Tag: writing

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You Won’t Let Me

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I turn the page.

You turn it back,
your hands dirty with old ink.
You let go of your future, so you can hold onto the past.
I want to dance, but my legs won’t let me.

Odourless.

The smell of yesterday’s worries.
I worried too, not for me, but for you.
Worried with songs and laughter, not for you, but for me.
I want to sing, but my voice won’t let me.

Tasteless.

I feed you a taste of your tomorrow.
This is your chartered trip to your undiscovered lands.
I watch you cry.
I want to speak, but my mouth won’t let me.

I am your pod.

Consume, replicate and then duplicate me.
You cling to my future, so you can hold onto your past.
I want to breathe, but my lungs won’t let me.

Empty words.

You feed me your empty words.
I take your words and fill them with meaning.
My meaning.
I want to hate you,
but my legs,
my voice,
my mouth,
my lungs,

and my heart

won’t let me

 

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Jump

img_1973Standing on the edge of the dark and cold abyss, I heard you yell….

“Jump!”

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The Other Day I Wondered

40d16a01-3944-4ec4-8736-e7fcabf663ccThe other day I wondered, who you spent Valentine’s Day with?
Was it a him?
Was it a her?

I wondered the other day, was that look for me, or was that look at me?
Did I mis-judge your smile?
Your stare. That stare, was it in my mind?

The other day I wondered, if you knew, I once stared (and stared),
and stared, at the back of your neck, waiting to ask if you needed a seat.
I lie, I just wanted to know if you needed my seat. Instead, I sat.
And I sat. And I sat, eyes closed, listening, listening, listening.
I listened to your voice.
I watched. I watched as you found another, a seat that is.

Gone.
My first of, what I now know, many chances, gone.

I wondered the other day what it would be like to lay next to you. No I lie, I wondered what it would be like to lay with you, entangled, enveloped; to look in your eyes; to kiss your lips, your neck; to touch your skin;

To…
To…
To…

The other day I wondered,
do you even know,
I exist?

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My Never Ending Poem

My ears may never fall upon you again.
And for that, I want to create something that is lasting, perennial.
For you, my words have no beginnings, and no endings.

They are timeless.

If I could, I would leave everything to you.
I gave you a song, I give you my words.
When I am gone, the words written about me, will be all about you, there will be no question.

Some days, I spell out your name, in my mind, over and over,
and over again, making each letter consonant with each vowel sound, open, never closed.
I close my eyes, hoping the letters you give me will never end.

A memory of me laying with you, locked in an embrace,
listening, like a voyeur, to your breath, each exhale becoming my inhale.
I mourn that you are not with me.

I see your picture.
I close my eyes, and frame your voice,
your deep, deep voice.
I close my eyes, never to open them again.
For you, my poem will never end.

 

 

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The Girl Who Cried Wolf

She was alone.

img_1367That’s how she started each day, and ended each evening. An empty spot at the dinner table, the empty space in bed, those were her stark reminders. Mother, as she called her, had died some time ago. And, while she desperately tried to hold onto the memories – her childhood, her adulthood – they soon faded. The fading memories making her loneliness even greater. Nothing to cling to, but the present.

Mother had told her to live her life, to be her own woman, and never rely on a man to provide anything to and for her. ‘The only thing you need from a man,‘ Mother would say, ‘is his seed.’ ‘He plants the seed, but you feed it, you nourish it, you protect it.  You are the one who gives it life. In your belly.’

She did need him at one point. That’s why she called.

She first saw him on the train platform. Tall, with skin so dark, so dark chocolate brown, it shown a blue tint. His auburn eyes. Standing upright, standing so proud. She stared, he ignored. That moment gone.  Sometime later, she saw him again, on the same train platform. She stared. He smiled. He talked. She listened. She talked. He listened. Six months later, the seed was planted. Four months later, she left, having decicded that she wanted to tend to the garden on her own. Mother was happy she, her only daughter, had wisely heeded her advice.

