I don't think I said evil was just in others but in humankind, Bob,of which
I still find myself a member. Regards Arthur.
----- Original Message -----
From: "Bob Cooper" <[log in to unmask]>
To: <[log in to unmask]>
Sent: Thursday, October 24, 2002 9:09 PM
Subject: Re: The Return Of The Teesmonster (replies...)
Thanks for the careful reading this poem's been given. It really helps.
The first line (Barbara) is an attempt to both make it specific to one
night's specific events and yet say it could be any night!
The phrasing in line four about the couple... thanks for your reservations
Christine and Christina! I'm trying to say that this monster's heard by
those who're expressing affection as well as those, later on in the poem,
who're being violent. I don't find it awkward to say but I hear what you're
saying.
And the ending of the poem... is where I'm most worried myself. Talking of
light and dark and concluding that I've little to say! I like the last (and
paradoxical) statement where it's concluding a poem that's a mega-long, all
in one sentence, a long series of statements! But I do feel it may not yet
be neat enough (I'm only hoping, now, I can make it neater!). Perhaps, even
though I think monsters are complex subjects and believe they're not all bad
(there's usually some good attributes embedded in their natures as well - so
I refuse to accept the tabloid definition of a monster: a retrospective
judgement on a person who's done something wicked and is, therefore,
altogether wicked!) I might have to ditch the statement about kindness from
the poem!
The North East has a fair collection of what are called Worms, which may
relate to what ancient British myths call Dragons, and it could be that I've
also got some ideas of old river-gods in the back of my mind as well. My
Teesmonster is trying to swim in a big pond! I don't admire evil or
wickedness, I recognise that we're all complex mixtures of what we
ourselves, and others, may call badness and goodness and I'm merely trying
to re-imbibe a re-invented myth with a few feelings. But I may be trying to
put too much into the poem (original drafts didn't have such a complexion of
feelings, middle stage drafts had more links between the monster and us) and
it might be that I'm not letting the poem merely go where it wants to go.
So, Arthur, I may end up having something that's nearer you're understanding
of what's evil than I intended! But I think I'm with Christina when she
recognises that the evil isn't just belonging to others! (The close by
smells of joints - and, as was almost written, bacon...). I mean my narrator
is down by the nightclubs too! We all hear this monster... and sort of
accept that it's there... can't banish it.
Oh yes, Philip, and the "they" when they reach the Tuxedo Royale are
(hopefully) the waves!
So it's back to the Lemsip and try a few more drafts...
Bob
>From: Bob Cooper <[log in to unmask]>
>Reply-To: The Pennine Poetry Works <[log in to unmask]>
>To: [log in to unmask]
>Subject: The Return Of The Teesmonster
>Date: Mon, 21 Oct 2002 21:00:36 +0000
>
>Something for C & C:
>(with words in italics *shown by asterics*)
>
>
>The Return Of The Teesmonster
>
>On November nights of mist, even when it's April,
>when you walk past Blaises, you can hear it moaning -
>that low thin sound that makes kissing couples pause,
>look sideways, move slightly apart, whisper *What's that,*
>and a police van clatters on - its dogs' ears bristling
>as their legs tremble, they know they don't want to get out -
>and if the grey moon gets released from cloud
>as light slants in slow waves across the estuary
>then ripples made by its body, its rising neck, lap
>quietly when they reach the Tuxedo Royale
>while it pauses, head high beneath the Transporter Bridge,
>where it moans again as a fight breaks out near the taxis
>and in the bruised words, the gleam of spat blood,
>the grazed knuckles and elbows and knees,
>it's heard, the low moaning of cruelty, the cursing
>that's centuries old, as old as the first ones
>who told of its presence, and we hear it now
>but haven't the phrases, the magical words
>to say what it means, of how its sound reaches
>deep in our silence, and after it's shadow has passed
>and all we hear is the shouting - *Fuck you, Fuck me, Fuck that* -
>as we walk below streetlights, one moment clear faced,
>the next in darkness, we know of its kindness,
>the size of its violence, and we know we have little to say.
>
>
>Bob Cooper
>
>
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