Month: September 2004

  • College Sports Day.



    OK, so I am too old for mosts sports, even cricket, I only took part in the croquet and played chess. But afterwards, was the barbecue, and free drinks, nothing much in the help for my stomach, but after that about 40 of us took part in a general knowledge quiz, and despite the bigwood there, the professors and so on, I won! With 37½

    points out of 40. (sample question: what is the third nearest star that can be seen by the naked eye? a: Sirius). He he, and me with only half of a functioning brain in theory! (I won a crate of beer!)



    I got given a great book of poems by a geography teacher, he made the book himself, a sort of self-vanity, but he’s a damn good poet. I tried to get him to join Xanga, but I bet he won’t, of the four I did presuade to join, only Closehippie is still blogging. Ah well.



    Why this post? To show off I suppose, well, no one in my family will give a tinker’s*, so I have to puff my feathers to someone!



    Not many seem to visit this blog of mine, though it’s the truth of me, rather than me hiding behind false personæ.

    —

    Terry.

     

    (*Tinker’s, Cockney slang from Tinker’s luck, meaning, well guess!)

  • Pain-Killers



    These tablets in my hand

    Gets rid of most of my pain,

    But they also destroy my creativity.



    I can’t write a poem

    When I am so relaxed,

    No such thoughts linger inside my head.



    For after all,

    Most of my poems are about pain

    In one way or another.



    It is as if all my own pain

    Touches all those people out there

    Who feel pain;

    The lost, the bereaved, the abused, the beaten, the dying…



    All of those share my pain with me,

    And without the pain inside me

    Such people seem to no longer exist.



    The little boy sexually used at school,

    The young man who found it so hard to say “I love you”,

    The cripple he has become with age:

    All seem to be another me.



    A me who is not happy,

    A me who is not relaxed,

    A me who feels pain.



    I take these tablets to keep me alive,

    But in a way they are killing me;

    For without poetry

    I am only a carbon shell

    Of empty pain.



    —

    Lord Pineapple.

  • Faringdon (www.faringdon.org/ -  Vale Of White Horse. UK



    The rain is falling, wetting my face like a squeezed-out flannel, but I am in the open, looking down below. Behind me is the last “folly” (see profile pic in comments section) built in the UK, in 1935. It is (shades of reporter’s-law here!) closed. From the top you can see the Uffington White Horse. I am looking down the sloping fields where autumn leaves stick in the muddy grass like people drowning after falling off The Titantic. (If this was for a newspaper, I would never get away with THAT one!).



    Rain or no rain, I’m having a picnic. There is something about being alone, I always wished to be alone, Greta Garbo had nothing on me. I loved my family and my few friends, but I was happy being alone. This could be a natural male desire, as in crowds the old impulses rise, to fear other men, to love the women, to be careful not to walk into infants, all produces stress and has perhaps done so since the caveman era.



    Anyway, here I am among the fircones, the blackberries, and of course the drizzle. The latter turning from wind-wet hatching to a spluttering drizzle that is ruining the page of my page-a-day diary. Great notebooks these are, with their own index and brought each Easter at considerably less than half-price from an old mate who is the manager of the diary-making firm.



    Sheltering under a hawthorn tree (I can tell by the seeds), I realise I have to give up this reportage and head back down into the small friendly town.



    I stop at the Folly pub and drink a pint of West Berkshire Brewery malt.



    End of the sojourn, after which it was the usual, library, fish n chip shop, and so on. The one big interest in the town is one of the poet laureattes came from here, building himself the large manor house behind the church.



    Henry James Pye was no Wordsworth. Sir Walter Scott summed the man up as “respectable in all except his comtemptible prolificy”. King George lll penned “What? Why? Why more Pye?” and the nursery rhyme “Sing a song of sixpence” was a satire on both the man and his style of verse.



    (From) Faringdon Hill by Henry Robert Pye.



    No steep accent* we scale with feverish soil,

    No rocks alarm us, and no mountains foil.

    But as we gently tread the rising green

    And large and more large extends the spacious scene.

    Till on the verdant top our labour crow’d,

    The horizon is our only bound we vow’d.



    (* ascend)



    —

    Terry Cuthbert.

  • This is from a Three_Headed_Sarahs web page. 