Mother could not prepare her for what would happen next.

She was preparing for life, not death. You don’t nourish, tend and protect with the intention that your garden will die. Her grief, beyond her explanation, beyond her expression. Silence. Mother too – swallowing her grief (and disappointment) – stayed quiet. What advice can one give on death, yet on the death of a baby? It would take a year before their silence was fully broken.

Mother was gone three years later. Loneliness descended into her life. ‘Mr Wolf,’ she cried out.

She saw him again on a train platform. Still tall, still so dark, with skin so chocolate, so dark brown, it had a blue tint. His auburn eyes. He stood upright. He stood so proud. She stared. He saw, he ignored. He stood proud. She stared. He looked. She smiled. He stood proud. She talked. He listened. She talked more. He listened. Months later, the seed was planted.

She thought the time had passed for new life to grow in her belly. Yet, something did. It started as a low, low hum. A warmth. A glow. When he held her in his arms, when he kissed her, when they made love, when he talked, when he listened, when he argued. When he touched her. When she longed for him to touch. She felt a new life growing inside her.

She was reborn

She had called for him. ‘Mr Wolf,’ she cried out, but she never thought he would come.

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My Last Breath

cropped-Allencropped-1.jpgMy last breath will be poetic justice,
With poetry, I plan, finishing me off.
I will inhale all the letters you wrote me, exhaling them into words.

My last breath will be dramatic,
As dramatic as any Shakespearean play.
I will give new meanings to new words, created just for you.

My last breath will be music.
Each note wholed, halved and quartered. Then semi-toned.
Sung on the A’s, the E’s, and the I, O, U’s.

My last breath will be a dance.
Not a dance of death, nor the Foxtrot, the Boogaloo, or the Running Man.
You will be held in my arms, ever-so tightly,
In a waltz.

My last breath will be with you,
holding me tight, saying words, singing songs.
Embraced, in a kiss.

My last breath, my love,
will be spent with you.

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You Can’t Stop the Music

R-3690878-1340535756-5254.jpeg.jpgHave you noticed with some films, no matter how uninterested you are in the story or the characters, if it has the right music, and a good soundtrack, you will be humming the tune in the shower, pub, or, God forbid, at the local Karaoke pit-stop? Take for instance, The Wizard of Oz and The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Officially, these two films were box office bombs and didn’t make money until well after they left the theatres. Yet ‘Over the Rainbow’ and the ‘Time-Warp’ have etched their way into the history of ‘classic’ songs.

Realising that I had to write something remotely interesting in this week’s blog, I thought the blending of the visual with the audio might do the trick.

‘A PAINTER PAINTS HIS PICTURES ON CANVAS, BUT MUSICIANS PAINT THEIR PICTURES ON SILENCE’ – Leopold Stokowski

It all started with the era of silent film.

While it would be a nice to think that in combining music with film, the early directors and producers in Tinsel Town were forward thinking with artistic endeavours, in fact music was used to drown-out the noise of the very loud projector and a talkative audience. However, the accompaniment of music began to play a larger role in the presentation and entertainment value of the film. Unlike today, there were no sounds affects, meaning the music had to be used to further a story’s plot, pace and energy (which is the function music continues to play in films). As a result, the music that accompanied a film could either make or break it, insomuch that it could either vastly improve the quality and enjoyability, or completely shipwreck it.

As the industry moved from the usage of a solitarily pianist pounding away on the black and white keys, to a full blown orchestra, and eventually, to recorded sound affects and music, the relationship between film and music was guaranteed, and moving images cemented its status as the most important audio-visual medium of our time.

YOU CAN CALL ME AL

The Jazz Singer, which marked the first time dialogue and music were synchronised, began the very quick decline of the silent film era.

What’s interesting, is the film was based on the play; the play was based on the legendary Al Jolson’s life; and the star of the movie was – wait for it – Al Jolson. Even more interesting was that the early Hollywood moguls at Warner Brothers chose a pseudo-musical as the first film to introduce synchronised sound to film. In doing so, they created a new need for music – sheet music. This new need led to movie studios buying music publishing companies, gaining both catalogues of music and experienced composers.

