Wednesday, 26 November 2008

I gave buns to the elephant

At the Zoo
by A. A. Milne

There are lions and roaring tigers,
and enormous camels and things,
There are biffalo-buffalo-bisons,
and a great big bear with wings.
There's a sort of a tiny potamus,
and a tiny nosserus too -
But I GAVE BUNS TO THE ELEPHANT
when I went down to the Zoo!

There are badgers and bidgers and bodgers,
and a Super-in-tendent's House,
There are masses of goats, and a Polar,
and different kinds of mouse,
And I think there's a sort of a something
which is called a wallaboo -
But I GAVE BUNS TO THE ELEPHANT
when I went down to the Zoo!

If you try to talk to the bison,
he never quite understands;
You can't shake hands with a mingo -
he doesn't like shaking hands.
And lions and roaring tigers
hate saying, "How do you do?" -
But I GIVE BUNS TO THE ELEPHANT
when I go down to the Zoo!

Saturday, 8 November 2008

Freedom of speech

Could one poem really be worth a life?
Just one poem?
And if so, which one?
How can I begin to have the people who "care" understand the question,
Let alone come up with an answer?
To understand that it really might have been alright,
To have given up everything,
Money, power, appreciation, children, love, goodtimes, bonne omy, laughs and drunken nights out, success, holidays in the carribean, you know... The whole works.
Everything that you're supposed to care about.
Even dignity.

For the sake of a few words on a page,
That "most people" will never hear
And those who do will misunderstand
Take these words to be the puerile rantings of a child
Who didn't get enough love
Or too much
A teenager who didn't get enough sex
Or the wrong kind
A man who trusted too much
Or thought too much
Or thought too little
Or about the wrong things

Freedom of speech,
Is not the opposite of censorship or oppression
Of course we must not be censored to even begin
But this is only the beginning

Wednesday, 1 October 2008

Flower power

The bloke who sells flowers on the High Street
seems to compensate
in my imagination at least
by having cultivated a face that is scarred
by every bar-room brawl he could lay his big fat fists on
or else he practices self-harm
or else he was just blessed with being born ugly -
ugly enough
that no-one would ever accuse him
of having a modest interest in the effeminate charm of a lily
or subtle fragrance of rose.

He has the manner and sounding of a geezer -
fields of mud - from the roots and bulbs presumably -
have sunk themselves deep into his pores
to such an extent that even after sever washing
and many long baths
he still looks grubby -
like as though he is only in it for the money -
and the build of a wrestler from the 70's.

But as he rough-fists a handful of poppies
into the pastel covered paper,
something in his eyes gives the whole act away,
and you realise that deep down inside
he is a complete girl.

Girly girly girl!
Likes rough-fisting the pretty flowers.
You don't fool me!

Tuesday, 16 September 2008

Thirteen Senses - History - Portsmouth Wedgewood Rooms

Carl thinks this goes well with my poems... 8-)

Friday, 5 September 2008

Poetry T-shirts direct from the poet

You can now buy any Andrew Bindon poem you like on a T-shirt direct from me, using Google check out...

Check out (ha!ha!) these links for 4 examples of poems you can buy on T-shirts this way.

Guiding Star
Gods final ecstasy
Coming to meet you
Chasing the sunset

If anyone wants other poems from the e24mp web site, no problem, just send me an email.

Thursday, 31 July 2008

looking back

like fishermen who tell tales of
the one that got away

18, 19... something like that
wandering randomly and alone through the rain forest
in my t-shirt and shorts

I stumble into a circle of pipe-smokers
with amazing faces
like rock that has weathered a thousand years of sand erosion
ten or fifteen of them
passing the pipe from one to the next
their eyes go down to depths in me unknown to myself
but I sit down with them and smile ridiculously

moving onwards
18, 19... something like that
it does not occur to me to be frightened about anything
wandering randomly and alone through the rain forest
in my t-shirt and shorts...
and my beach sandals

walking from a clearing into an area of dark forestation
I happen to look back behind me
and there silouetted against the clearing sky
I see I have just walked right under

a spider
whose body area is the size of a junior basket ball
and whose leg span is easily a meter
squatting motionless
on the centre of
a web that spans from the upper trunk of a palm tree on one side
of the path
to the upper trunk of a palm tree on the other side

the fronds of its web look like coarse string
everything is scaled up
just like something I saw as a child trying to get out of the bath
but 50 times as big

still, 18, 19... something like that
it does not occur to me that where there is one
there are likely to be several

and after giving the spider its due respect
for having had the decency to not drop on me
I plod happily on
beside the crocodile infested creek
and out to the deserted sandy shore
that provides a colouring pencil outline
to the north eastern coast
of that extraordinary island

for some reason
which looking back
is inscrutable to me
I spent a week or so in the rain forest
and did not come to any harm

Wednesday, 2 July 2008

Song

W.B.Yeats poem, The Song of the Wandering Aengus.
"I went out the hazel wood,
because a fire was in my head,
and cut and peeled a hazel wand,
and hooked a berry to a thread."

