BROKEN ESSAYS

A number of my readers know my thoughts on Blank Verse (non-rhyming) Poetry.
I have used the term "fractured prose" before now to describe some of the so-called modern poetry out there.....and so it is!

I must also add a big BUT to the above as there are real poets out there who can and do write magnificent soaring poetry that is blank verse. Most of this poetry takes flight when you read it aloud as the sound and timbre of the words elevate and colour the author's thoughts, taking the reader on the intended journey.

I have experimented with the concept of free-flowing verse myself and include below some humble examples of mine.

Please enjoy!


Broken Essays - Liquid Wisdom

Alcohol, that's the secret, alcohol.
Sterilizes anything, kills the bugs,
Fixes the stomach, corrects
Your vision of the world. It is
The Bringer of Truth.
The Liquid Illuminator. Ha!
You remember when you first
Got drunk?

Whoa! Steady on! How the world turned!
In fact you couldn't quite grasp
How it all turned so rapidly
Around you while you were
Standing so still!
There's wisdom there if you could
Just reach out and grasp it.
But the world is spinning too damn fast!

© Kim Randell




Broken Essays - Seaweed

In the dark,
Upon my bed,
Between the conciousness of day
And the drifting wooly black of sleep,
The ebb and flow of childhood memories
Crashes and foams upon Imagination's sand.

What beach is this?
A stranger's place now I've moved on.
The grass-topped dunes wail loudly in the wind.
The hills of sand flail my naked legs,
A punishment for running down their faces.
I thump to a jolting stop on the
Hard-packed sand at water's edge.

Breathe the ozone!
The salt spray stings my squinting eyes.
The wet and pungent odour of ageing
Seaweed fills my lungs, embraces me.
The rolling roar of boiling surf fills my head,
And then recedes.

The dark has come.
I turn upon my side and fall asleep.

© Kim Randell


 - and finally a composite which has rhyme, rhythm and free verse mixed together....

YOU ASK SO MUCH
(or The Laureate's Lament)

You beg of me some imagery,
Sweet pictures of my thoughts?
Some words that brush a scene
In living colour that cavorts
Across the canvass of your soul,
To carry you to pleasant rest
In quiet bliss on some enchanted knoll?

The great gallery of artwork
That fills hallways of my mind
Most times defies my tongue,
So leaving listeners blind
To all those views I have within
That might enrapture or enthral,
Or drown in dark far deeper than old sin.

Most words are just poor colours
When you want to paint a scene
Of some majestic thought,
Or sweet dreams that glow serene.
But I'll still put pen to paper,
Crafting poems as best I may,
Some sugar in the vinegar of truth.

© Kim Randell

HUMOROUS POETRY

Everyone likes a good laugh.
What we find amusing is normally something that is away from the expected.
A sudden change of events, an inverted view of something familiar, something that appeals to our sense of the ridiculous.
Total nonsense, if it is cleverly couched in the familiar, can be amusing.
From Lewis Carrol to Ogden Nash, the range is huge.

That venerable form, the Limerick, will not be featured here as it probably deserves several websites and many volumes of print to do it justice!

I hereby give you below a few of my own humble efforts.

Enjoy!





CRITICAL ADVICE

It's clearly so much easier to dismember and destroy,
Than to build a careful structure full of wisdom and of joy,
To criticise one's neighbour with a log stuck in your eye,
When all that neighbour's suffering is blurred vision from a stye.

It's not as if we're brainless, living life like boring sheep,
Who are always needing guidance what to eat and where to sleep.
We form our own opinions when we read a brand new poem,
So we don't need twisted visions from some wrinkled, gnarly gnome.

And so it didn't shock me after reading of Sam Hunt,
To pick up how some critic took Sam's meanings for a punt.
Interpreting in some way many miles from what was writ,
Clearly showed the criticizer had a very faulty wit.

The backlash from Joe Public was amazing to behold,
That foolish criticizer got far more than just a scold.
For tackling our dear icon, he was punished suitably,
And now cleans out the toilets in a place of purgatory.

