Oscar Sparrow's Blog, page 5

Wounded Soldiers

self portrait of a wounded soldier

Who do you truly know? It would be no good starting with the self would it? So many motivations are buried. Many times in my life others have had more insight into me than I have had. Bank managers, teachers and literary agents have formed a faithful triumvirate of judgement. All the same I've been broadly undamaged by my life. We know often enough that this is not the case with everyone. The damaged individual can change the course of history with some awful spectacle or simply self destruct from self loathing, fear and confusion. It is not my place to reflect upon current affairs. However, uniforms can create a notion of certainty and predictability. The truth is that you just never know the inner workings of an individual, a friend or close colleague. Exposure to extreme events, horror and fear will have effects. Many know far more of this than me. Quite often the mentally wounded soldiers (be they office clerk or Rambo) will hide their suffering in macho bravado. Whether it is a concern that we fail to detect so many or a small triumph that there are so few I do not know. My highly personal guess is that our modern grasping life with lack of time for loving kids will fuel sufferings for many years to come.

I do not come from any special place on this. I was a South London cop and worked in the coroner's department. I attended the suicides and the murders. I talked casually to child sex offenders as if comparing shopping lists. I was in fights and riots and I lost nothing but half a tooth and my sense of moral outrage. I drank beer and wrote poems – although in the macho culture I kept quite about the poetry. Not everyone was so lucky. I'm not sure what a genius is but during that epoch I think I may have known one. He died quite recently amongst the wreckage of his life. This is what happened.

He was a young guy – sensitive, well educated and kind. As a student he had developed a bit of a drink issue. Nothing in his life had prepared him for constant hostility and a strange kind of feeling which is halfway between fear and excitement. Everyone wanted to be in the action, the hero cop…..well that's what everyone said. It's like bungee jumping. You can do a few jumps and then one day it goes cold and you see risk and the humiliation of not being able to jump. You know something has changed inside but bungee jumping is within your control – you stop doing it. Half way through a shift on a patrol car you may already have been tested – perhaps some incident had not gone well and you feel a bit low.

Then comes a call – serious disturbance in the street, shops being looted etc. He arrives with a colleague and a petrol bomb hits the car. A mob starts to overturn the vehicle and he flees with rioters gouging and pulling at his face, trying to push their fingers into his eyes. The heat from the burning car pushes back the mob and he ran. In his heart he never stops running – not until the end of his life. In the burning car his colleague kicks out the windscreen and runs just as hard. There were not too many choices. By bed time the other guy was over it. The guilt driven soldier added another deep cut to his list and went home to pour some more lonely vodka into his wound.

The guy I am talking about was the funniest man I've known. He had a dry cynicism which he delivered with immense compassion. He knew people made mistakes. He had a totally surreal vision of the possible. He wrote poems and did paintings. He kept a python in his room at a police lodging house. Eventually, the authorities turned their back on him and threw him out. His life staggered along via broken relationships, vagrancy and alcoholism. I met him again in the last couple of years of his short life. He had a big project to open people's lives to the notion of possibility. He built little doors to fit into the roots of trees so that a passer-by might smile, believe in fairies or mentally open that door into imagination.

Wounded soldiers come in many shapes and sizes.

The Trouble With Sparrows

I'm having trouble with a sparrow. A male has got his eye on a nesting box on the house wall. Before he can move in, he has to establish rights to his territory. This means that the huge flock of other male sparrows who live in the lounge window have to be destroyed. The poor thing constantly sees his own reflection and hurls himself against the invisible barrier. My heart flooded with poetic sympathy and I now live in a dark cave, having covered the window. Seeing the frantic creature reminded me of my own attempts to find agents and publishers. Then, one day as I battered against the glass, the window flew open and I hurtled into the Universe of Amazon. It is rather like that old fashioned night time universe, but the dark matter is darker and the stars burn out with every new algorithm. At the centre there is the Black hole of the Trolls who have so much gravity and density that no one has found a way of  packaging it for sale. I wanted to be the first to review but the force sucked the words off the screen.

I have two bird boxes. One is a mark 1 model which is simply a home for birds. The other is a News International bird box which has been bugged with secret cameras. So far there seems to be far more interest in the original model. Please birdies – I only want to see the timeless wild struggles of Nature on TV with my remote control and a glass of beer. Please fly in.