    MADNESS ON XANGA! The following is from a mad geezer on Xanga, is he safe? Is he sane? Is he from our planet??? Does the FBI know?


    Ah the pipes!” Our Creator loved their sound in Scotland, we love their sound in Ireland, but even more, we loved the Irish flute.

    Could we play them though?



    READERS MISS THE NEXT FEW BITS, UNTIL THE “HELLO”, UNLESS YOU ARE MAD.



    There is a music tau, it’s from the Wyndham race, why is it that the violent races (not that Wyndhams kill their young) love music?

    Some humans are born with this tau, like those with perfect pitch, but it is rare. God gave each planet their own gift. Earth’s was hypnosis, did you know there are 114 species on Earth that can hypnotize, and all Earth races can do it with love and fear? Amazingly this tau is very rare off of Earth, just like humans can’t do other tau’s like the the one they call telepathy. We got that because when one three-headed adventurer gets a tau, the planet gets it.



    We get many taus by being born on various planets and able to send the new birth-learnt tau to all our race via our planet. Why have we three heads? For getting first the now universal pepi-tau, the Great Tau of teleportation,  the brilliant tau which was first pinched by our planet.



    The story is, the life-forms, were sent by thermodynamical means before we pinched the great tau, so we wanted the cruelly guarded Pepi tau. Anyroad, three of our race did a tau to the great Pepi-planet and sent the tau back to our planet. Instead of being killed the three gatherers were made to send a virus to our planet where all animal forms were fused to with three heads, (one from each of the three to give the Great Tau to us,) we could have conquered the universe with the teleportation tau, if we could have disguised ourselves.



    (We already had the shape-shifting tau, the one called by our mother “the jambon” because of it’s obsessive bad-acting, imagine you dear reader being George W Bush, you’ll do the things you know about him, you won’t know where the toilets are but you THINK he loves the whiskey, so first day of your jambon, you are drunk and telling your real life story to trigger-happy guards. That’s jambon)



    But with three-heads, do you know how many other races out there have three heads? None!



    HELLO



    Yes, the music, the kids and internet readers won’t give a beeches brook about tau, but music. You can’t meet the little people without music, esp the flute or the pipes of Ireland.

    “Taking us to see the little people?” whispered the kids to us in the infant playground.

    “Can any of you play the flute?”

    “My grandaddy can” said Forbes.

    “Can he be trusted with the tau?

    “He’s totally mad!” cried John C.

    He could be trusted.



    Where did he live?



    —

    Three-Headed Goliaths.

     


    ___________________________


    “By the Holy Cross of Jesus!” cried Forbes Senior. (yup, same name!) “I’ve gone and fecking died and I’m in hell!”

    “Stop Jam, stop ham-acting sir, the whole of Dublin knows of us.”

    “What do you want with me, I have no cat.”

    “That’s our mothers, look, your grandson says you can play the flute.”

    “You should hear my Danny Boy” he reached for his flute.

    Gordon Bennet, we had to get to school! “Not here, can you charm the socks off leprechauns?”

    “They don’t exist.”

    “Maybe not here, but they must have sometime, myths grow from facts.” That was a lie, but still…

    He was game.



    We told the kids later on our new friend.  Forbes said “great!” and John C said “Bollox.”



    “Pain can come so quicky to the old” we told Ms Lawrence.

    “Will you stop kinaesthicating stuff across the room, if someone throws something at me, it falls to the ground on hitting me, that crayon just would not stop coming, kinaeswhatever is a force, a force that does not stop until it reaches it’s target…”

    “And falls into their lap, if it wasn’t for us, poor Luke would have been squashed dead under your massive weight.”

    “Shut up Larry, the three of you! A kid could get hurt!”

    “That’s why we send things above their hight.”

    “Wasn’t above mine, I swear the thing was alive.”

    “You just got in the way!”

    “Don’t bug me!”



    The rest of the day was planning for a secret trip out on the morrow, Forbes Senior would bring Little Forbes and John C. to school the next day, and before school starts we’ll take the kids to see the little people.

    What could go wrong?



    —

    Three-Headed Goliaths’




    Lord Pineapple. LordPineapple (the schmuk!)
     

  • Once again I woke up after dreaming of writing poetry. Sometimes I wake up bursting with poetry and by the time the urgent call of nature has been satisfied, forgotten the lot. Not today.