W.B. Yeats was an Irish poet and key figure in 20th-century literature. A pillar of both the Irish and English literary establishments, Yeats also served as an Irish Senator. He was also important to the Irish Literary Revival, and founded the Abbey Theatre. In 1923 he was awarded a Nobel Prize in Literature for what the Nobel Committee described as "inspired poetry, which in a highly artistic form gives expression to the spirit of a whole nation".

Yeats greatest works include The Tower (1928) and The Winding Stair and Other Poems (1929).









Monday, 30 June 2008

Ad-word poems, ad-words poetry

Today I have invented a new poetic form.
To tell you the truth
(not quite sure why I feel obliged to do that, but anyway)
I doubt I am the first to have invented it.

It is called "Ad-word" poetry.
The rules are that you poem has to comply with Google Ad-words advertising rules.
Roughly the rules are similar to hai-ku, but only roughly.

The poem must be 3 lines (followed by a valid URL).
The first line has a maximum of 25 characters.
The second and third lines have a maximum of 35 characters.
The displayed destination URL also has a maximum of 35 characters.
Google apply some other rules as well, some of which are a bit arbitrary.

I actually started writing ad-word poems a couple or so months ago with my ad-word haiku which you can find earlier in this blog... in fact if allow any ad-word advert to count as an ad-word poem, then a couple of years ago or so at least.

But I only really started writing ad-words ads specifically to be poetic creations more recently.

It is fun to actually submit your poetic ad-word creations to Google. If you can manage to get them approved by google you then have a way of determining which are most appealing, because people will tend to click more on the ones they like (presumably).

Of course you don't have to submit them to google at all - you could just try out the form without actually creating corresponding google ad-words ads. (Oh, yes, the sky is indeed the limit).

Here is one I submitted to google today:


I used to pray to live
forever, but now I only pray to be
a poet, chasing the sunset.
lesssaid.blogspot.com



An ad, you may say, that is "NOT by Google".

Thursday, 26 June 2008

Abstract Nouns

God and truth and death and sex:
  It’s all so simple and yet complex
  I aim for smiles but keep getting frowns
  So I'm trying to give up the damned abstract nouns

Abstraction (the word) is itself quite abstract.
  Am I stuck up my gastro-intes-tin-al tract?
  Is it time that I made a reality pact,
  And turn all my rhymes into matters of fact?

God and truth and sex and death:
  You tell me I'm only wasting my breath
  And my peer’s condemnation is doing the rounds
  So I’m going cold turkey on damned abstract nouns

Since I've been having my meaning unpacked
  I’m starting to see what my poems have lacked
  Like a grand inquisition is having me racked,
  And I’m forced to denounce all the nouns that abstract.

Truth and sex and death and god:
  I try to be normal – perhaps I'm just odd;
  Want to fly the trapeze but I'm put with the clowns.
  So I try to cut down on the damned abstract nouns.

But the more I resist them, the more they close in
  No chance of salvation from this poet’s sin
  The more that’s encompassed by any damned word
  The more that my clichés are mocked as absurd

Sex and god and death and truth:
  I expect you'll be wanting a little more proof.
  How it is, as they say, is not quite how it’s stacked,
  And amongst all my blessings not one of them’s tact.

So you must forgive me for my subject’s scope:
  My ratings have fallen beyond any hope
  And for failing to see how the mundane astounds
  I’m condemned forever to damned abstract nouns.

Saturday, 7 June 2008

A sweet little pussy called Millie

A sweet little pussy called Millie
When younger was just slightly silly
But as she got older
And plans became bolder
She'd fly twice a year to Si-cily

Thursday, 29 May 2008

Tread softly because you tread on my dreams


...But I, being poor have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.


from He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven (1899) by W.B. Yeats

Tuesday, 27 May 2008

her cat

ball of fur(iness),
fluffy purr(iness),
slightly fat -
her cat.