A letter arrived. Given the recent spate of geriatric mail shots I was expecting some advice on incontinence. But No! Wait – I have won a major international prestigious poetry competition. I gasped and looked round for any incontinence info. No – it's true and I did it all without entering. It's a vanity scam of course. Kafka saw it all coming you know.

I did enter a competition. It was some kind of poem to make London laugh – but I was beaten by Prime Minister's Question Time. Somehow my name and the address of the poet's cave fell into the grasping claws of the World Poetry Movement who want to give me the recognition I crave in a leather bound coffee table. I kid you not. My special edition will be produced in this format. My coffee table will be called "Stars in Our Hearts". The real issue here is that this reveals the extent to which every thing is for sale. I entered a competition in good faith and my details are shuffled off to some hovering hawks who know the struggles of a poor sparrow against the merciless window of fame, adulation, incontinence and supermarket lager.

Soon I'm going to write a poem, although it might be a story. I have been reading a new collection of short stories by an accomplished writer Claude Nougat. The book is called "Death on Facebook" and is very much of our age. Here are the Amazon links. For the next couple of days it is free!

Amazon USA       Amazon UK    Amazon Germany    Amazon France   Amazon Italy   Amazon Spain

Eurobert Humperdinck

Eurobert Humperdinck

Just as the junk mailers start to tempt me into sheltered accommodation for the elderly and doctors line up to plot my graph into decline, an ageist thunderclap splits the certainty of the Universe. Englebert Humperdinck is to represent the United Kingdom in the Eurovision song contest at the age of 75 years.

As I listened to the radio this morning I heard Rick Santorum speaking in Ohio about how the Founding Fathers had saved Americans from the colonial monarchy. This is very true. What he did not say was that they also saved America from the Eurovision song contest. If I were one of his speech writers I would definitely have stressed this important constitutional point. For those kind Americans who read my blog, let me explain that winning the contest in recent years has little to do with quality of the music. Some 43 loosely Euro countries vie for the prize and voting is political  between blocs and cliques. If I were a professor of politics or a Westminster advisor I would make this show compulsory viewing. Wars and alliances can be predicted since the votes reveal a candour unknown elsewhere in diplomacy.  All the same some mega stars have emerged from the schmaltz fest into glittering careers. Both Abba and Celine Dion have ploughed this furrow.

The whole horrific cultural smorgasbord is a great festival in the Sparrow cave. The more corrupt and absurd the better. In 2009 it was reported that 6 Azeri (Citizens of Azerbaijan) had been arrested by the police for voting for the hated Armenians. Play to win – that's the way to do it! Here is one of my favourite ever entries. Oh yes – this year the contest will be held in Azerbaijan.

Yesterday, in my arty poet's vest, dark suit, trainers and scarf I went to an exhibition of Art at the Pallant Gallery in the beautiful cathedral city of Chichester. The artist was Robin Ironside (described as a Neo-Romantic Visionary) who often painted with a one haired brush with the aid of a magnifying glass. His work is so detailed that you have to study it intensely. Seemingly he never slept and stayed alive on a cocktail of drugs. His work is staggering and this was the first time I had seen any of it.  The exhibition runs until 22nd April.

An Absolute Gentleman

The death of Davy Jones – lead singer of the Monkees was sad news to me this morning. As a young man I used to help out at an evening club for handicapped kids. There were those who would join in and those who were too nervous to dance and sing along. Two songs never failed to get them up. "Daydream Believer" and "I'm a Believer" conquered the inhibitions of the shyest kids.

Several years later I was a cop on the streets of South London. As a result of a traffic accident a short youngish guy with kind brown eyes found himself being interviewed by me. He was humble polite and charming. He told me about his work on American TV and his identity came to light. The traffic matter was fairly banal and in those days cops were not that fixated on motorists. I thanked him for for the music and he thanked me for my attention. There will be all manner of obituaries and the memories of  showbiz stars in the media. I just wanted to say my own tribute. He was an absolute gentleman.

