I was contacted by Graham Snow (a self described information shepherd) who asked if he could pinch two of my poems for a project. Graham impressively wrote an algorithm that used two of my poems 'Where Does The Bus Go When It Doesn't Arrive On Time?' and 'Ink Covered Handshake', along with two Thomas Hardy poems, and data from Plymouth's 2017 events list and plaque trail to generate new poetry. Propped up with a bank of 200 adjectives, the program generated new poetry and then tweeted it on its very own social media soapbox. I wasn't present at the event but from the photos and tracking the feed I can say I am very impressed! Perhaps also slightly worried that Skynet is going to begin by infiltrating the arts and then working its way up to the nuclear codes. Check out the feed... https://twitter.com/auto_bard Follow Graham... https://twitter.com/_infosnow |
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It's World Poetry Day! To mark today I am releasing a poem that has two underlying themes (most poetry is layered and symbolic). The most obvious theme is the historical event that has played a huge part in the identity of Plymouth and that is the lighting of the beacons that alerted Drake to the arrival of The Spanish Armada. The underlying theme is Spring. The lights stand for the reawakening of the sun and daylight growing longer once again (yesterday was the Spring equinox for those who were unaware). The closest beacon to me is in Stoke Village, and is located in Block House Park. It is a wonderful site if you ever get the chance to go up there. From the walled area of where the old beacon used to sit, you can see Dartmoor, Plymouth Sound, Mt Edgcumbe and even on a clear day, Kit Hill in Cornwall. A beautiful spot in our city that is not only dowsed in history but quite an incredible location to see in the arrival of a much needed season. Happy World Poetry Day. I hope you enjoy this piece. The BeaconCold weathered skin
retracts, wants to pull away as the fiery sparks collide with flesh but this hand doesn't care, it has a job to do. Stoke, the hand must poke, make the fires burn harder and higher, sire smoke, a newborn birthed from pyre. if message is to be seen, gleam and glint of ember must travel over trembling estuary, cross dusty moor and tattered cliff so that the sailors waiting will catch the drift... Fleet is nigh and this beacon in night's sky is the only way to alert, command the charge, fight, so burn dancing embers burn long and cast your entrancing light. When spotted, another is lit, sent heaven bound, a rift, no need to shout, sound could not travel fast enough anyway, light is the chosen steed, a steed as fast as a furious fist uppercutting its way up the coast, igniting, each beacon a sun upon the shore, signalling, the call to war. And as they float like melodic note into the English air, flare, contagious, erupts in stages sending warning to mooring and flagging up that they have come. Dominoes blaze, you flaming glory! The beginning of such a momentous story, rage on little fires, higher and harder, your message received, here cometh The Armada. Written for the Christmas/Midwinter season 2016. The Hairdresser snips
and the clumps of leaves fall from the curls of the crown on the top of the head, no one is here to sweep, once finished they all go back to sleep and the dreaming begins. What do trees dream of? Do their branches flicker as they imagine giving chase to interesting sights and smells? Do they wake up screaming and hang woven 'catchers on their arms to capture all the nightmares of fracking and deforestation? Do they become stiff when thinking about y'know that other tree or that bee? Does hawthorn heart get the blossom pumping? And when waessael comes and the bang of drums stir... Do they hit snooze? Do they beg 'just five more minutes' and roll over, tucked under quilts made of frost and chills? Is there a Freud made of furze who can analyse every encounter and tell them acorn wants to sleep with The Mother, that they have attachment issues and are too rooted in their old ways? I see them chatting in the May morning, of the conjured delusions that blew through the howling breeze, gossiping in their grove, topping each story with a dream of their own. Darkest day is approaching and they will need coaxing to rest, and we will need coaching to not stress as light fades, and we all go up to 'Bedfordshire', awaiting the break of morning. Songs will come. First as lullaby then alarm clock, tiny hammers, a mallet, primed and waiting for the sun to be reborn and bring in, it's new rule. Until then, the Holly King rises, borrows bag of dust from sandman and uses as seasoning to bring about our cold winter mournings. Written for the Lord Mayor's Carol Concert event. Not performed. (09.12.16) Recording on it's way! Imagine that the sands of the Wild West,
