Best Sud Poems
The horizon cuts straight, long, hard
silently declining less than a degree
like toys across a cartoon’s one frame stillness
a small yacht rocks like a child’s boat
a helicopter putters, a small jet silently
bellies over the sea thundering suddenly
against a graded blue sky
children flying a kite
a plummeting twisting tied bird in its death throes
falling from the warm seemingly red-speckled blue
broken only by a smudge of grey cloud
curling white-tipped waves swirl against rocks
a lonely Zen-meditative crab in their shade
the sand, ridged, striated, pockmarked
small holes left as bubbling miniature blowholes
fine lines webbed around
sand rippled like the sea, waved and cleansed
a poetic transgression? – Neptune’s impost?
the soap-sud foam his in-coming joyful jouissance
the thin receding water a pin-spot bridal veil
and a bridal train, its white scalloped lace edge
pleating, folding, hiding under the next wave
in rippling curving line-patterns
Conquistador, for you, my queen,
I want to conquer your heart, cursed star
I want to possess your revolt, and all that is predicted tomorrow,
Conquistador, Conquistador,
I want to tame your eyes, ferocious tigers
I want to share your imagination with the gods
Conquistador, for you my queen,
I want to enter your citadel,
I want to climb all your hills, cum on them,
I also want to abolish chance, and stolen jewelry,
Like Mallarme, the luminous poet,
Conquistador, Conquistador,
I want all of South America,
I want the sun from your throat, and the wise latitudes
I want the treasure of your silences,
Conquistador, Conquistador,
I want to belong to you my queen, what a conquest,
I want to throw my weapons at your feet,
And believe only in this shooting star like a kiss,
This kiss is the only truth of the moment, of a new world.
Conquistador, pour toi, ma reine,
Je veux conquérir ton cœur, astre maudit
Je veux posséder ta révolte, et tout ce qu’on prédit demain,
Conquistador, Conquistador,
Je veux mettre à genoux tes yeux, tigres curieux
Je veux partager ton imaginaire, avec les dieux
Conquistador, pour toi ma reine,
Je veux entrer dans ta citadelle,
Je veux gravir toutes tes collines, jouir sur elles,
Je veux aussi abolir le hasard, et les bijoux volés,
Comme Mallarmé, le poète lumineux,
Conquistador, Conquistador,
Je veux toute l’Amérique du Sud,
Je veux le soleil de ta gorge, et les sages latitudes
Je veux le trésor de tes silences,
Conquistador, Conquistador,
Je veux t’appartenir ma reine, quelle conquête,
Je veux jeter mes armes à tes pieds,
Et ne plus croire qu’en cette étoile filante comme un baiser,
Seule vérité du moment, d’un monde nouveau.
Surface tension
Third dimension
Imperfect sphere
Rays interfere
Spectral contours
Numbers ensure
Hydroxide base
Light interface
Occam's cutlass
Logic's numbness
Can not destroy
Our childish joy
Ever humble
Soap sud bubble
Magical wide eyed wonder
Capturing a father's heart
Blowing bubbles
Soapy sorcery
Daughter's delight
Laughing
Must hold
Must keep
Must treasure
He stayed her tiny hands
These are our dreams
You cannot destroy them
Look how hope carries them high
The large ones wobble
Then pop under their own weight
The small ones float longer
Simple and sensible
None last forever
Don't cry
There are always more bubbles
Look how they touch
Some pull apart
They burst
Some pull together
They grow
See the rainbow colours?
There's a pot of gold at the end
And all the bubbles float upwards
To make a castle in the sky
Out of our dreams
But daddy
Soap bubbles are spheres
And have no ends
And no pots of gold
And castles belong on the ground
And they're made of stone
And not of dreams
Silly daddy
He looked at his daughter
And wondered where the years went
Her childhood an ephemeral existence
Of a bubble
The soap had run out
And she had grown up
As we all must
Entry to "utopia and the soap bubble" contest
Written 6th March 2017
Notes:
Soap typically contains either sodium hydroxide (caustic soda) or potassium hydroxide
"Occam's cutlass" is a reference to Occam's razor - the principle that the simplest explanation is often the correct one
The Boy from the Tail End of the Goldhawk Road
1.