A letter arrived at the poet's cave advising me that it was about time I started to think about sheltered housing for the elderly. I filed it next to two letters from the Health Service inviting me to provide samples of unspeakable body products so that I can be screened. A glance at the Newspaper revealed separate articles revealing the two greatest threats to these Sceptred Isles. 1) We are living too long and they cannot afford us. 2) We are still drinking and smoking too much and dying too young. Sometimes I just do not know what to do for the best.

Oscar at the Oscars

You know when someone at a party or in the supermarket says your name, suddenly all else is silent and you tune in. I no longer go to many parties but I still have a name. This time of year is of course Oscar season. Every time I put on the TV or the radio some celebrite is talking about the Oscars. I feel how a dog in the park must feel with dozens of canine managers calling out "Here boy!". By the way, if you have not seen this little clip of a hapless dog manager calling his pooch I do recommend it.

One of the most compelling names of course is "Dad" or "Mum". I wonder how old you have to be not to turn round when a child calls out for the parent.  As an old guy you have to be so careful not to smile at or acknowledge kids. I mean this in a really serious way incidentally. What would happen to an old bloke who approached a lost distressed child? It would be risky - particularly if you fled into a church as the mob attacked.

So, the Oscars are upon us. Who will win the prize for the Best Screen Poet of all time? Probably no one, because the category does not exist. All the same I am poised to reveal my own stardom on the silver screen – OK, just the TV really. I'm not sure if you get this show in the USA these days but in the UK it is called  "Midsomer Murders". In Europe it seems to run as "Inspector Barnaby".

A couple of years ago, the poet's mate  spotted an advertisement for film extras. All that was needed was a bicycle. We set off on a frosty morning to a portion of pretty Downland. We mingled among the Greats munching bacon sandwiches served from a huge caravan. Thespians ate as if they were people just like me. They smoked cigarettes and practiced riding bikes. For every performer there seemed to be several hundred assistants with loud-hailers (bullhorns), clipboards and luvvy chat. One unfortunate actress had clearly never been on a bike in her life. On the first take she crashed painfully. "Looks like her big break in the movies" quipped an old sweat  cyclist. "CUT!" bellowed a bullhorn. All day we cycled about. At one point we all had to appear to be chatting and looking at the view. We all had to mime because you have to an official thesp to speak. Later they dubbed in mumbling chat done by professional mumblers.

We had a huge lunch and at the end of the day we all received a decent wad of cash. Fortunately for you poor bored patient readers a clip of my starring moment does exist. It is dubbed in Polish but this does not affect my role. I am the old bloke in the black hat and fluoroescent green coat cycling behind an actor at the 30 second point. I do make several other cameo appearances amongst groups of other cyclists. In a whole day we filmed about 40 seconds of programme. As the ceremony unfolds and the gasps and gushes reach a new crescendo of controversy, revealing dresses and thanked mothers I will sit back in my cave nodding sagely as one who knows the inside of the business.

Only Here For the Beer

I do not spend my life in supermarkets. However, the loving poet's mate has a very busy life and the canned fish aisle is as poetic a place as any. Today I went on an important retail mission to buy anchovies and beer. A guy has to prioritise. You can buy a can of anchovy fillets for about 90 pence. It is an admission ticket to a world of Mediterranean sun, olive oil, swarthy leather skinned opera singing artisans  and the salt of centuries and oceans. They are also handy on a pizza.

For £7.50 pence you can buy a cardboard box containing 24 bottles of "Continental" beer. I figured this was a good way to spend my lifetime's royalties as a poet – although I did have to add a heavy subsidy from my real wages.

As I waited at the checkout I fretted that the rather taciturn female at the scanner would scowl at me for being an alcoholic/anorexic. I was prepared with a witty biblical repost about loaves, fishes, water and wine. I recognised her as being the matriarch who had once rejected my basket of cold cure powder and ibuprofen tablets as being excessive medication and against Ministry of Sickness health guidelines.

As I lifted the beer onto the conveyor, the universe intervened with the perfect diversionary tactic. The bottom of the box collapsed and about a dozen bottles shot out, hitting the floor, the bar code barracuda and the conveyor.  Why do big swallowing cracks in the ground only happen in disaster movies? I stood there shrugging and smiling in my sweet/pervy old man deaf mute way as broken glass, beer and foam coursed around my ankles. I became someone else – perhaps a wandering poet uninvolved in a mob of screeching mop carriers. I considered trying to explain. No one seemed interested. Not surprising really.