So those of you called critics need to search for nobleness,
Please think twice before you call a writer's work a sorry mess.
Your usefulness is suspect in this great wide world of ours,
It is best you all join monasteries and take some silence vows.

© Kim Randell




SCOTCH MIST
(read with a soft scottish accent...)

I dinnae have some grottle
To stick upon my clunge.
It comes in plastic bottles
Labelled "Polymorphic Grunge".
You order from the Glorrich Shop
And wait for thirteen weeks,
Until the next delivery
Of Antiquarian Squeakes.

Ye cannae mix wi' haggis
Or the grottle will explode.
It must be handled carefully
And mixed in a cool groad.
A tiny pinch of heather plus
Three drops of ould Loch Ness
Will make the perfect grottle
And avoid a grannagh mess!

Och, thirteen weeks o'waiting
For my order to arrive.
Without my glorious grottle, man,
My clunge won't stay alive.
I'm begging ye to spare some
From your secret sporran stock,
I'll pay ye back with farrach lode
I hide in my right sock.

I cannae jest about it,
What's a man without his clunge?
This shortage of my grottle stock
Has sent me for a plunge.
I kept spare in my sporran too,
Which would have carried me,
But I was moved to save a friend,
Your uncle, Zebedee!

Oh, thankyou kindly laddie,
Ye'll ne'er regret your act
Of saving a poor clunge at risk,
To you I doff my hat!
I'll help ye with your grottle
When that time of yours arrives,
And cool your groad with ice-rock,
May your clunge have fourteen lives!

© Kim Randell





LIFE'S LIKE THAT

There is a tale that's told, I'm sure it's true,
Of uses for the brown waste from the zoo.
It's gathered very carefully drop by drop,
And sent it's odorous way without a stop.
Consolidated oft in places high,
The reader must read on to find out why.

As life goes by,  the realization dawns
That Fate no favours grants, but only scorns
In varying degree at various times, ad hoc,
Like blinded reapers mowing through a flock.
Life's neat surprises, good, bad, big or small,
With no prior warnings, happen to us all.

This brings me back to that brown odorous waste,
Which has some use in spite of our distaste.
When things go wrong, it's hurled with mighty force
Into great spinning blades which change it's course,
To cover everyone for miles around,
And cause them spluttering, to embrace the ground.

Another time when one will see it's use,
Is when someone has failed and "cooked his goose".
Then from those distant storage places high,
In bucket-loads, the waste will downward fly.
Aimed  with fateful care at victim's head,
It coats him 'til he wishes he were dead!

The wondrous thing that strikes me in all this
Is Fate's poor target seldom will she miss,
Indeed just after a successful hit,
There'll come from Heaven another load of it.
No matter if you're rich, poor, thin or fat,
When it's your turn you'll wear it. Life's like that.

© Kim Randell

THE E.N.C. SYNDROME

It has been interesting and informative to read the comments readers attached to my monthly entries when I wrote for the Auckland Poetry blog several years ago. 
There are people in the big wide world out there who share my views on modern English-language poetry after all. 
I am not alone in my thoughts, but may be a solitary voice, which brings me to the title of this month's offering.

To expand, I call it The Emperor's New Clothes Syndrome. 

Strangely, I was discussing this very topic with a colleague from work a week before one of my commentators also mentioned it. 
The so-called "modern" forms of today's poetry (free, fractured verse with faulty phrasing and flawed language) are being touted throughout the hallowed halls of Acadaemia, the clubs and societies of writers, the Internet, and (Heaven-forbid!) even the offices of certain publishers, to the extent that they have become the "correct" and almost exclusive form of English-language poetry today. 

What if it is all one big glorious confidence trick? 

Perpetrated by a bunch of failed English-language professors, the scheme sees them clutching tightly to each others coat-tails as they experience a meteoric rise to fame (not fortune, as there's no money in poetry today!) and kudos. Their new rules dictate how poetry will now be written and promoted and (Wow!) everyone can be a poet, although you are obliged to belong to a recognised clique for you to be recognised in turn.......

