Small medium or large
Their allure is the same
Oval, hollow, wrapped
Succulent satisfying chocolate
Best slightly cold
Not sticky
The halves can be stuck firm
Denying burgeoning desires
And the first bite
On the inside perhaps
A further treat
Mysterious delight
Sweet Easter gift
Gratefully received
Best before breakfast
Reflections on a Tidy -Up Prior to a
Wife’s Return from a Few Days Away
The Hoover leaves tram marks
Like a freshly mown lawn.
That nozzle attachment is really useful
On stair treads,
Grazing with the persistence
Of an elephant’s trunk.
Toilet bowls are surprisingly dirty
When you look close up,
Are there really that many different types of hair?
A grill that has caught fire
When cooking bacon is left unattended
Is astonishingly sooty
Stainless steel kitchen sinks aren’t
Worktops can change colour when wiped
But you just know that there is something you have missed.
I went to see the Counterfeit Stones last night at the Robin in Bilston. The Robin itself is a great music venue.It holds 800, all standing, two bars, and a mecca for the musical cogniscenti. I’m not a huge fan of tribute bands, but these have a reputation as being one of the best around, and a Saturday night gig with what would certainly be a large and enthusiastic crowd semed like a good idea – and so it proved.
Although I wasn’t a teenager till the 70’s the Stones and the Beatles were omnipresent culturally and on the radio. I favoured the Stones over the Beatles, and still do, although the merits of the Kinks and the Beach Boys are more keenly appreciated by me now than they were then.
I have seen the Rolling Stones live, but it wasn’t a satisfactory experience, at Don Valley Sheffield, in the late 90’s. I was at one end of the Athletics Stadium, they were at the other. I have never been a fan of Stadium Rock, and haven’t been to a Stadium Gig since.It all struck me like a bombastic pantomime with tinny sounding music and the antithesis of rock n roll , best heard in small clubs – which brings us back to the Robin.
The first half of the show was 50 minutes of mid sixties hits, and was a reminder of how good the Stones were in this period. Short sharp inventive songs. It was pure nostalgic heaven, with “(Hey, You) Get off of my Cloud” an unexpected highlight. The second half was devoted largely to 70’s material, with “Start me Up” ( a dreadfully over rated song)from 1981 being the “latest offering”, itself now 30 years old! Including the likes of the horrible “Miss You”, this half did not fare as well as the first half. This was exacerbated by a 20 minute interval to allow the band to change costumes which took the energy out of a tremendous opening. Neil Young can stretch out “Cowgirl in the sand” to 50 minutes!
Yet that is by comparison only. The songs were all faithfully recreated and affectionately played with some hugely enjoyable humour from lead singer “Nick Dagger” to help things along the way. “Street Fighting Man” and “The Last Time” were an absolute joy. Would I go to see them again? Of course I would.
Good, amongst Brando’s best, and almost great,
War films tend to be a snap shot of the time they were made as much as the time they are portraying. “The Young Lions” is no exception. A sprawling epic over 167 minutes includes a fine cast, a thoughtful script, and some messages which resonate as much with the time they were written, as with the time they portray.
The plot centres around three main characters, a playboy actor/ singer, Michael Whiteacre, ( Dean Martin), a Jewish immigrant conscript, Noah Ackerman ( Mongomery Clift), and a German Officer, Christian Diestl, ( Marlon Brando). Filmed in 1958, the war was 13 years past, the Nuremburg Sentences had been either enacted or commuted or in many cases served, the Cold War was at its height, and McCarthyism was raging. The Second World War had moved on from being simply a story of good versus evil. Based on Irwin Shaw’s novel of the same title, some of the plot differences explain some “clunky” bits of the screenplay.
Whiteacre’s role is the one most underwritten. He appears as a cowardly lounge lizard who meets Ackerman at the draft board .He introduces Ackerman to his future wife, befriends him while he battles anti-Semitic prejudice, uses his influence to avoid front line service, then sees the patriotic heroic light and joins the front line at the end. Yet in quite a long film, Whiteacre gets precious little screen time and appears in vignette. The book has him as a more thoughtful ands his distaste for war being more cerebral, rather than cowardly.