Poet's cave

I have been giving myself away on KDP. When they told me about this, I thought it was something to do with peanuts but I suppose it has when you think about it. Last time I offered myself I had few takers. This time I shifted about 90 copies and for a few moments was the world's Numero Uno poet, even getting ahead of the dead ones – and that is tough. And that, of course, brings me on to the French Foreign Legion.

In the novel "Beau Geste" the brave legionnaires prop up dead comrades to fool the enemy into thinking they are facing an army. In my Kreative Blogger post I set out 10 "facts" one of which was not true. Yes – I never actually applied to join the French Foreign Legion. I got married and never sent off the forms. It was one of the biggest military set-backs  my mother in law ever suffered.

Dear oh dear – back to the cave.

Things That Go Pump In The Night

February 14th 2012. Yes – it is St Valentine's day – although seemingly no one knows who he was, what he did or why he is associated with love. You know – it is rather British of me to see a sombre side to all the red velvet hearts and roses. My guess is that for each loved and delighted recipient there is a disappointed and lonely figure making the best of it somewhere. There are those who love the wrong person or who found the right one too late. There are those who love the shallow and the cruel and are trapped in their suffering. There are those who cannot love because they were never loved. There are those too wounded to love again and those who wounded cruelly, grown old now and surveying the withered loveless crop they sowed, those bereaved and those abandoned. Today will bear as many tears as kisses. As a poet, I have never written a proper love poem. I did write one about the crime of love. I used legal and criminal terms to reflect the sense in which love can often be seen as wrong and how the ruthless words of law freeze dry its passion.. Here it is:

Offender

No choking by chocolate

No cruel cut of flowers

For these would be treason

Against our State.

With counterfeit notes

Demanding honey with menaces

Loitering with intent to adore -

These be my petty love crimes.

A great favourite poet of mine is Robert Graves. In his poem "Man In The Mirror" he surveys himself and reflects upon his quest for the female. I checked him out on you tube and was amazed to find him performing this poem with video. Just catch that clipped British accent!

I can never let Valentine's day go by without thinking of poor old farmer Boldwood who was so deranged with love for Bathsheba Everdene in Thomas Hardy's "Far from the Madding Crowd".  When she teased him with a Valentine's card she set in a motion events that would lead to his destruction.

I am very loved in my own life. I reflect upon this sometimes remembering Ovid's poem "Remedia Amoris" (the cure for love). He advises catching the horse while you can before it gets into a gallop. Then treat (the disease) early and fill your time with war or law. If all that sounds a bit active there is always the advice in Wendy Cope's poem:

Two cures for love

1 Don't see him. Don't phone or write a letter.

2 The easy way: get to know him better.

Read more: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/home/you/article-1022230/Love–Poems-straight-heart-Wendy-Cope.html#ixzz1mNE5qzTz

What a miserable old git I am! I hope you are having a love filled day. If not – I hope my little dose of cynicism cheers you up. You are not alone.

If you fancy a few more dances around the bonfires of traditions check out  " I Threw A Stone" which is my current collection available on Amazon Kindle. You will find learned masterpieces dealing with Erectile Dysfunction and love in the  "bargain bin consume today" department at Walmart. It has an MP3 audio download (which also plays on the Kindle) and tomorrow on the 15th IT IS FREE on Amazon, worldwide.

 

Amazon USA link

Amazon UK link

Amazon Germany link

Amazon France link

 

In The Belly of The Wail

I've rather been in the poet's cave, like some old catfish under a stone. I would love to have emerged brandishing the final Truth in poetry. What winkled me out was a subject that arose in Emma Calin's blog where she mentioned the enmity between her parents. I always tell folk that I emerged from an egg like a turtle and scurried for the surf. However, there is much poetry about parenthood and I have contributed to it a little in my own poor way.

My favourite parent poem is by the English poet Philip Larkin. No one could ever have viewed him as cheerful. I think many Brits of my own generation will still be very aware of him, but poetry still had some kind of main stream potency in those days, a bit like an express steam train. Here is his poem "This Be the Verse".

