and a single bird speaks in the dead of night, hollow in its tragic beauty.
I hold my breath waiting for another to join its song.
~
That is a true story. I’ve often reckoned the chimney tops in view from my balcony hold many secrets. Inside and out.
But I was sure that I had blogged about what was happening last week. I was invited to talk to a book club who had all been reading my book (Walking On Chalk) over Christmas. I think I used lots of ditsy words to describe how ridiculously nervous I was about it. Hmmm… but now it’s disappeared. Oh well. I’ll just tell you what happened then…
I was surprised at the number who came. I was even more surprised how many were not expecting the author to be there. Strangely, my nerves evaporated with the help of a glass or two of red wine whilst I listened to them talk about other matters and then they started talking about my book. After fielding the questions about how it came about, who my inspiration was, etc., they started discussing amongst themselves their own experience of the book. It was surreal to hear them arguing about my people and my story. The men loved it almost without reservation (one admitted he didn’t like the name ‘Ern’ and it irked him throughout) and the women were of the opinion that Ern had chickened out, cowardly. They thought he should have stuck around and worked it out (sorry if that’s a spoiler for anyone). They loved the community around them but felt that was a condensed experience and the women also questioned whether Kate would have slept with Ern on the night of his revelation. I loved hearing them talk about it. I didn’t feel defensive but I did feel exhilerated that my people had come alive in these readers’ heads. Can you imagine? I explained about the name (in Ireland, it is commonplace for the babies to be named after the last relative that died, hence many of the old fashioned names still being used to this day) and how I believed Kate was as flawed as Ern with her life’s experiences, hence their quirky way of resolving their problems. And I got a round of applause, haha. Ohhhh, it was a lovely feeling. Unreservedly, they all agreed that it was a good book for ease of reading and feel-good factor. (Hey, I didn’t set out to change the world… I just want to entertain people!)
The men were happy with the way the book ended – the women wanted a sequel. So I am still undecided. What I am decided about though is that at some stage in the near future I will publish the book online again. I have bought back the publishing rights and I will hug it to me for a little while longer while I decide.
Kate and Ern are alive in people’s heads. It’s a wonderful thought.
(but thanks to the ConArtists, they’re on their way home. This is the twenty minute exercise from today.)
I predict nothing.
I know that any prediction I may propose will be
gazumped by the she-devil snigger of Lady Luck.
I’ll put one foot forward, head held high, a determined stride,
Decided by long thought pros and cons, my self-deceit of self-control.
There’s that ringing in my ear, that delicate thought from him to me,
My mind in his, his heart in mine, one thought meeting in unworldly synchronicity –
An imagined kiss that flutters alive a childlike wish
that magic is not smothered by my grown-up sense of the ridiculous.
I predict that my life will dip and roll from irony to fate,
A coin flipped by sweet Kismet’s slight of hand,
Fortune delivered before it hits the ground –
Heads or tails tricked by the spin, defying mortal plans.
I predict it all.
.
If anyone would like to join us at the next ConArtists meet then please comment or email me. It’s a wonderful, lively group, with occasional cookies!
to the people who aren’t in this country because one of my ideals has come true and I know, I know, that it doesn’t happen often. I want to highlight this and leave it here as a permanent reminder if I ever lose faith in *true* art again…
The whole article is explained here but if you want my half baked version…
Some of the leading artists and writers of this country are exchanging their art for favours or other works of art brought in by whoever. The most remarkable point is that those favours are as small as a baked cake or as costly as the services of a plumber (haha!). All the art is anonymous so you don’t know if you are bidding for an Emin or a Joe Blogs… it is a wonderful testament to the true heart of art.
I give away my poetry when I busk… I hand out postcards because it is the fact of sharing and belonging – somebody appreciating your work – and I get little more than a smile in return. But I tell you something for nothing… that is the greatest reward.
could be the most aargh! day of my life. I don’t know yet but I am holding my breath. I have been informed that my book (Walking On Chalk) is being put forward as a proposal for the next read of a long-standing book club. I was so surprised that I offered them a discount on my personal stock instead of sending them down to Waterstones, haha… but oh, that would be nice, wouldn’t it? A group analysing, discussing and disecting my writing. Uhhhm, wouldn’t it? Oh ok, I’m going to open a bottle of wine and try not to think about it.
I wrote this last year and the quote is from Henry Allingham, who passed away this year. This poem is published in the 20 minute section of my book, The Poet Busker.
It’s different. The words have been hanging around my head for a long time and then I thought, Brad style, just sit down and do it – reputation on the line. It’s called Fairy Steps. Click here to hear the podcast, right click to open a new window.
The words…
Lights
Camera
Butterfly pumps padding the sidewalk
In my self-imposed bubble of thoughts.
I can see them; muffled voices mumble
As I trundle along with an unwritten objective,
The rhymes chiming in a jumble of thoughts,
Machiavellian ampu-taunts behind this downward gaze.
Where’s the bloody script?
The ranting’s encrypted and bound in Jezebel’s bra…
‘The trailer’s being towed for a blowjob on Sunset Strip
by a whore who pays her clients with her husband’s credit card’,
While the begging question rolls in with the angry sky,
Just who IS paying for this crap?
Action!
As the director spits on my cheek,
Spots polka-dot the pavement, Bambi style,
And a pound is dropped from the left,
Slowing down the reel with a matrix fashioned mind-fuck.
