mind-wracked
into said maiden's heart
via her virgin breast
O stick a fin in it fishy, such dreams
aren't made on stuff like yours.
***
Epilogue (in which the author contradicts all he previously claimed)
The weight of expectation and the might
of metaphor, allusion and conceit
can force a fish to buckle and retreat
to fantasies of fingers, thumbs and flight.
For deities of the deep to promulgate
aquatic physicalities as a plus,
requires a fleet of bold astrologers
with strength to still fourteen tectonic plates.
The fate of fish, determined by the drift
of continents and appetites of sharks,
is better left decided in the dark
than writ in strips and acted out in skits.
Aquatic living offers many riches
to those who abnegate the mermaid's kisses .
~
Reader Comments (15)
all i know is that the prologue is damn good, B.
unsure of what to make of the new hair-cuts that occur through the rest yet, but yes the prologue is a fine snip.
Don't know what the hell is going on here to be honest Mike. This one has gotten under my skin and just keeps growing. More to come possibly. Oh dear . . .
Appreshate the look-in.
B.
~
I had some ideas while reading this:
(replace space for place holder periods)
2.
It's cold in here—
The ocean is where epochs come to die,
......................abstraction assumes teeth,
......................is a spy
......................with a planet-sized eye.
The ocean sells secrets to moons,
................................swallows suns
........................ and spits them out
..................................like a tongue.
The ocean carries footprints on its skin
.......Gods in its pockets,
.......casts out
..............land
..............from His Kingdom Come.
Thy will be done
by a callous ocean landlord.
I like abstraction assumes teeth. Thinking on the rest. Thanks Scott. 'Tis a beast fer sure.
what about "epochs come" as opposed to "epochs came" ?
why did they stop coming there to die?
I noticed the periods don't line it up the way I wanted.
I wish I could answer. Maybe the best way would be to just change it. Maybe I will.
Thinking on 2:
It's cold in here— where epochs come to die and abstraction assumes a set of teeth. A spy with a planet-sized eye, it sells secrets to the Moon, swallows the Sun and spits it out like a tongue. With footprints on its skin and Gods in its pockets, the ocean is a callous landlord.
Maybe with some line breaks . . .
It's cold in here—
where epochs come to die
and abstraction assumes
a set of teeth. A spy
with a planet-sized eye,
it sells secrets to the Moon,
swallows the Sun
and spits it out like a tongue.
With footprints on its skin
and Gods in its pockets,
the ocean is a callous landlord.
Or some such . . .
To be honest, I still much prefer 2 the way it is. The sequence is like a tasting menu, and the present form of 2 is satisfyingly formal for me. But then, the linebreak version would also be satisfyingly formal in its own way, so god knows...
Want to pick up on a few things about the sonnet if that's ok:
There's too much filler in there I think; too many attempts to draw the lines out to the rhyme.
The weight of expectation and the might
of metaphor, allusion and conceit
can force a fish to buckle and retreat
to fantasies of fingers, thumbs and flight.
This first bit is the biggest culprit I reckon. You've got too many double (or even triple) noun phrases in there and, I dunno, they lack a certain grace: expectation AND the might of metaphor', 'metaphor, allusion AND conceit', 'buckle AND retreat', 'of fingers, thumbs AND flight'. Yeah, they add to meaning and aren't just noise, yeah, but I think there are too many clumps of them in too small a space, and they read like possible filler to me.
Love the denouement though.
Ah, another thing. I think you SHOULD write more. 3 seems to reads like the conclusion of a story, an epic, a morality tale even. But there isn't enough of a 'journey' (christ, that sounds bad... but you get the drift) in this for me to justify the end just yet.
Still, really like this and where it's going. The prologue is a corker.
Take from that mess what you will.
Some great parts in this Brian. I was especially keen on number 2, which sent me into a dizzying froth. David (hello David, by the way!) is on the money about the 'and's; fine for a bit of metrical adjustment, but not that much.
I also thought that maybe the sonnet's closing couplet might benefit from changing that 'life aquatic' inversion; maybe 'aquatic living'? Still scans...
james
Dave, James, super stuff. Muchos glad to get your insights, Especially as I am such a cack-handed sonneteer and rusty as a ginger nut when it comes to the old iambic pent.
In a way I thought it had a kind of "Isn't Brian crap at this kind of stuff" charm, but probably only Brian that gets that angle. And it's a thin-skinned novelty at best.
OK, gonna attempt to sleep on this. (sleep, he says, with 3 more instalments pecking at his pen! Ha!)
Big thanks (and very pleased to see you here David -- post summat up, go on)
B.
~
'"Isn't Brian crap at this kind of stuff" charm'
I have always thought the consistency with which you maintain the above throughout your work to be your greatest strength!
hehehehehe ;)
looking forward to more,
james
Posted a follow up (psst, James --- semi-colon line 2--- that's right right?)
Still not happy with "is" and "than" starting lines 11 and 12, if anyone has any thoughts on that (where is sonneteer extraordinaire Peter Pick for, err, pete's sake) . . .
Also thinking now that maybe the prologue and the current number 1 could switch places . . . ?
Apologies for taking up so much space on the board lately.
B.
~
It grew . . .
This hooked me. (November 16 version) It is a wonderful read. The N keeps moving, changing course, but is always the N. This doesn't just 'make pretty,' 'make strange.' The cohesion allows the reader to fasten a seat belt. The 3S of the 4th part starts to pontificate and it bumps the read a bit. The first two stanzas are such a ride I suggest it continue with more distance, more adventure.
Really exceptional read. Made my day.
larry
hooked --- very punny Larry.
I'll take a look at the section you flagged. Thanks.
B.
~