Yes, Arthur. I'm sorry. I know you said that. Sadly I didn't type that
clearly in my reply! Sorry to misrepresent you!
Bob
>From: arthur seeley <[log in to unmask]>
>Reply-To: The Pennine Poetry Works <[log in to unmask]>
>To: [log in to unmask]
>Subject: Re: The Return Of The Teesmonster (replies...)
>Date: Fri, 25 Oct 2002 10:07:40 +0100
>
>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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