blew over on The Gulf Stream, piled up on Plymouthian shores, burying the place like a mural preserved under concrete. No sooner had dune settled, but the Swilly Kid rocked up, pistols drawn 'though, he had no chance, as there stood opposite Sherwell Church waited Wild Bill Honicknowle declaring Mutley Law and challenging to a draw. The burlesque dancers piled out of local establishment Annabel’s and gawped in awe as showdown took place. The great bells of St Andrew sang, an old dittie about ‘Wishing they was in Dixie’ or Derriford, or Devonport, something to the likes of that tune, and as they roared their metallic melody, a tumble weed rolled by... Swilly the Kid had backup, Morice, Manadon and the youngest of the Peverell boys, stood in support, ready to open fire, with rifles and alike, but Wild Bill Honicknowle was not alone either, with Doc Mannamead and Butch Cattedown, keeping both eyes locked firmly on opposing targets. It would be a bloodbath, The Battle of North Hill, and the thrill of such a fight, could cast chills on the now desertscape, of the lawless Ocean City. True Grit, fill your hands, here they come, but wait! From the library, approaching in distance, is the peacekeeper, Lord Mayor presiding, whose arrival was perfect timing to prevent a tragedy. In earnest, settled challenge, by rallying bands together, words of unity, common goals, and a drive for the City so alive with wild passion. The bells rang out, praising order that had been brought, to a town wrought by the afflictions fallen of the new frontier. The great bells of St Andrew sang once more, a new dittie titled ‘She’ll be coming ‘round Mount Batten’ and when she comes, arrives and plays role, the toll and troll of wildness, quietens, so a great silence of peace can be heard, and the tumble weed rolls, rolls on by, as the bells once again, cheer and cry. Written for the Thanksgiving/Illuminate parade. Performed at The Mayflower Memorial Steps. (24.11.16) Listen to the audio recording here. She’s been sweating for hours.
The cranberries are drenched in blood and tears, the fridge has hummed so loudly, she now has the sound resonating in her skull, vibrating, and every time she twitches the lights in her eyes fire up just like when the door swings open. He’s been stirring for hours. Finely tuning the correct amount of meaty granules, tip – pour, boil, pop, the clang of the spoon sounds like the ding of a triangle in a hot and huffed out orchestra, although this triangle is more Bermuda, missing in a sea of steaming pots, overflowing pans and wafting smoke, and it’s sound is changing as it shifts from metal, a ping, to made of tarmac, a dulcet crack. But it’s all worth it y’know, now they’ve sat down, placed warm plates on those new heat mats they got for these certain types of occasions, sitting down bowl of this and dish of that, overcrowded, there’s no room for the peas, there’s never room for the peas! Pulling out chairs, down from the attic, one is a foldy type one, other that plastic inflatable style, retro, born in the 70’s, resurrected in the 90’s. Grandma is already asleep in her potatoes, snoring into them and reminding chef of that refrigerator hum, again, BING – lights on, just in time to illuminate the other lights, candles – gotta have candles, lit, one by one, after messing about with matches, clicking lighters repeatedly and finally, finally lighting on the stove (thank the god of appliances they have a gas not ‘leccy...) And speaking of ‘leccy, main lights stay on big light rains down despite the parade of candles, in-between the mounds of food, oh yes, space for the candles but never mind those poor put-down peas! Eventually, feuding rests, both chefs sigh relief, breathe for the first time in 36 hours, the longest labour, Delia and Rhodes, the midwives, rested back on their shelf and the self dissolves, family simmers, and it all, all of it, seems worth it in the end. Except of course, for the peas... who curdle in a bowl of self-loathing and loneliness. Spare a thought for them as holiday season comes upon us. Don’t forget the peas! |
Thom Boulton
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