(quote)

So off went the Emperor in procession under his splendid canopy. 
Everyone in the streets and the windows said, "Oh, how fine are the Emperor's new clothes! Don't they fit him to perfection? And see his long train!" 

Nobody would confess that he couldn't see anything, for that would prove him either unfit for his position, or a fool. No costume the Emperor had worn before was ever such a complete success.

"But he hasn't got anything on," a little child said.

"Did you ever hear such innocent prattle?" said its father. And one person whispered to another what the child had said, "He hasn't anything on. A child says he hasn't anything on."

"But he hasn't got anything on!" the whole town cried out at last.

The Emperor shivered, for he suspected they were right. But he thought, "This procession has got to go on." So he walked more proudly than ever, as his noblemen held high the train that wasn't there at all. 

(unquote)

I leave you to draw your own conclusions..........

NIGHTFALL 

Grey and white ramparts edged with fire,

Violet mountains in turquoise sea.

Scenes shift and darken as I watch,

Last rays of sunset turn and flee.

Dull red echoes of daylight's demise

Brush the horizon as night begins.

Stars call each other from places far,

Fair maiden moon stirs velvet limbs.

                 © Kim Randell 

AGE OF AQUARIUS

Pathways convoluted, twisting, turning.

Journeys short and long near speed of light.

Flames of information flickering, burning.

Glowing channels pulsing day and night.

Electrons, spheres of power, are the lifeblood,

Clumped in convoys, driving hard and fast.

Ferrying large loads of data drygoods,

Until their keyed address is reached at last.

Giant conduits, glass and copper highways

Clothe our humble planet in a web.

Terminals pour streams on ether highways,

Flowing far on astral spanning legs.

Sounds and flashing colours fill the world now,

Painted, splashed and shouted pole to pole.

Spinning tales and tunes with cunning knowhow,

Psychedelic bonds which wrap us all.

Gone are days of Caesar's humble runners,

Carrying commands on tired legs.

Highways that took two of Man's short summers,

Now long traversed before he's out of bed.

             © Kim Randell 

LOVE AND WAR

Love and War are the two greatest foci in the Human condition. 
Songs and poems aplenty, good and bad, have been written around these, so why would I be different? 

Peace is another focus, but always short-lived. 
I guess that Humanity will always battle within Love as well as without, and that the ultimate peace is only afforded us at life's end. 

We will all, nevertheless, strive for the whole of our lives to attain peace within our own time on this mortal coil. 
This is, after all, what makes our condition so Human!

Below are a few of my poems on both subjects.

On Love

Love. An over-used and almost worn-out word

But one that's said and oh-so-often heard

Throughout our daily lives as we do toil.

Has this poor word still meaning from our tongues,

Or used so much, it's value's quite undone?

Love. A tired word? Yet it still means so much.

A soft caress, a long and lingering light touch.

A warm and tender body near to mine,

Whose fragrance stirs the harp-strings of my soul,

And mending lesions, makes me once more whole.

Love. Sole reason for me to exist, and give

To others so that they also may live

In that embracing warmth that I share now.

God's grace that always there shall be enough

Of old but tireless wonder that is Love.

© Kim Randell 

       Unconditional Love

The many cosmic levels of our world

Reflect the truth of unconditional love.

The petals of a shining Springtime flower,

A feather swimming airstreams far above.

Rough lichen patterns etched across hard rock,

The irridescent colours on a dove.

There's far more order in our universe

Than random acts of chaos can destroy.

Bright logic really has the upper hand,

There is no senseless beauty in the void.

Disorder counts as evil in this world,

Creation's state of structure trumpets joy.

It's only Man who qualifies his love,

And so puts limits on his very life.

At times he sees no further than his nose,

Thus wounding those nearby with spear and knife.

A massive task it is to shed constraint

And grow his soul past all Man's selfish strife.

Our Maker gives His unconditional love

To every part of this vast universe.

His thoughts are spirals of galactic arms,

His songs, the scales upon a tropic fish.

Mankind is a reflection of His soul,

And so should write His poetry verse by verse.

Now to the heavens we all must turn and take

Good notice of God's unconditional love.

