The Painter
I’m on a ferry from Manly
and as the sun’s last rays sink
the city shines.
The fine lines of the Bridge,
the Tower and the towers dissolve,
blue, orange, white stars flare and
gems are strewn luxurious across the bay.
My faith says
God paints glories
in the glories worked by hands.
He made us, we made
the night bejewelled.
Afternoon, I approach the city
crossing from Pyrmont over the old bridge,
a young sunset
sets all glass ablaze
as I walk below the peach golden blue sky.
Though buildings anticipate vermillion,
the water delights in each delicate
shade of sun’s evensong —
gentle colours dance, play
in a millionfold-subtle masterpiece.
My heart says
God’s own hand paints glories
in humble pastels.
- Iain Hart
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
blake 12 i - the curiosity of my soul
You may remember (unlikely) that I submitted some poems to a poetry prize in 2010 and posted them up here when they weren't successful. Well, this post and the next are last year's attempts! Enjoy.
The Curiosity of my Soul
I died,
and my soul lingered a while.
It looked over my body,
remembering adventures,
tears, smiles,
praise and censure;
felt tension at the parting,
but only as discarding
a too-worn favourite coat.
It turned slowly,
regarding the world it would leave.
Detached already, caring still,
but curious more;
powerless eyes immune to lies
taking in the first sight of truth.
It saw my murderer,
with smoking gun in blood-stained hand,
brandishing his strongest weapon
in the dullness of his eye:
Indifference to the blood he’d shed,
taught him by his father’s fists
and midnight trysts with Jack.
His mother’s wounds ran real and deep
and sore, then numb; and through him too,
as dumbly he stood by. A boy
without a chance to cry or try. The man,
now turning, walking from his kill,
had shot not my body in the night,
but his father’s shadow on his soul.
Turning, walking,
shadowed still, and ever on.
My curious soul,
unburdened of its physical concerns,
followed the man,
watching his gait and his nonchalance.
It conversed with my killer’s conscience,
“Why me? and why tonight?”
And as the man stepped
from the alley into the bustling street,
the reply came:
“Why not?
All will die, and all deserve to.
Didn’t they teach you that in Sunday school?
I just helped you there.
And tonight... well... someone, somewhere, had to die.
I just didn’t want it to be me.”
Pausing, turning,
my soul saw those walking past.
Bowed heads all,
hiding from each other the shame
shining like flames
in their eyes,
the innermost storm.
That man there lied, that girl will,
those children kill, the old man steals
and all of them hide the hope —
the tiny, glimmering diamond of a hope —
they will never be seen.
My soul,
now grieving for the world,
was yet powerless,
so I left.
- Iain Hart
The Curiosity of my Soul
I died,
and my soul lingered a while.
It looked over my body,
remembering adventures,
tears, smiles,
praise and censure;
felt tension at the parting,
but only as discarding
a too-worn favourite coat.
It turned slowly,
regarding the world it would leave.
Detached already, caring still,
but curious more;
powerless eyes immune to lies
taking in the first sight of truth.
It saw my murderer,
with smoking gun in blood-stained hand,
brandishing his strongest weapon
in the dullness of his eye:
Indifference to the blood he’d shed,
taught him by his father’s fists
and midnight trysts with Jack.
His mother’s wounds ran real and deep
and sore, then numb; and through him too,
as dumbly he stood by. A boy
without a chance to cry or try. The man,
now turning, walking from his kill,
had shot not my body in the night,
but his father’s shadow on his soul.
Turning, walking,
shadowed still, and ever on.
My curious soul,
unburdened of its physical concerns,
followed the man,
watching his gait and his nonchalance.
It conversed with my killer’s conscience,
“Why me? and why tonight?”
And as the man stepped
from the alley into the bustling street,
the reply came:
“Why not?
All will die, and all deserve to.
Didn’t they teach you that in Sunday school?
I just helped you there.
And tonight... well... someone, somewhere, had to die.
I just didn’t want it to be me.”
Pausing, turning,
my soul saw those walking past.
Bowed heads all,
hiding from each other the shame
shining like flames
in their eyes,
the innermost storm.
That man there lied, that girl will,
those children kill, the old man steals
and all of them hide the hope —
the tiny, glimmering diamond of a hope —
they will never be seen.
My soul,
now grieving for the world,
was yet powerless,
so I left.
- Iain Hart
Thursday, January 10, 2013
musical mind-games
During my study of music at uni, I picked up an appreciation for musical experimentation. I heard, and participated in, musical expressions which played with more than just notes and rhythms and instrumentation — music which rearranged the concept of music itself as a part of its performance. This was music which was more often described with words than with traditional notation. Or perhaps not even described at all, just existing as the result of a process.
One of my favourite examples was a piece called "I Am Sitting in a Room" by Alvin Lucier. You can find a description and a recording here. Basically, Lucier recorded himself reading out a script in a room, then recorded a playback of the recording in the same room, and repeated the second step many times. By the final repetitions, you can barely hear his voice anymore; you can only hear the resonant frequencies of the room corresponding with the rhythm of their production in his voice. It's not exactly pleasant listening, but I find it fascinating.
Another which I was quite impressed by was "Dripsody" by Hugh Le Caine. It uses the sound of a drop of water falling into a bucket, re-recorded on tape at different speeds, to create something astonishingly complex.
From the sublime to the ridiculous... I found this today: "Call Me Maybe Acapella 147 Times Exponentially Layered" by Dan Deacon, obviously based on "Call Me Maybe" by Carly Rae Jepsen.
If you can get past the unfortunately original-sounding beginning, and the fact that the ludicrous lyrics are repeated ad nauseum, you can find another iteration of what intrigued me about the two more serious pieces above. When you mix sounds in unconventional ways, you can hear things you did not expect. The formerly-prominent elements sink into abstraction, while the background sounds take on new and unrecognised forms, somehow bigger and more elaborate than you thought they could be. I know it's based on one of the worst and most insidiously catchy songs ever, but I do admire the kind of musical mind-game that this, and the more venerable works above, are playing at.
One of my favourite examples was a piece called "I Am Sitting in a Room" by Alvin Lucier. You can find a description and a recording here. Basically, Lucier recorded himself reading out a script in a room, then recorded a playback of the recording in the same room, and repeated the second step many times. By the final repetitions, you can barely hear his voice anymore; you can only hear the resonant frequencies of the room corresponding with the rhythm of their production in his voice. It's not exactly pleasant listening, but I find it fascinating.
Another which I was quite impressed by was "Dripsody" by Hugh Le Caine. It uses the sound of a drop of water falling into a bucket, re-recorded on tape at different speeds, to create something astonishingly complex.
From the sublime to the ridiculous... I found this today: "Call Me Maybe Acapella 147 Times Exponentially Layered" by Dan Deacon, obviously based on "Call Me Maybe" by Carly Rae Jepsen.
If you can get past the unfortunately original-sounding beginning, and the fact that the ludicrous lyrics are repeated ad nauseum, you can find another iteration of what intrigued me about the two more serious pieces above. When you mix sounds in unconventional ways, you can hear things you did not expect. The formerly-prominent elements sink into abstraction, while the background sounds take on new and unrecognised forms, somehow bigger and more elaborate than you thought they could be. I know it's based on one of the worst and most insidiously catchy songs ever, but I do admire the kind of musical mind-game that this, and the more venerable works above, are playing at.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)