New Project Mark 2: MusicPoem

Here's another snippet I have found from past scribblings during a Sunday afternoon's 'long dark teatime of the soul' (after Douglas Adams).

I might sit on it a bit and then re-work it.

music

holds safe keys of

sound secrets hollow

resonance into intervals

that shape the

distance of moments feeling

we each drop into 

its river at the unsame

place again the depths

surround and the bubblenotes

drift up as we breathe.

allow our pain to be beauty and our every moment

frustrated thoughts walled to disintegrate

into an escalated run of

fingerfrets, bassic dropped instinct

found

free.

Update on Wednesday, March 21, 2012 at 2:35PM by Annalise Friend

Ok, here we go, just saw this edit:

Music

holds safe keys of

secret, hollow resonance.

Intervals shape the

distance of moments;

we each drop into 

its river at the cool

place again, the depths

surround, and the bubblenotes

drift up as we breathe.

Hissing our pain into sound. A 

hemmed thought disintegrates

into an escalated run of

fingerfrets.

For My New Project: A Tiny Legend

So, first up for the throwing-past-writing-up on the blog project: two prose particles from early 2009.

A Tiny Legend.

There are many tiny legends in my new neighbourhood, Warrawong.  It's south of Wollongong, near Port Kembla, a place where lots of migrant families brought up kids and houses and vegie gardens while sweating at the steelworks (or the factory) and by sewing dresses and going to church.  A sample of legends include the many old people who walk.  Sometimes to bus stops with their old man bags, complete with beret, walking stick, fingerless gloves and sports jackets.  Or sensible shoes and skirts.  Their slow, daily, out in the world doing their determined thing ways are not seen in the bourgeois neighbourhoods I have more recently been living in, where old people are more likely to be somewhere else, in a home.  Sometimes the old people have old dogs.  There's also lots of standing around in front yards watching other people going on here.

The Bread Oven.

Underneath the Portuguese Club there is a bread oven.  If you go early in the morning twice a week, and if you know about it, you can be handed a freshly baked, warm and flour-dusty bread.  Wrapped with love, slowly slowly, by an older man.  It's three bucks.  Tastes unlike any other bread.  You have to eat it the same day 'cos it goes stale but it makes any condiment taste extra amazing.

It is rumoured their secret ingredient is sweet potato.

With thanks again! to the Bedroom Philosopher for his idea of Tiny Legends which prompted this.

Thanks folks, comments welcome.

Annalise