The Boy from the Tail End of the Goldhawk Road
I was born Carl Robert Halling at the tail end of the Goldhawk Road which runs through Shepherds Bush in west London and which in the mid 1960s served as one of the great centres of the Mod movement, whose dandified acolytes were infamous for their vanity and hedonism.
I was raised in nearby Bedford Park, a comparatively genteel district close to the largely working class area of South Acton.
My first school was the Lycee Francais du Kensington du Sud, and by the time I was 4 years old, I was already bilingual.
I wasted little time at the Lycee in establishing a reputation as a troublemaker, a popular one admittedly, but a troublemaker nonetheless, constantly in trouble.
I was popular, that much is certain, not just with girls but boys too and blessed with a vivid imagination but I was a near impossible pupil which caused my poor mother a good deal of heartache, and on at least one occasion she drove me home in tears.
I seemed born to controversy, being impatient, disobedient, mischievous, remorselessly attention-seeking, a true imp of a child, on which the full force of the innate depravity of Man appeared to have landed.
At the same time, I was friendly, sincere and open, a good friend, and well-liked.
My Judo teacher at the Budokan in Hammersmith once told someone no doubt with a sickly feeling in the pit of his stomach that whenever he heard me he always knew it was Saturday.
I was no less a trial in the quaint little back streets of suburban west London.
My roughness could hardly have been helped by the popular music of the times.
By the time it came for me to leave the Lycee my scholastic standing had improved a little, and after some months spent at Davies Preparatory School, I received the most glittering school report of my entire young life; and was actually declared an excellent pupil.
I was born at the tail end of the Goldhawk Road
Which runs through Shepherds Bush
Like an artery,
And in the mid 1960s,
Served as one of the great centres
Of the London Mod movement,
But I was raised in relative gentility
In a ward of nearby South Acton
Whose vast council estate
Is surely the most formidable
Of the whole of West London.
Although my little suburb
Has since become
One of its most exclusive neighbourhoods.
My first school was a kind of nursery
Held locally on a daily basis
At the private residence
Of one Miss Henrietta Pearson,
And then aged 4 years old,
I joined the exclusive
Lycee Francais du Kensington du Sud,
Where I was soon to become bilingual
And almost every race and nationality
Under the sun was to be found
At the Lycee in those days...
And among those who went on to be good pals mine
Were kids of English, French, Jewish, American,
Yugoslavian and Middle Eastern origin.
While my first closest pals were Esther,
The vivacious daughter
Of a Norwegian character actor
And a beautiful Israeli dancer,
And Craig, an English kid like myself,
With whom I remain in contact to this day.
For a time, we formed an unlikely trio:
"Hi kiddy," was Esther's sacred greeting
To her blood brother, who'd respond in kind.
But at some stage, I became a problem child,
A disruptive influence in the class,
And a trouble maker in the streets,
An eccentric loon full of madcap fun
And half-deranged imaginativeness.
("Born on the Goldhawk Road" is a versified version of one much reproduced in various forms throughout my writings, although it bears little resemblance to its original, which first glimpsed the light of day in around 2002. It's undergone much modification since then, including the alteration of all names of people and places for the solemn purpose of privacy.)
