Unspoken

This poem sprang out of our ‘voices’ Poetry ID workshop at the end of February. Thanks to Luisetta for sifting that topic from the ether that evening.

 

Unspoken

 

The first time I heard your voice

it touched me so closely

I almost hung up.

Who was this stranger who spoke to me?

My voice hid in the business of practical detail,

peering out from behind the leaves

newly aware of its nakedness.

Now we converse, sometimes

cloaked in familiarity,

sometimes skin on skin.

 

Ríonach Aiken

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Poetry on the Brain

Thought you might be interested in this research into the impact of poetry.

Ríonach Aiken

brainwaves

Ever since I saw the fascinating BBC documentary a few years ago ‘Why Reading Matters’, I’ve been interested in the impact that reading has on the brain and on human evolution. Liverpool University, whose research was originally featured in that film, has now conducted further pioneering research showing that reading challenging literature ‘acts like a rocket-booster to the brain’ and serves to ‘shift mental pathways, create new thoughts, shapes and connections’.

I was delighted (though entirely unsurprised) to hear that reading poetry, in particular, triggers self-reflection by activating areas within the brain’s right hemisphere associated with autobiographical memory and emotion, ‘causing the reader to reflect and rethink their own experiences in light of what they read.’

“Poetry is not just a matter of style. It is a matter of deep versions of experience that add the emotional and biographical to the cognitive,” said Professor Davis, who argues that…

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No Bells

Aside

A poem from our writing workshop last night. Thanks to John Gohorry and the group for coming up with the stimulus.

No Bells

Even though I know what ails me
I push on.
One foot,
then the other.
One short breath.
One more.

Fingers clench, gnawing at each other.
Even my toes curl and squirm.

Across the road, trees huddled
in their winter coats of ivy
fumble in their pockets
for the woodwind notes of pigeons,
a secret code to summon the lost.
Children’s laughter floats
and is swallowed by silence.

There are no bells anymore.
Everything real is melted down
to fuel the virtual.

It’s simple.
Just breathe.
One breath.
Then another.

 

Ríonach Aiken

Chorus

This started as a totem poem, as per the recent workshop prompt. But following a trending item on Facebook about a radiophonic phenomenon called ‘chorus’ (explained by clicking on the title link), it morphed into this. Further key data is available via first this link and then this one.

CHORUS

CQ CQ CQ CQ
CQDX CQDX CQDX
this is Golf 4
Foxtrot Hotel Romeo
G4 FHR
calling
CQ CQ DX
::: :::
unkey and float
your silence in the black
buoyancy of earthsong
plasma waves running
the spindrift of the radiation belt
hooting and skirling like
cosmic birds
listen through their wheeling and flocking
for that crouching island sentinel who’s listening too
through their wheeling and flocking
for one such voice as yours calling up the skywave
into the dawn
::: :::
CQ CQ CQ CQ
CQDX CQDX
CQ DX
this is Golf 4 Fox Hotel Radio
G4 FHR calling
CQ CQ CQ
CQDX CQ DX
and listening
::: :::
unkey and close your eyes
whistling electrons are
running the hoop of the earth
riding the chorus pipeline
through the van allens
tether breath and listen
to the whorl and whoop
of the great unmodulated voice
laughing out of nothingness
and back into an oblivion
unpolluted by your kind
slinging their prayers
across the ether
seeking witness
in their solitude
::: :::
and so you tether
until there’s only the sussuration
of your breathing and
the coil and arc
of that first
utterance.

Dick Jones

Poetry reading in Tokyo

A Poetry ID member Yuko Minamikawa Adams is going to read her Japanese poems with her poetry friends in Tokyo:

Sunday, 18th November 2012

2.30pm for 3pm starts

Cafe Lavanderia Koyosha Bldg. 1F, 2 – 12 – 9 Shinjuku, Shinjuku-ku, Tokyo, Japan (See the map).

Yuko Minamikawa Adams, Maki Kitazume, Kanako Ura, Misako Yarita and guests.

Kaze no Roudokukai

HAPPIEST ON HER BACK

my mother was a slut

who liked cute babies
and went on marches
to ban the bomb

her own mother
named her so
for leading men on
with her ration book stockings
and sooty eyes

I knew her
as a gentle woman
who never looked her father in the eye
nor my father
though she wasn’t shy

we drew on the walls
and bed sheets that hung on the line
trusting
that she wouldn’t mind
and she didn’t
as she worked on her taggy nails

my mother was a slut
her mother said
but
she liked me
and my sister
but most of all
she loved holidays
and men