Go cast off petty thoughts of narrow self,

And see the whole wide world as He above.

There is no place for hatred, pain or fear,

Whilst beauty's found in feathers on a dove.

 © Kim Randell 

Her Love

Why does she bother? I don't know,

Sunshine in my clouded life.

How have I earned so much love

And acts of grace from my dear wife?

Male indifference costs us much,

Heads so full of other things,

She just wants to feel my touch,

Which means far more than golden rings.

A warm embrace and words of care

Would mend so much in this hard world,

To answer thus to partner's call

Will treat her love as precious pearl.

                                          © Kim Randell 

            And Hearts Will Weep

The wars that Humankind has fought

Are seldom for a noble cause.

Some start upon a leader's lie,

Yet others through some legal clause.

There is no actual victory,

The end is just a hollowness,

And hearts will weep their tears of blood

While soldiers take their final rest.

We need the truth, not twisted tales,

To keep us firm on Life's tight track.

No guns nor knives nor bombs and mines

Can ever bring a true peace back.

Our posturing politicos

Have many sins they should confess,

And hearts will weep their tears of blood

While soldiers take their final rest.

To fight one's brother for some cause

Trumped up by those that we let lead,

Has never saved one mortal soul

From horrid anguish, solved one need.

Pure Truth's the beacon, guiding light,

The only more that stands the test,

So hearts won't weep their tears of blood

When soldiers take their final rest.

  © Kim Randell 

Time Wars

Months are missiles flying,

Swiftly streaking through the air.

Years are sleek destroyers,

So much for Time's tides to bear.

Decades are the battleships

Whose armament shout fear.

Centuries, those citadels, those crumbling rocky citadels,

those lichen crusted citadels

Pound Time in it's dark lair.

Days and weeks are flashes

From the muzzles of the guns,

War on Time is endless,

No man knows when it began.

The chimes of clocks are drumbeats

Marshalling troops upon the run.

Those sparkling flashing warriors, those lean and hungry warriors,

those tired haggard warriors

Who wish home was in the sun.

There is no end to battle 

On this twisting mortal coil.

The Ravages of Time scream

Like an iron wheel without oil.

Ruthless and relentlessly

Gaining more new soil.

Then dawns a new Millenium, a shining bright Millenium,

a fighting fit Millenium,

Time's battle plans to foil.

Oh wake up, crass Humanity

No wars are ever won.

A generation's damage

Passes on to all your sons.

Please realize Time is precious

And can never be undone.

Go search for blessed harmony, a human caring harmony,

       God's loving gift of harmony

To live life in His sun.

© Kim Randell 

AN AUCKLAND ICON

ONE TREE HILL

 Maungakeikei

A singing axe made naked Maungakeikei,
Some settler men a sacred Totara killed.
The grief of Tane Mahuta was vented,
And Rongo wept upon that naked hill.

Those Pakeha then realized their error
Of desecrating Maungakeikei's crown.
To ease the grief of Tangata Whenua,
A pine from Monterey was bedded down.

It grew to massive size, that sacred pine tree,
And shaded Maungakeikei from the sun.
Tane Mahuta had smiled upon it
And made sure that his curse was well undone.

Then came a man of very twisted vision,
Who saw himself a warrior of the past.
Imagined all the warpaint and the feathers,
Attacked poor Maungakeikei in the dark.

The shadow of his moku echoes visions
Of imaginary battles with his foes.
Their juices stain his chin in feasts of conquest,
It's how, in his skewed mind, his mana grows.

He grunts and wields his mere with conviction.
It roars and spins its hungry metal teeth.
Chewing through the whiteness of the tree-flesh,
Carpeting the ground like snow beneath.

That pine tree through its stature had grown tapu.
A child of Tane Mahuta indeed!
The twisted one could not cut through at that time,
But struck a mortal blow that would succeed.

Six years it took before that pine tree's passing,
A time to stand in awe and say farewell.
Tane Mahuta's new child will grow there,
And once again we'll see our One Tree Hill.

Kim Randell © 2005