(English and Klingon versions)
As cold as it gets on Planet Zero
Light years away from home alone
Crystal clear diamond mountains glow
Over jagged black landscapes of granite
A green sun emanates illusions of blue
No warmth in winter or light to speak of
Grows dimmer on the backdrop of space
Spacial planes seem more remote than usual
So far away from Earth on the distant eye
Frozen corners of the sky aim correctly
Though inhabitants are hard to find
To appreciate the beauty of nature
And what life hides behind the stars
Just out of grasp is Christmas
In a foreign part of space called Earth
It turns in every corner of the universe
As children listen on a distant path
The past, where time stands still on snow
Just to find Jesus at peace in a galaxy
Far away from home and gone to sleep
(Klingon versions)
Christmas DeSDu' mach chuq
Hoch bIr law' Suq 'oH yuQ pagh
tayqeqmey'e' lutu'lu'be' away from juH nIteb
qut HuvchoH Separ HuD wew
rIn qIj landscapes granite jagged
SuD illusions emanates SuD jul
qaStaHvIS winter wov jatlh pagh warmth pagh
HoSchoH dimmer poHmey backdrop
spacial planes law' vI'Iprup Hop puS motlh
Suvmo' away from tera' mIn chuq
Qeq taD 'er'In chal correctly
pagh ngan let Samta'meH
moch appreciate
'ej De''e' Hov So' nuq
neH jIjatlh 'uch christmas
tera' pong neH nov 'ay' poHmey
qaStaHvIS 'u' Hoch 'er'In tlhe' 'oH
Hoch path chuq 'Ij puq
qa' jIH, nuqDaq Qam poH reH peD
yeSuS Samta'meH DeSDu' roj neH qIb neH
Hop Ha' vo' juH 'ej yIjaH Qong
This evening in our flat there rose a flood
That made our rooms and entrance hall a lake
As unattended bath-taps churned the sud
Into a foaming torrent by mistake
Our darling daughter whom we shall not name
Had nonchalantly turned those bath-taps on
Before returning to some film or game
Or following the social pantheon
Behind her mobile phone she lay enthralled
Forgetful of the steaming waters’ rise
Which overflowed in bathside waterfall
And blitzkrieged our apartment in a trice
Too late the cry was raised and taps were closed
And towels press-ganged as mops then stemmed the tide
And floors as clean as if they’d been steam-hosed
Emerged pristine as all those cork-tiles dried
“All’s well that ends well” - wrote of old the Bard
Thus did our flood not clean our dusty flat?
Sadly not all; for as those tiles turned hard
The margin of each one grew thick and fat
Alas our hallway and our bedroom floors
That once were smooth and level, now did change
Into a row of bumps, as slowly soars
From crashed tectonic plates a mountain range
Defunctive smoke
From the brain
Rankles the soul:
An eternity of ignorance.
There are no marrams for skin.
Marquetry of bones
Intricacy assumes
Hoodwinking eyes
That see only nudes.
Whining gin.
Phthisic mind
Transhumanizes darkness
Swaddling rain
In a hollow pearl.
Aperient paraffin.
Happiness now:
Being straddled in the sun,
Juvescence:
Fustigating the sea.
It’s win win win.
Inside the gall bladder,
The unstilted oyster
Is condited:
Redundant sud.
Quite self-akin.
Concite the hymns of Satan
If you find yourself perjured,
Faith is more recondite
Than delirium.
Terribly consanguine.
Win win win!
There are no marrams for skin!
-Pin Dew (01/05/2017)
Surefooted, sure fisted,razor tough
If I should fight that war again
I would want one for the going rough
Like yourself,
Fair and fractured
When the friendship slough
No claim to be a paragon of anything
Just an average man in your own eyes
While I hoisted you like a kite
Above naseberry trees and bush
Above the gormandizing sea
Above the Compound's red mud
Carrying the archeological memory
Of man's life like a sud
A mere consequence of a theory's lie
It was your mating urge that first
Lured you into the systems net
Thereafter your life became troubled
Wandering around the wilderness of regret
Framed like a pirate's ghost
Stereotyped and labeled
I still do not think you guilty of their crime
Your demonization came before your destruction
And when you died
I cried and cried at such a useless end
My fearless friend would never be at my back again
But tears will water pain, and still brings nothing back.
bewildered, i try to find a chapter in which a comforting compromise is inevitable
awestruck, i seek the majestic bookmark that restores that definitvive warmth to my hypothermiated soul
i need your warm hand on my heart until forever becomes a limited mute
i need the central base of your reassuring vibrations until endlessness develops bruises due to multiple bumps, slams, and crashes
a virgin in the dark sitting under the medicinal consumption of a streetlight, i revisit the merciless deluge of parking lot depression
i recall your absence leading to a dizzying constipation and a nauseating compression
the stubborn tears unfallen still produces a pain obstructing my 20/20 view of the actual reality
i once thought that this was how it USED TO BE
i used to think that letting you go would prevent you from becoming reduced to me
then....all....of....a....sud....den....i....re....be....gin....to....m....m....m....miss....you.......
i cannot believe that i see reflections of the tantalizing technicolor i feel when i would kiss you
now all i have is my invisible itch request....and....all....i....can....do....is....sadly....and sim...ply....list....you.....
in vain and shame for my personal survival to concretely remain my must MYSELF take a frigid dip in Truth and properly....place....the....blame.....
