Demeter's New Writeups

Shakespeare goes Pop! (idea)

2013-01-25T07:51:05Z

She Loveth Thee

Thou thinkst thy love be gone
But this day past saw I she
âTis thee she thinketh on
and she bade me speak to thee
She quoth she loveth thee
And thou knoswt that be not ill
She quoth she loveth thee
and thy heart thou knowst should thrill

Below be the refrain unto this lyric:

She loveth thee ver â i - ly
She loveth thee ver â i - ly
And with a love so vast, thou knowst thy heart must thrill

She quoth thy cruel neglect
hath near to made her mad
but she swearâst thy heartâs kind yet
thy motive none so bad
She quoth she loveth thee
And thou knoswt that be not ill
She quoth she loveth thee
and thy heart thou knowst should thrill

…

larynx (poetry)

2012-11-27T12:25:20Z

The technical term for a vocal cord weakness
is âparesisâ
Symptoms: shortness of breath, hoarseness, inaudibility
The voice, despite something to say â
to shriek â
struggles to escape the constricting throat.
Wikipedia, my grandchildrenâs reference source of choice,
ascribes many causes:
viruses, tumours, compression of nerves through intubation,
or even the splendidly sonorous
laryngopharyngeal reflux (hard enough to pronounce
when oneâs voice is cooperating).
It mentions trauma, too.
I wonder if this confirmation of the thing dreaded,
(the slow random erasure of self,
like a whiteboard in a corridor
brushed by passing shoulders)
counts as trauma, even if not sudden,
and far from unexpected;
Because, God knows, my voice is struggling
and all that comes,
after the strained and stretching silence,
is three ragged, ridiculous words:
âThank you, doctor.â

Part of the Anatomy project

skull (poetry)

2012-11-27T12:22:25Z

English archaeologists
found it at an isolated
forest site, nestled neatly
inside the skeletonâs
hip cavity -
deliberately decapitated,
says the Herald.

His lonely bones, bleached and bare,
allow us a lunch-hourâs conversation,
the newspaper
between us,
half a world,
half a day away.

His end, its brutality
desiccated, stripped and
cleansed by time and distance,
too long , too far for understanding of reasons
or allocation of blame,
distracts us from
the smaller, fresher violences
that injure our days:
this monthâs argument
as empty-headed as any ancient skull,
my mobile bill,
his pointless overtime,
or last nightâs soup bones,
shredded flesh stripped away,
burning to the pan,
a hiss of recrimination.

Part of the Anatomy Project

The Anatomy Project (essay)

2012-11-27T12:19:19Z

The Anatomy Project was devised as the creative element of my M.A. thesis in creative writing, as the realisation of the academic argument the thesis supported: that poetry presented off the page and utilising techniques beyond the written word (such as film, light, visual media, environment and so on) represented a development of poetic form, rather than a departure from poetry proper. The basis of this argument (loosely and briefly expressed) was that when those techniques were focused on communicating the emotional centre of a piece of poetry, they could be considered as complementary to written techniques such as format, line-breaking and other such tools.

In this context, poetry was defined as âwork that, through the selection and arrangement of concise and focused language, distils and intensifies experience, awareness, perception or emotionâ â and donât get me started on the two or so years it took me to finally decide on that as a workable definition;…

abdomen (poetry)

2012-11-27T11:39:49Z

He will not smile as he invites me to sit,
taps keys, studies
my medical history on the screen
that doesnâtâquiteâperch between us,
isnâtâquiteâbarrier but, nonetheless,
protects him.
It is not the roiling of my stomach,
heâll ask about,
not the dread
rising like acid to my throat:
not the queasiness I pretend
is condition, not symptom;
these are not things that
concern him today.

Instead heâll (oh, God!)
confirm that blue cross,
relay, with conscientious
attention to medical detail,
position, prognosis,
each upcoming procedure.
I, unheeding, will
fold hands tight
across my churning guts,
try not to read the future in the way they twist.

Part of the Anatomy Project

vertebral column (poetry)

2012-11-27T11:18:59Z

If I tighten every muscle
I can still
bend over backwards,
when occasion â
when family -
demand it.
I can still be
flexible.

The trouble is, once there,
Iâm sure that standing up
(for myself)
- turning upright again -
will shatter something
unfixable.

I get sea-sick looking
at the world from this
improbable angle.
But, really, Doctor,
whatâs a little discomfort
compared to
the crushing alternative?

Part of the Anatomy project