Monday, 19 May 2008

now evening comes

What can encompass the tales of a thousand shared battles,
a thousand victories, a thousand defeats,
a thousand loves and friendships won and loss and resurrected,
the joy and the sorrow,
the light at the end of the tunnel?

We who found each other on the same journey,
we who lived and fought and died together,
we who gave everything for a dream,
we who gave our lives to a great adventure...

WE have laughed at the mountain!
Huddled together when the wind blew coldest,
tasted the dew in the early morning,
watched the sun rise on its highest peaks,
scaled its most treacherous slopes,
built homes in trees,
made fire from wood,
and in that magic twilight cooked wild vegetables on an open fire,
and gathered together to toast a day well spent.

So what shall we say, now evening comes?

Folk law will always speak of great leaders of men,
awesome warriors,
gods and goddesses,
gallant knights and destined heroes:

He was a hero worthy of the word,
a conqueror worthy of the victory,
a captain worthy of his men.

So we'll sit round the camp fire until the mist clears from the sky,
and after each of the stars
we'll name a sorcerer,
a princess,
a jester.

We have lived lives worthy of folk tales,
worthy of songs,
worthy of wonder.

So lets fill our hearts with joy,
fill our hearts with peace,
fill our hearts with happiness,

now evening comes.

Saturday, 10 May 2008

Human sacrifice

she comes to me as a
wet fire
where I must again and again and again
worship,
douse her flame,
she surrenders unabashed her emptiness,
quench her majesty with my tongue and lips,
she breaks the bread and offers it to me,
her body is given,
she raises the cup over her head,
this is her blood which is given for me,
her cup of supplication flows over my pilgrim's kiss,
with sweet tasting honey,
a living offering
from heaven to heaven,
she rises again
bringing salvation,
born not of pain,
nor righteousness:
but born of
ecstasy

Wednesday, 30 April 2008

i carry your heart with me

i carry your heart with me
(i carry it in my heart)
i am never without it
(anywhere i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done by only me is your doing, my darling)
I fear no fate
(for you are my fate, my sweet)
i want no world
(for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

e e cummings

Sunday, 3 February 2008

Bad day at the office

In blackest black of deepest deep
A window on to endless night
Where gloom's the company I keep
And all I see is fading sight.

My dreams drown on indifferencies,
not blessed by great catastrophes.
Thinking is a slow disease
where all hope drowns in vanities.

In blackest black of deepest deep
Just as I sow, just so I reap.
Pity's pit too deep and steep
with bargains turning out too cheap.

In blackest black of deepest deep
where gloom's the company I keep.
Nothing left except to weep
and all before me endless sleep.

The path is fading where it began
Now turning to the setting sun
While I was betting on the come
I have just lost while others won.

Saturday, 19 January 2008

Perhaps it is because I don’t understand goodness

Perhaps it is because I don’t understand goodness
that I do understand truth and beauty;
Like Vader, I understand what must be done,
To bring balance to the plotlines, not to mention the force:
It’s not pretty.

George already decided,
CGI is strong with me – mediclorians off the scale,
Nothing for me to do about it, except pout and brood,
And fight with my conscience.

Whereas beauty is obvious,
and truth may take a while but ultimately cannot be avoided,
(its in the script)
goodness seems to always be walking the other way
from where I’m going

not even sure if I want it –
there is something about badness that is rather, um, good.
the dark side throws way better parties.
Who wants to hold hands with an Ewok,
When you can surrender to a man
Who’s weapon is buzzing green neon
Who’s love is death,
Who quite possibly is the embodiment of all evil,
not in a small way:
commands a thousand squadrons of men in white shiny body armour (those helmets!)
and owns a space ship the size of a small moon.

If Vader wrote poetry in quiet moments,
The early hours of the morning when he couldn’t sleep,
Or those times when a friend abandoned him,
Like Obi Wan,
And even though he was about as annoying as any friend ever gets,
And he was mostly glad to be free of him,
Part of him couldn’t help missing the irritation.

Eventually, I know, I’m going to get my brain fried,
And the great evil that runs black blood through my veins
Will be thrown into a nuclear furnace,

But until that happens,
I’m going to enjoy banging Padme Amidala,
For the brief moments of happiness I have been given,

Before the killing begins.