Not only did the music in films lead to an increase in the sales of sheet music, but with the introduction of the gramophone, songs used in films could also see a dramatic increase in sales. For example, “Sonny Boy” a song featured in the second Al Jolson movie, The Singing Fool, led to 2 million records being sold and 1.25 million sales of the sheet music for the song.

DO I MAKE YOU HORNY BABY?

Even poorly constructed films, with bad acting and unbelievable story lines can use music to have the same affect.

Take the porn industry for instance –

I know you’re thinking, “how very dare you! I have not, nor will I ever watch anything so disgusting.” I beseech thee, do give me a couple minutes to make my point.

While I would never dream of insinuating that any of you fine, upstanding, worldly citizens would watch anything so unnatural, the porn industry does generate around $13+ billion in the USA alone; Hollywood generates $20+ billion. If we do the maths that means, while none of you are watching something so nasty and immoral, at least half the American population are. And those nasty, immoral degenerates are reaching deep in their wallets to get their … ummm… juices … flowing.

Have you ever tried getting ‘busy’ with your better half without making a sound? I mean NO sound. No sighs, no grunting, no shouting ‘you’re the daddy’ while daintingly swinging from the chandelier? It would be pretty boring. From what I have been told, the same is true for pornographic films. I wouldn’t know, but from what I have been told, sound and music play a major role in the cinematic enjoyment of pornographic films. While porn groove (term used to describe the music in porn), won’t make or break the film, it could change the aesthetics of the film (so I have been told).

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When Talent Isn’t Enough

dancers_22.jpgTO TRAIN OR NOT TO TRAIN? THAT IS THE QUESTION

For the past week, I have been having several interesting conversations about creative artists with some friends who asked the question ‘is formal education needed to become a creative artist?’ While my initial, knee-jerk reaction was to say, absolutely not, I think it is important that a difference is made between formal education and training. There are many well known, and unknown, artists who have had no formal education. However, you would be hard pressed to name many artists who have not had any training whatsoever- be it with an independent teacher, on the job training or an apprenticeship. I readily admit that there are some artists that are so naturally talented, they did not require any formal education or training (Jean-Michel Basquiat, Ella Fitzgerald). However, these artists are the exception, and not the rule.

Igor Stravinsky said, ‘Lesser artists borrow, great artists steal.’ I believe this to be very true. An artist’s raison d’etre is to express themselves through their artistic output. Without the basic tools of their craft they will be limited in their self-expression. When you borrow something, it is, and will never be, yours. When you steal something, you make it yours. An artist receiving training is borrowing the techniques and rules. They will never be able to call these their own. Once an artist has had training, they are able to use those techniques and rules to create something in their own voice (that’s the stealing bit, just in case you didn’t realise). Don’t get me wrong, I don’t subscribe to the ‘one-size-fits-all brigade’ (although as an aside, I do subscribe to the ‘shut your face, you silly dumbarse brigade’ – they’re a fun group). I do think that one shouldn’t be a creative artist if one doesn’t have respect and a desire to learn the foundation of their craft.

Some believe there is an argument that a creative artist can develop without being informed or constrained by the classic forms; that passion and talent is enough. I clearly don’t hold this view, and would demand that anyone with such base ideas be summarily shot at dawn (harsh, I know – that’s how much I care). Why? That kind of thinking doesn’t take into account that the foundation of the creative arts – be it film, street dance, hip-hop, etc – is built on the history (classic forms) that came before it. We wouldn’t dream of disregarding what we learned from the great masters and allow a skyscraper, no matter how passionate or talented the builders are, to be built without tried and tested building techniques being used, so why would we not accept the same for the creative arts?

So going back to the original question – ‘is formal education needed for those wishing to enter the creative arts?’ No, it’s not needed. But having it, along with passion, talent, and hard work, wouldn’t hurt.