Dehy-
dra-
tion
r
e
a
r
r
a
n
g
i
n
g
my
mi
nd
go in g
SCRABBLE
on me.
ag
ai
n
th
en
all of a
sud
den-
all the lights go out.
Dear Shari Todd – written July 29, 2015
While rifling thru outdated writing,
which virtual thumbing
wrought non deadly chancre “FAKE” blister
(long thee envy o' this wordy mister
a reference to mine youngest sister
prior tuff fall lout dynamic
emotional frenzied analogous
rapacious seditious tempestuous twister)
Tis hospitality of yar behalf
to league gal lee
tender our lovely daughter
begat in part by meself,
whose punctured psyche doth chaff
at mine severe prepubescent short comings,
which trajectory of teen years,
a downward line on spiro (Agnew) graph
which deprivations well nigh
finds a civil war raging
against one half of ma being
(Oh Henry), a Harris son,
who these days genuinely
tries his Level best
at lighter side of life to laugh
comedy of errors, boot
haunting visions visit Twelfth Night
figuratively brow beat
like an unseen dis staff.
glad that Shana (thee darling daughter
afflicted with cognitive development
entailing homebased intervention) wince
she blossomed into
a beautiful young lady,
now under Dunning aegis (bonanza) since
emotionally stable, and quiet
on western (Bend,
Oregon) front, rinse
sing with yar incredible credit karma,
her existence Quince
sud dental (juiced teething),
living with papa,
would mount to a travesty,
sham, mockery...if superficial
only perp pull reigning “FAKE” Prince
likely to barrel within
outward bound mince
meted MainLiners along here
built “mini mansion” homes
NOT bedecked with chintz
at 724 west railroad avenue
(previous address of this bummer)
anyway, should ill fate befall
like an overstuffed blintz
if this king Lear Rick Hill
wannabe meets fatal doom,
thy "mother abby" would
get panic stricken (rue...
You, with your everlasting sorrow mom
deserve nifty hands and healing ways of
You, who always loved with the truest calm
now sit bereft of food and needs God's glove
You, the womb that bore consecrated Zen
sit still with your emptiness praying that
You, will once more be as fertile as a hen
fresh as the ocean in God's special vat
You, who have given us bounty with grace
have birthed a sapling, a seed, and the bud
You, Mother Earth whos honest clean faced
has always provided with substance and sud
They, who have loitered and taken your fresh,
are caught in a web, they cannot dis-enmesh.
Your past life always haunts you in some way in your future,
Whether you're a small time drug dealer or a born again shooter,
Every once in a while I get a drug dealers dream,
I get caught, and I'm always running from the cops it seems,
Last night I was in the admissions office sitting in school,
Trying to get in because the classes that I'm taking start soon,
So the dude asks me for some information that I had,
I pull out a whole sheet of crack rock in slabs,
So I said to myself "Oh snap what the heck is this?"
I know that if he called the cops I wouldn't get a slap on the wrist,
So we are both just staring at the table in disbelief,
My first thought is ""Get up out of here in one piece,"
I ain't gonna lie, the first thing I thought about was the block,
Then my instincts kicked in, I knew he was calling the cops,
So I packed up my bag and when I started to turn around,
The cops were at the doorway it was bout to go down,
I wasn't going to no cell thay had to take me in blood,
So I ran straight through them like a sponge through a sud,
I start running and keep running and there was no looking back,
My past came back to haunt me in the form of some crack,
It's kinda strange because in my dream I was trying to do right,
I was trying to go to school to change that negative sight,
What does this all mean? I know that the drug game is over,
Is the devil trying to test the will power of a soldier?
When the sunset comes
And the blue sea is wavy
Tide brings a sud tale.