Where you’re from doesn’t have to be where you were born. Your heart can come to life many years after you’d merely breathed to find belonging. Where you’re from is where your heart beats, and for me that resides in an ode to London SE13, and especially SE6. It’s a world where nature prevails, word on the street is the jungle book, and cats wear murder mittens…
THE PREMATURITY OF HUMANITY
‘Memorial to a Species’ Brent Stirton, (EcoWatch)
While I’m still being processed and oppressed by the fascist regime’s murderous social cleansing machine, I’m a writer with many words stored but fewer to express. I use poetry, naturally, but lately I’ve been toying with haiku.
Haiku is of course the Japanese form of poetry, where a verse is three lines – rarely rhyming – of five, seven and five syllables. The art is in using the minimalist (even for poetry) structure, not so much to tell a story as capture an instant.
If you’re really good, you might write more than one meaning into the same few words. This was a quick one I knocked up in an existential moment, about an individual life, the universe and everything.
GREEN-ISH BLUE SNEEZE
I don’t know if she ever took up Haiku, but who’s afraid of Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings anyway?
Haiku is like a poetic sneeze, a kind of Japanese onomatopoeia.
We’re only gone when we’re forgotten, but when we remember, sometimes they visit us. They still walk among us. You just have to keep your eyes open to notice them.
Give an infinite number of monkeys a typewriter each, and some will eventually transcribe Shakespeare. Others will sit on those antique writing implements and eventually sell them at boot fairs, while still more might not work out what they’re for. It’s all about evolution. Two views, the judged and the judge…
Image: Tambako the Jaguar via Flickr / Creative Commons
Chimps aren’t monkeys, they’re apes. Give one a laptop, and it might realise it has an evolutionary tool.
More Pan troglodytes / Homo sapiens collaborations in the poetry section of evolution.
This was inspired by a friend who’s moving home. As someone who was transient for a few years, I can empathise. Starting life in a new place can be daunting, but often we’re moving away from something else, where the wallpaper’s peeling. Home is the cloakroom for hearts…
For some of my more recent poems, when I’ve posted them as images (better for Instagram) I’ve positioned the text so that the poem can be read either monologue (down) or as though in harmony (across). I wonder if this is working?