Dear Helen,
I agree that this poem is v raw, v primitive.  It explores a very strange
disharmony, the poets self image as a disfunctional outcast being outcast by
even more disfunctional people, v odd.  The truth is that what I say about
myself is all true, can you prove it isn't?  Whether it is true or not, the
point is this contrast between one apparant disfunction and the real
disfunction, and which is the more real, that is the question posed at the
end of the poem, ie am I better than they are, am I on a different plane of
understanding, or have I failed to understand totally, or is there some
middle point where a total failure of dialogue, agreement or whatever has
happened, where something has been done of complete abominableness.
Maybe you can comment?
best wishes,
Paul Murphy


>From: Helen Clare <[log in to unmask]>
>Reply-To: The Pennine Poetry Works <[log in to unmask]>
>To: [log in to unmask]
>Subject: Re: new sub - experiences
>Date: Sun, 9 Nov 2003 17:23:38 -0000
>
>Paul
>
>Pedantic I know, but there's something really odd going on with full stops
>and caps here. Don't know if its deliberate but its quite intrusive for me
>as I read it.
>
>The poem is genuinely raw. Not sure about stanza three - a rant too far? -
>it's all language and no imagery which always fails to evoke for me
>personally.
>
>Puzzled about the way the poet appears to talk about himself - its doesn't
>feel natural for a first person voice.
>
>I'm guessing this is biographical rather than autobiographical - I have
>some
>guesses - but can't help wondering if the poet spoke of himself better than
>anyone else has done since! Danger of writing about poetry and art maybe.
>
>Hm, hm. Thought provoking as always.
>
>Helen
>
>
>
>----- Original Message -----
>From: paul murphy <[log in to unmask]>
>To: <[log in to unmask]>
>Sent: Saturday, November 08, 2003 1:06 PM
>Subject: new sub - experiences
>
>
> > EXPERIENCES
> >
> > Experiences, atom bombs
> > In the park a swan neatly
> > pierced with a crossbow bolt
> > Through its throat but it is still alive.
> >
> > Hooligans, vandals, yahoos, apaches,
> > thugs, rakers, peep O day boys.
> > You see them congregate on street corners
> > smelly little bastards, queer bashers.
> >
> > disharmonised, disfunctional, defunctive
> > mentally disturbed, emotionally gangrenous
> > a limb of society cut off, left to rot
> > something leftover, useless and sordid.
> >
> > Their game is to spook me up
> > this poofy unknown lone queer
> > who writes unknown, unknowable lines of poetry
> > who paints emotional, plashed lines of colour.
> >
> > For the galleries of high art
> > For the bookshelves of middle-class homes
> > the libraries in America, the universities
> > in Tashkent, the bookshops in Sao Paolo.
> >
> > They can't relate to poetry or to art
> > at all, they read The Sun, pick their noses
> > scratch their backsides, fart, shit
> > fuck, fight, kick the bucket.
> >
> > inbetween they glimpse the poetic light
> > as if they see it through a black and white film
> > a bad LSD trip, a hangover, underwater
> > or come to it through age, experience
> >
> > or even 'The Balled of Dan McGrew'.
> > what can I say, what can I do?
> > I am this unknown lone queer poet
> > but I know about love, they do not?
> >
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