Montgomery Clift has the most satisfying part. From mumbling virgin innocent with Hope Plowman, through battling Barrack Room bullying and prejudice, to heroism in battle and a safe return to wife, children and the American Dream. He acts the part superbly and his bloody defiant resistance to his tormentors viscerally unfolds. Sadly the comeuppance of the prejudiced junior officer who allows the bullying is awkward, sudden and unsatisfying, as if a moral point had to be made.
Marlon Brando is quite superb as the doubting Nazi. He is the conscience of the film. At the pinnacle of his youthful good looks he convinces as he is confronted by a series of moral dilemmas throughout the story. He mainly plays opposite Maximilian Schell as Captain Hardenberg, his commanding officer who obeys orders but for whom the audience still has considerable sympathy. A stand-out scene (of many) is when Deistl is asked by his commanding officer to deliver a present to his wife in Berlin. He finds her, May Britt, in an alluring evening dress and in a beautifully constructed seduction and tease they succumb. In a savage coda, Deistl subsequently revisits her to discover that her rejection of her critically injured husband has resulted in his committing suicide, this time he rejects her amorous advances in disgust.
The women in the film excel in both performance and beauty. Britt is gorgeous and convincing and it is surprising that she did not have a more successful subsequent career. Hope Plowman playing Ackerman’s wife is the epitome of the wholesome all- American gal, Barbera Rush and Dora Doll glow. And in a supporting role Lee Van Cleef is rather good as a Barrack Room bully too.
So why does it fall short of greatness? The stories are poorly interwoven and the 20 minute turnarounds on the respective stories feel awkward. A Concentration Camp scene towards the end feels forced and unconvincing, the nexus with Ackerman’s character doesn’t quite work. And crucially, Deistl’s role is so symbolic that on several occasions, in real life, his CO would have had shot or at the very least Court Martialled.
And where does it excel? It gives both Clift and Brando parts that they can really act in. Clift’s marathon journey to take his future wife to be home on their first meeting is wonderful, and Brando’s scene with his seriously injured CO when he asks for a bayonet to enable a fellow injured soldier to commit suicide, ostensibly, is poignant and moving. Dean Martin is of course in his element with a Bourbon in his hand, a piano in front of him and girls by his side. However with all of this going for him, I doubt that Director Edward Dmytryk will feel too disappointed with what didn’t quite make the grade.
People’s use of apostrophes
Can be random, can’t it?
Whilst others are quite possessive.
Can the Accounts Department
Use the Customer’s Car park
At the farmers market?
Is Kate the new people’s Princess?
Is that the peoples’ wish?
Will she pass the Archbishop’s Palace?
But if he has distinguished visitors will
It be the Archbishops’ Palace?
And how will she know?
Does she believe in pluralism?
Or an abbreviated form?
Or nothing at all?
It’s a question of belonging.
Once when you pressed my buttons
I would change channels at your bidding
Upon your whim
Altering perspective too
From wide to narrow screen
As you wished
Colours changed, pin sharp contrast
Brightness and darkness
With one push
My volume raised, or lowered
Or sometimes muted
At your will
Then one day you pressed
Nothing happened
Control lost
A Flawed Failure
There is a perennial debate about whether a civilised society may sacrifice its civilised ideals in order to deal with an uncivilised threat. It has exercised great minds over the years. Sadly none were involved in the making of this film. Instead the raw ingredients are chucked into the pot and the demands of what make a commercial film triumph over all, but are not cooked properly.
The plot centres around an American Muslim who has allegedly planted a number of nuclear devices in an act of Jihad. The authorities task, with him captured, is to find out where the devices are, and to neutralise them in time by getting the terrorist, Stephen Younger played by Michael Sheen , to talk. The key question, set by the film title, is “what is unthinkable?.” That the terrorist is a white American Muslim convert side-steps some of the inevitable racist stereotyping pitfalls that a middle eastern national would have caused. And the interrogator? A black man, Samuel Jackson, playing the bad guy “H”, a mysterious governmental fixer of indeterminate organisational background. Carrie Ann Moss plays the part of chief FBI agent who is the “Good cop” in the set up. If it all sounds a bit contrived that is because it is.
