Yes Grasshopper,
Thanks! I'm with you all the way in what you're saying.
On the Tees we have our Worm (the Sockburn Worm) but I sense this monster's
coming in from the sea (a kind of Godzilla image, or the Loch Ness monster
on holiday). What's said in the triple "fuck" statements may go back to
"fuck you, fuck this, fuck that" - which is how it lingered well after the
original draft... the imposition of "kindness" into the piece somehow isn't
working well enough. Maybe such extras are a bit like additions to houses,
others can always see and point to the join!
I recognise as well that the Worms in NE myths could (all) talk! So I'm glad
this one's a mere monster (and a monster that never got as far as the Sunday
Sport!)
And, yeh, I find, as you've just said elsewhere, the actual act of posting a
piece prompts different perspectives to start to emerge.
Bob




>From: grasshopper <[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
>Date: Fri, 25 Oct 2002 12:22:58 +0100
>
>Dear Bob,
>I enjoyed the energy of this. The courting couple reminded me of the
>typical
>monster film where the first victims are usually a dippy couple in a car.
>  I was there with you through the poem, then you lost me a bit with 'Fuck
>me;- I doubt this monster damns itself- perhaps Fuck you, Fuck them, Fuck
>that...?
>Also I was puzzled by 'its kindness' -is this intended ironically ? Either
>way, I feel it has to be set up a bit beforehand.
>By the way, I think one or two at least of the Worms were humans under an
>enchantment, rather than innate monsters. The Lambton one was cursed by a
>witch.
>Kind regards,
>            grasshopper
>
>----- Original Message -----
>From: "Bob Cooper" <[log in to unmask]>
>Sent: Monday, October 21, 2002 10:00 PM
>Subject: The Return Of The Teesmonster
>
>
>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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