Faulty translations & Martian tales

Literary Lemonades

Did you know that the fans of science fiction owe the greatest thanks to an incorrectly translated Italian word around the 1800s?

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Overlooking the Town Square.

The kindness of strangers

So freely given

One has to experience at first hand.

 

This is not something pre – planned

Or is it?

 

On a darkened, dimly lit street

In the semi shelter of a doorway

Bedded down in a crumpled state

They lay.

 

While others passed by

On turning the corner

This young couple stopped

Approached, then intending to continue their journey

Sat down close by

Beckoned a passing Policeman

Who sat with all three for a period

Being distant from their conversation

I can only say, a short time later

An ambulance arrived

The kindness of strangers

Not one but three Good Samaritans

Freely given.

(c) Chris Black. July 2018

~The Poet’s Poet~

What do you think?

Today is a do nothing day

Laze around

Say today is a do nothing day

Read to your hearts content

Hear them say

Today is a do nothing day

Laze around

Contemplating writing

Not today

You say

Today is a do nothing day

Maybe later?

Depending on the mood

That book

May have given food for thought

Today is a do nothing

Even so there is time for word play

Hear them say

It would not be the norm

If a poem he did not form

It may have been a do nothing day

Yet there is always something to say

Laze around, still the mind is active

Everyday should be a do nothing day?

(c) Chris Black. July 2018

~The Poet’s Poet~

 

 

The crickets are singing.

Early morning wake up call

I hope they find a vein

Not like yesterday

left me with a butter stain bruise

I don’t sleep well at the best of times

still the call seems to always come

Once I have nodded off

This foam mattress would soak the life blood from the body

I dream of breakfast

The reality is nothing like the dream

I wonder, does the chef like scrambled egg.

Then the rattling of stethoscopes

The white coats –

That song

They’re coming to take me away Ha Ha

I’m itching so badly beneath this cast

It is not at all funny

It’s still just 08:30am…

(c) Chris Black. July 2018

~The Poet’s Poet~

Hear the spoken word version on  https://www.soundcloud.com/the-poets-poet-1

 

Poem without a title.

Beauty are the clouds that deceive

From wind and rain a slight reprieve

In the distance a soft mist

Signs that intense weather persists.

 

Sands whip across my shoulder

Wind whistles louder

Gulls, cormorants, puffins, gannets

Ride white horses.

 

Fishermen scurry for cover

Shelter until the storm blows over

Four seasons in one

Watch the mercury plummet.

(c) Chris Black. July 2018

~The Poet’s Poet~

 

 

Sunday listening: “The Legend of Buford Pusser”

Burgin Mathews

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This Sunday’s listening, purchased a few days ago at Secondhand Sam’s in Jasper, Alabama: Eddie Bond Sings The Legend of Buford Pusser, 10 songs on the life & death of the McNairy County, Tennessee, sheriff known for waging war against organized crime, prostitution and moonshine in south Tennessee. This album’s notes describe Pusser as “an American folk hero” and “rugged symbol of honest law enforcement”; he carried a huge wooden stick as all-purpose weapon and was famous (his memory still celebrated by many admirers today) for his relentless, ruthless approach to the law. Pusser made lots of enemies and was subject to a few assassination attempts. His wife was killed in 1967 in an ambush meant for the lawman; Pusser survived the attack, his mangled jaw put back together with wire mesh.

Eddie Bond was a one-time rockabilly singer who’d also served as Buford Pusser’s deputy — and who, at…

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Tom Joad’s Last Words

Don’t let this pass you by – check it out and check in.

Burgin Mathews

Saturday was the 106th anniversary of the birth of Woody Guthrie, and (to celebrate) on The Lost Child I played about an hour’s worth of Guthrie’s Library of Congress recordings, his epic 1940 series of sessions with folklorist Alan Lomax. At the end of the show I slipped in, also, a couple of excerpts from “Folk Songs of America,” a radio broadcast from later the same year, in which Guthrie appeared as guest, trading songs with Leadbelly.

One of the songs from that old radio program — and the performance that ended my own show, last Saturday — was “Tom Joad,” in which Guthrie distills The Grapes of Wrath‘s 700 pages into a seven-minute, 16-verse ballad. He borrows the melody from “John Hardy,” the outlaw song, and the tune frames Steinbeck’s Dust Bowl refugee — and, by association, a whole generation of real-life migrants — as another kind of outlaw-hero…

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Lost for words.

Shaking water off his limbs

He looked at me with happy eyes

Of course he didn’t have to talk

My best friend.

 

He followed the stick into the oncoming wave

As though disappearing into the mouth of a cave

Returned to me me with a wag of his tale

My best friend.

 

Chased a flock of gulls as they flew into the sea

Returned without a catch, satisfied

Sat and begged for his treat

My best friend.

 

Feeling quite unwell

Down I sat and fainted

He went in search of help

Saved my life – my best friend.

(c) Chris Black. July 2018

~The Poet’s Poet~

Poured from a singular vein.

A word in your ear the Muse whispered

Gesturing, in the poets mind towards his diary.

Moving in the direction of pen and paper

He wrote thus

A poem for the day

The world moon has gone to rest

With an azure sky, warm gentle zephyr, we are truly blest.

A lone street feline walks the blistering pavement.

All colour and creed dressed in rainbow colours

Walk the self same street.

An orchestration of bird song glorious to the ear.

Sitting beneath a mop topped sparse octopus type tree

Surrounded by snow white and tangerine coloured residences

Words flow onto a shaded white grey lined page.

Silver birds in the mile high club leave silvery trails in their wake.

Writing a splattering of words on a page

Listening back to their voices warmed his heart.

Then he thought to write on the subject of

What if there was a cold sun.

Quickly thought the better of it, sat and watched the morning burn.

(c) Chris Black. July 2018

~The Poet’s Poet~