A significant amount of the 97 minute running time is devoted to torture scenes, which are clearly the selling point of the film. But an audience keen on a spot of torture porn are unlikely to be too hooked on the moral nuances of the problem , which seriously undermines the validity of the story. The scenes are brutal and graphic right from the start, which again gives the story little place to go. Curiously, when the “Unthinkable” is enacted at the end, the torture of the terrorists children, Director Gregor Jordan backtracks like mad for fear of offending his audience. Water-boarding, genital mutilation, amputation, and drilling are all fine – just don’t hurt the kids………………………
Despite the tight running time, the story actually drags a bit. There is only so much torture you can stomach and the sense of drama with millions of citizens at risk in various cities is curiously absent. The sub-plots are awkward and clunky. It turns out Bad Guy “H” has a Bosnian wife who was raped and tortured – so what? It feels a clumsy way of giving him some humanity. Jackson plays the part with such sadistic savagery, and the fate of the innocents is so underplayed, that the argument that all this is justifiable figures weakly in the mind of the viewer. The external location scene when Younger dupes his captors into a planned spectacular feels like a device for the film, not a convincing part of the story and is shamelessly rushed. “We’ve had the explosion- time for some more torture”.
The end is unsatisfactory because there is nowhere for the story to go. So this is no thoughtful exploration of a worthwhile and contemporary subject, it is just a crude excuse for those who get off on seeing other people hurt. The irony of this is almost surely lost on the film-makers.
Charity Shop CD
You played me incessantly
Your constant companion
Night and day I was with you
Moving from joyful discovery
Through knowing appreciation
To familiar old friend.
My treble thrilled
My bass shook
My words stroked your soul
And then you discarded me
No longer were the lyrics checked
(You knew them by heart)
The cover art instead of a cerebral puzzle
Became a coffee mat
My place usurped by a younger, newer
Fresher interloper, whose mysteries lay
As yet undiscovered.
That it should come to this
From essential soul mate
To a remote shelf in a Charity Shop
Arbitrarily priced, soon to be discounted
Jammed next to unwanted pulp fiction
Retching from the stale scent of last year’s fashions
Unknown to the well meaning volunteers
Overlooked by the bargain hunters.
Sainsbury’s Security Guard
He stood pumpkin like
A goatee beard
Absurdly perched
On his tiny head
His arms flapped
His stomach bulged
His face perspired
And as I picked up
A bottle of wine
I thought
-“He’d never catch me”.
Unfriended
We were close
Or so I thought
Before she was famous
We’d say hello
As we’d come and go
It was personal
Facebook with no friends
Is no fun
A lonely place
And I passed the test
I sent a friend request
And Cat Deeley accepted
Cat was doing this
And Cat was doing that
And I was a part of it
Or so it seemed
As Cat’s face beamed
From her avatar
Then one day
I noticed
My friend count was down
The list I checked
But my life was wrecked
By her absence
So I viewed her friends
Brad and George
Kylie and Becks
I saw every face
That had taken my place
And usurped me
It was hard to bear
The rejection
The void
It didn’t seem right
I was celebrity light
But Jordan said yes
The Western Pub, Leicester
SHINDIG is a collaborative venture between Crystal Clear Creators, represented at the gig by Jonathan Taylor, and Nine Arches Press, represented by Jane Commane and Matt Nun.
Recently relocated to “The Western”, the venue is one of the ground floor bars which is commandeered by the organisers for the evening. It was packed out with an audience wholly dedicated to the poetic proceedings; a good PA system ensured that everyone could hear clearly.
The format was a shrewd and proven one. Two sets of headliners with local links, and short open mic slots beforehand. This cleverly ensures that a combination of non-billed poets, as well as the entourages of the headline acts, swell those in the audience who have simply come to listen.
A stall is provided to sell the published works of those performing which tonight did brisk business. The headliners were split, two closing each half, in a women versus men juxtaposition. Jonathan Taylor acted as MC for the first half with brisk efficiency, although perhaps just this once, it should have been the audience who advised the MC to ensure that his mobile phone should be switched off during readings!
