when the meditation fails

June 29, 2009 at 6:42 pm | Posted in australian poetry, contemporary poetry, poetry, sheer selfindulgence, writing | 17 Comments
Tags: , , ,

and the melancholic lady fully medicated
and he forgets where the tiger what
it was
he shuffles half asleep into some
nightmare cupboard
of whispers and enemies lurking
by firelight at solstice
simply to imprint some unique mark
puts on his brown bowler hat
and says where’s Art?



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  1. To Art Tatum playing Tiger Rag haha, it’s true,

  2. Art is in this writing sir, full of music, light and shadow

  3. …beautiful

  4. grin 🙂 love the idea of shuffling into a nightmare cupboard

  5. *random witter* I used to know a woman who’s husband would sleepwalk every night, to take a pee in the airing cupboard. I tried to put this little story out of my mind, ha!

    I love the shuffling and the bowler hat… brown is so jazzzzz.

  6. Art can certainly tap out a tune on the piano as you, my dear friend, can scratch out a poem on paper. Excellent write. Hope all is well.

  7. I loved it Paul so sweet!
    Tell him love is everywhere, love is in your chick, in your snorting and in the way you trip.
    So, she sleeps, but what does the tight think about the art thing?

  8. Beautiful, gotta love the unique mark, or else nothing would ever get done 🙂

  9. breathe in, breathe out. there it is again. squires, the man hisself.

  10. solstice, hmmm touched us all in a particular way… yes, no… tho im diggin the nightmare cupboard…

  11. The art run a way because it was searched for in the wrong way
    Before he asked he should had noticed it was already there

  12. Love this ditty. Cool line breaks. It’s all a dream we can quite remember, yes?

  13. Oops, I mean “can’t” instead of “can.” Apologies.

  14. This line caught me: “he forgets where the tiger / what it was” — the creative force can be much like a tiger re: the question of taming it.

  15. One trying to imprint some unique mark. Why is that? Singularity. It’s so hard. And it’s so desirable to manifest pure self, a moment, a glance, a breath taken in, a thought. But very rare.

  16. how the heck did he play those runs so quickly with such large hands…? hmm. anyway. Art is right there in this poem, which, as usual, has
    absolute pitch.

  17. For a moment I thought you were writing about a romantic encounter with Our Own MedicatedLady. However, I feel I must inform you that she would probably not be attracted to a brown bowler’s hat, hats in general, or anything to do with bowling.

    nightmare cupboard = Brilliant!

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