    I dreamt of writing a Rev. Toby poem, woke up, and remembered it word for word, (though I did change some words later). It’s hardly a Tobias Trontby classic, in fact it’s a bit of a mean poem by him!


    I’ll put it on the next LP blog entry, maybe tomorrow. Along with one of Tiffy’s rather bitter love poems.


    I knew a Tiffy Witherington, a pub tenent and manager, cheerful but lonely, slowly drinking herself to death, I can’t say Tiffy is based that much on her except for the above facts. Tiffy’s collection of brass door-knockers for example is my collection of door knockers, but they sound better in a pub by a large message “See Tiffy’s Knockers!!!” (“Knockers” is British slang for breasts.)


    For that matter, I knew a Rev. Toby, whenever anything, good or bad, happened in his tiny town, he’ll be there, often sans dog-collar, being nice to everyone.


    Funny how most of my creations are lonely people, for the Rev. Toby is a true “Father McKensey”. I suppose the fact that only little Sophie is surrounded by love, reflects my own rather barren life.


    Still, that’s enough wrote here, going off now to put that poem of Toby’s onto a web site.


    I haven’t forgotten my history of personae, and will return to it shortly.


    TTFN and don’t let the bed bugs take over your life.


    LordPineapple ‘s site.

  • Commenting on Blue_Eyes17 ‘s site, gave me an idea to chart some of my early persona on this blog.



    First of all of course I did like any young poet would do, and he is the fool who does not, write from my heart, write poems that mirrored me and my thoughts. Terry Cuthbert, and when I wrote in secret “Dr Peter Lovindale”



    “I’m staring out the window

    Into the depths of space

    When suddenly all around me

    I see the whole of human race”



    (from “Window Of The World” 1964)



    ______________________

    “Blackbury Mudguard” was just a pen name for my own poems.

    The below for example was about on an uncle’s cousin in Manchester, England; and thus is a roughly “true story”



    “Simon”



    The pale sun

    Barely touched

    His cloud-soaked eyes

    As he looked about

    The jumbled streets

    Of sneered faces

    For somewhere

    To lie down with

    A bottle of cider;

    His cold hands

    Turning the brown glass

    Lovingly, as if it

    Contained all the warmth

    Of Bell’s whisky.

    A feeble grin

    Cracked his muscles

    Of his stone face

    As he haunched along

    In his sperm-stained coat

    Ignorant of

    All the sly comments

    From passers-by

    At his stinking torso

    And muttering mouth.

    But soon he found

    A doss of grass

    And once again

    He loved the world

    And the world loved him,

    And his golden dream.



    —

    Blackbury Mudguard (1968)



    __________________________

    It was in the early seventies when I first pretended to be someone I was not. This was easy for me, I had spent a lifetime trying to understand other people and had never understood myself.



    At the end of 1972, “blackie fortuna” was born, well, it was because I ran a magazine and so many submissions were crap, I had to fill the magazine up with about three poems of mine. This went down bad, so, I picked a ficticious angry young black guy to put the poems in.



    “another fucking boring night

    walks upon it’s white-star lamp way

    and drags it’s iced canal moon

    along it’s bitter fucking streets…….”



    (from “Another Fucking Boring Night”) 1973

    ——

    He was soon into black power.



    ——-

    “freedom bus”



    at last the bus is taking me away from the city,

    the bus’s torn posters echoing the torn night,

    for their ain’t no black dreams left in the city

    with its rows of ugly lamps

    there ain’t no decent black shadows

    unlit by car headlamps,

    and no blades of grass unglared by neon.



    the bus is taking me away from the city

    & the soft click of the ticket-machine

    is music to my stoned ears,

    its gearpurring, its red uphoistery

    & its grubby-stained floors

    all seem romantic to my soul.


     

    for the bus is taking me away from

    the place where they stole my colour,

    taking me away,

    so I can kip in some field

    & watch the blackness

    smile inbetween the stars!  (1977)



    This is blackie fortuna.

    _________________________________

    Next: Jacques du Lumerie and the fore-runner of Tiffy Witherington.



    —

    Three-Headed Sarahs, sorry Terry.

    LordPineapple  has ten of my favt poems in the past year.


    Three_Headed_Sarahs  has started on the Goliath’s school blog