A single glimmer of gold sears through the gloom
Arcing, triumphantly, imposing it’s high pitched clink,
Sending a dozen petty thieves scuttling
With the juggling overspill that vomits down the drain
Before the water soaks through to my toes
And the silence is louder than the tyres hush
And I keep moving as everything shuts
Down.
And cut.
By Kiersty Boon 2009
what to think about this. I’m all for taking poetry to the masses or is this another elitist, arrogant merchandising exercise under the guise of art?
This is much more interesting…
Indelible part one is under this link here (right click to open in a new window)
Indelible part two is under this link here (right click to open in a new window)
Indelible part three is under this link here (right click to open in a new window)
It was the screaming that brought clarity. Or the vomiting – he didn’t know which.
Matthew had tried to be so careful. He had finished his first name from her left ear and across her throat in an old Italian script. The moment he touched the needle to her skin to begin his surname the skin appeared to disintegrate and the ink bled into her.
He didn’t panic at first, he just held it there watching the maggots crawl out, fascinated by how they made his name come alive as they danced underneath her skin. They started crawling up his fingers and that was when she started screaming. The pitch of her voice could have broken glass and almost immediately the neighbours upstairs started thumping on the floor like some kind of ironic bass beat to her soprano wailing.
And then there was silence.
He looked at her face and for the first time in nearly two weeks he wanted to kiss her. As he leaned over to touch her lips with his own, a fly emerged from her mouth and flew up to his face, hitting him above the eye. He started screaming again.
Matthew stood up and clawed at his own face, the flies around him buzzing their white noise so loudly that he thought they had burrowed inside his head. The neighbour started thumping on the floor again.
He quietened his screams to a whimper as he looked at her body. Where her skin was still intact, he saw the green tinge that his mind had twisted into a backdrop for his art. Matthew saw the beautiful dream world that he had created over her body being slowly eaten alive by maggots and flies; puss and shit seemed to ooze from open sores. The mattress was sodden with her bodily fluids, the stink of which finally hit his stomach.
The vomiting was uncontrollable but brief. He fell down to his knees and tried to breathe. The knife that he had used all those days ago was partially hidden under the bed. He pulled it out and looked at it. It was still stained with her blood. He stood up slowly and started to cry.
‘Don’t cry, Matty,’ she whispered.
Matthew looked at her smiling face and took comfort from it. He allowed the fog to take over his mind again so that he could speak to her.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘I know, Matty. Now you’ve got to come with me…’ She spoke the words kindly, sisterly. ‘Come with me now, Matty.’
Matthew looked at her one last time. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen and he had created her. She had completed him.
He lay down on the bed, laid his head on her chest and ran the knife over his left wrist… and then his right.
Indelible part one is under this link here (right click to open in a new window)
Indelible part two is under this link here (right click to open in a new window)
.
Matthew returned at dusk. His stomach rolled as he opened the door and he immediately became irritated at the filthy state of the flat. For a moment, he just stood there wondering whether to turn around and walk out again. He knew that he could keep walking and leave it all behind once and for all. It had been an option he had run through his mind many times. He put his bag down in the hallway. As he passed the bathroom, he saw that it was still in the same state that he had left it this morning. A fleeting panic raced through his mind.
Matthew quickly walked into the lounge and over to the sideboard where he wiped a dirty glass with his t-shirt before pouring himself a large vodka – downing it straight and then pouring himself another. He walked into the hallway and along to her door.
He stood cupping his glass with his right hand. His left hand was clenched and balled into a fist so tight that he could feel his fingernails digging into his palm. Matthew raised his arm and hammered four sharp raps against the door. Another panic caused him to tense his whole body when there was no reply. He lifted his hand again but this time knocked on the door more gently.
Her reply was instant this time. ‘Is that you, baby?’ she said sweetly. ‘Come in.’ He pushed open the door and walked in with his head bowed, keeping his eyes down on the bare floorboards. ‘I’ve missed you today, Matthew,’ she said quietly. He looked at her feet. The cherub that he had done for her last week looked as though it was becoming infected. He put his glass on the bedside table. ‘I’m going to have to clean that up,’ he said and quickly left the room. He went through to the kitcen and returned with a bowl of warm water and a towel. He gently cleaned the tattoo, before washing his hands in the soapy water. Matthew removed the bandage on the arm that he had tattooed last night and saw that the skin of the leopard hadn’t even begun to scab. Many others were healing slower than they should. He applied some ointment to them, patting it in gently with the palm of his hand. ‘Are you in pain?’ he asked her quietly. The question made him nervous but, even so, he asked her the same thing every day. She stayed quiet, which irritated him further. ‘Answer me,’ he shouted. ‘No, Matty. I’m fine,’ she replied. He nodded once and stood up. ‘I’ll get my bag.’ He heard her sob as he left the room and so he waited outside for a few moments so that she could compose herself.
When he returned, his eyes darted to her face. She was lying on the bed, her head propped up on a pillow. She was smiling at him. He dropped his head again and walked over to the bed. ‘What do you want? Around your neck?’ he said, trying not to sound so angry with her. He looked at her chest. There was already a tattoo there of angels wings, the feathers curling up and meeting at the top to make a heart shape just below the nape of her neck.
‘I want you, Matthew. I want your name. I want you to sign your work so that I will always belong to you.’
His words were low, emphatic, ‘No, I won’t do that.’
‘Make my neck look pretty, Matthew. Let the world see what you’ve done.’
Matthew looked at her neck. He knew that he would have to concentrate, take care with the delicate skin.
‘Show them Matty. Sign your work,’ she whispered.
to be continued… (final part next)
Recent Comments