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What Would Debbie Allen Do?

5c810e9ebe8ffcd5ab1a0b350af11754.jpgEvery time I watched Fame and heard Debbie Allen encouragingly tell her pupils, week after week, “You want fame? Well, fame costs. And right here is where you start paying … in sweat.” My first thought was – mind your friggin’ business! a) I don’t want fame, and b) only the morbidly obese sweat.’

I know that in her heart, Debbie was trying her best to offer inspiration, guidance and a good kick up the arse for her United Colors of Benetton band of misfits. However, one thing Ms Debbie never did was to tell her students that they were crap (although in hindsight, someone should have laid down that truth on those songwriters – have you listened to ‘High Fidelity’ and ‘Mannequin’ lately)?. In this, Ms Debbie was living up to the age-old adage….

DON’T PROVIDE A CRITIQUE UNLESS YOU’VE BEEN INVITED TO DO SO

Never, ever critique someone’s work unless you are asked. If you start a sentence with, ‘if you want my opinion’, you are asking to loose friends, family members, or your job. If you are absolutely dying to critique something, or give advice, the best way to do this is to ask pertinent questions to allow the person on the receiving end of your meddling to find solutions for themselves. Doing it this way will also allow you to seem less patronising, giving the illusion that you don’t have all the answers (which of course you do).

You should frame the questions around the five Ws: what, when, why, who, and how (yes, I know, but ‘how’ ends in a w). Your W questions stand the best chance of being effective if they are specific. For example:

  • What the hell were you thinking when you wrote that?
  • When are you going to get a grip and learn how to write dialogue?
  • Why are you so stupid and why haven’t you listened to my advice I’ve given you? Or, Why do you think you write sh**ty dialogue like that?
  • Who in the hell do you think you are not listening to the advice I’ve given you?
  • How can I help you when you won’t help yourself and listen to the advice that I’ve given you?

REMEMBER YOU’RE CRITIQUING THE PIECE OF WORK, NOT THE PERSON

The following is true story that I made up for this blog.

Back in 1980, when I was auditioning to get into New York School for Performing Arts, I met my current BFFs Doris, Coco, Bruno and Danny. Of course, I got into the school and from that point onwards, my high school experience was one big dance number. One minute we’d be eating our lunch in the canteen, and the next, from out of nowhere, a pianist would start banging out an unknown tune, to which Coco would start singing, flawlessly making up the words as she went along, while the rest of the school would join in with an unrehearsed, impromptu dance number.

In my senior year, I had been offered a spot in the Alvin Ailey dance company. In order for my acceptance to be final, I needed to graduate – which was not looking good as I had found out that Mrs Robinson, my English teacher had failed my final essay, ‘Spiderman: Fact or Fiction’ and I would not be graduating. Looking to confront Mrs Robinson, I miraculously found her at a local hospital where her husband’s was recovering from a heart attack. One thing led to another and several hours later, we found ourselves in my bed exhausted from our love-making (it was fortuitous that I had turned 18 two days beforehand). Falling into my arms Mrs Robinson, proclaimed, ‘That was out of this world! For that you get an A+, I looked lovingly into her eyes and replied, ‘But I didn’t think you even liked me’. Smiling, Mrs Robinson said, ‘I was talking about your performance during the shag. For that you get an A+….. outside that, I still think you’re a prick.’

DON’T BE VAGUE WHEN MAKING SUGGESTIONS FOR IMPROVEMENT

I don’t want to be too harsh on Mrs Robinson. In her defence, she did what any good critiquer should do – she used positive language, started her critique on the strengths, and then addressed the weak and/or problems areas. But, looking back, I think that Mrs Robinson could have given a clearer indication on how on I could improve. Wouldn’t it have been better if Mrs Robinson gave me comments that didn’t leave me guessing on what she was trying to convey? Instead, I’m left with the fact that I don’t know the scale of her criticism.

To this day, I still don’t whether am I a big prick, or a little prick? I guess only time will tell.