Kathleen Bell closed the first half of the evening. Kathleen is a widely-published poet including work in “Poetry in Nottingham” and “The Coffee house”. She is also a, critic, prose writer and Principal Lecturer in Creative Writing at De Montfort University.
It showed. Her nine pieces, themed around Illusion, war and ghosts were stylish, considered and richly sourced. Illusion took us into the world of Victorian magic tricks, “Restoration” was particularly memorable, whilst her affection for Paris manifested itself both in “The Station of Montparnasse” and her poems on the German occupation of the city.
Before her, birthday girl Maria Taylor had entertained with a very accomplished set. Maria is a poet and reviewer from Leicestershire. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in the TLS, Coffee House, Under the Radar, Obsessed With Pipework, and others. Her first poetry collection will be published by Nine Arches in 2012.
Her trademark is short, concise neat poetry which bustles with joie de vivre. “Soap Sud Island” visited her erstwhile home district of Acton in London and its status as launderette to the more upmarket Chelsea and Kensington. “Getting Rid” told of the disposal of a troublesome bee in her bedroom, or was there a metaphorical dimension to this tale? Whether she writes about endless school holidays in “Six Weeks Lasts Forever” (my highlight of her set), or a Murderous Cook in gaol, she entertained and engaged with a magnetic economy of expression.
After the break Jane Commane assumed MC responsibilities with chirpy enthusiasm and a supply of open-mic poets which took even her by surprise. Introducing the male headliners, Matt Merritt was first up.
BEAUTIFUL SNAPSHOT
Matt is a poet and wildlife journalist from Leicester, whose second poetry collection, “Hydrodaktulopsychicharmonica”, is published by Nine Arches Press. His interest in ornithology ran through his set with a particularly fine piece on Swifts. “Things left in a Hotel Room” rang painfully true, whilst “Waiting to Cross” was a beautiful snapshot of islands created by the tides.
Bravely he chose to perform a couple of contributions to the NaPoWriMo challenge to write a poem a day for a month, a challenge alien to most poets who fear their work is never quite complete. I favour the aphorism that there is no such thing as a completed poem, just work in various stages of abandonment. Matt chose “Smoke” and “Custard Apple”, the latter of which was my favourite of his offerings and the final stanza of which I quote:
“Sometimes, it’s a new, green
many-mountained planet, a world
of fragrant sweetness whose orbit
crosses yours for just long enough.”
Who could resist that?
Closing the evening was Mathew Stewart. Mathew is a British national who splits his time between West Sussex and Extremadura in Spain, and his poetry is coloured by that experience. His set centred around his recently published pamphlet “Invented Truth”, published by Happenstance. He explained the phrase “Invented truth” by quoting Julio Cortázar:”I knew I’d never reach the invented truth…if I convinced myself that a new country was a new life and love is changed like a shirt,” and his poems revelled in exploring identity and self.
“Foreigner” in particular was a delightful vignette on the flawed aspiration of seeking to speak another language with no trace of a native tongue. And although his poetry told of beautiful Spanish landscapes and delicious paella, he also told of “Driving on the M25 after Midnight” and “Last Chance”, his stand-out piece, a soliloquy from a second-hand book in a second-hand bookshop. His claim to like playing with identities to enable him to bounce poems between concave mirrors, distorting their points of departure so as to reach somewhere revealingly new was satisfyingly realised in a sophisticated, assured reading.
All the above was supported by a dozen or so open-mic poets who complimented the evening with their discipline in performing two poems only, and the quality of their work. Many were worthy of headline status in their own right.
“Shindig” undoubtedly offers a Poetry Evening with an unique character. There was virtually no Performance Poetry per se, and everything was read. The standard was uniformly high, almost highbrow, but with no sense of self-importance, and provides a welcome, and all too rare, platform for serious poetry with a warm and friendly welcome for all. “Shindig” meets again on 27th June at 7.30pm at this venue.
Gary Longden 18/4/11
From you I have
Learned of births and
Deaths and dying
Your tone never
Faltered your eyes
Never blinked once
Your breath steady
Hands clasped quite still
When blood runs cold
Garyswordz 