I'm sure that cheered you all up. Looking back I think that my awareness of this pessimistic poem while I was bringing up my own kids, at least made me aware that I was getting it wrong. Judging by the tracks in the sand, they should be competent turtles.

And talking of sand, I have been walking on it. Living near the coast, I'm sure I take for granted my opportunities to see the ocean. I managed to scramble under a pier and took the featured photo. There is something darkly sinister about pillars and dark water.

Comrade poets – unite with me and enjoy a poem by the American poet Jo VonBargen entitled "The Garden". If nothing else check out the last 6 lines. Her style in this poem is rich and sensual and will inject some complex passionate irony back into your veins. At once Pre Raphaelite images  flooded my mind. Pure overdose my dears.

Blow Out Your Kite

I love kites. Just saying the word has made me want to write a poem about kites – not about the fabric but about their embodiment of hope and possibility, about the vision lost in the blinding sun, the futility of fighting Nature on a windless day, the paradox of a thing set free, yet to fly only because it is tethered. So many philosophical  thoughts arise in contemplation of the kite that it is hardly necessary to bother standing in the park, often with a bored child in attendance, running running running and running to launch a dream into the air of nonchalant breeze-less afternoon.

I do go on – but it's the poet in me. The actual tethered end of the above ethereal paragraph is the subject of my FREE week-end on KDP select. As regular readers will know, I am not very computerate. Also I know nothing about building platforms, operating audio equipment, kite flying and e-pub/marketing. The more I read, the less I know. Writers selflessly give of themselves to help other writers. This aspect of the "community" is almost an antithesis of many aspects of our modern lives. Because I just cannot do all the left right click, hash pipe, salt delete I am grateful to a small outfit who keep me a little bit free to write, THINK and make some money by working. So it was that this morning I went for coffee with Rosina from Gallo-Romano and of course dear old Emma who is to blame for coercing me into this whole new world.

This is what has been happening. Over the past weekend both of us put our books out for free on all the Amazon platforms. Everything was pulled off other sites since Amazon is more or less the whole deal anyway. Emma will do her own take tomorrow for the Insecure Writers but she is happy for me to give her stats. OK – the situation was that we were putting out a collection of poems, a serious short story and a "supermarket" style romance novel. Even for a non worldly duffer poet, this seemed like an intriguing experiment. These are the raw download stats.

Supermarket Romance Novel: 7,600

Literary Short Story(With MP3 audio): 328

Poetry Collection (with MP3 audio): 121

All items were equally tweeted, splashed and splattered, battered and finally tattered. Downloads ran at about one per minute I think. Since the free deal ended, actual sales have continued at one per hour but only for the Romance. On a recent blog line I noted a comment by Jack Durish about so many questions in this whole business and I'm sure Rosina will be looking into her marketing ball. However, the quick snap shot suggests that these figures are in line with tree book shop sales. Although the poetry fared worst, it still reached the highest "chart" position for a living poet. What does that tell you about poetry sales in general and probably the acceptance by the e-reading public of this form? Rosina has a working hypothesis that the current e-read top up is like putting fuel in the tank of your car. You consume it. You do not  periodically take off the cap and sniff its essence. But – it's all early days as these platforms evolve. I think the adaptation and media consciousness of writers will decide the future as much as the technology.

I will not grind on with analysis, but one odd stat. Emma's "Sub Prime" was selling equally with the Romance when it was not free. Obviously it's about the audience demographic…you can tell I've been mixing with buzzy bizzy folks can't you.

Oh – yes  the kite. Somewhere above you there are currents of air. Can you run fast enough and long enough to tow it up to catch them? As you let go more line, the friction and weight of the string create more drag and you have to run faster. Oh – sod it, I'm off to the poet's cave to write a kite poem.

PS For my non UK readers, an old London song carried the refrain "blow out your kite/from  morn til night/on boiled beef and carrots

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Oh – Glorious Moon With All Thy Shoon

Oh – Glorious moon / with all thy shoon.  Well – we all dread poetry do we not? The opening line is from a remembered radio sketch by a British comedian called Tony Hancock. He played the part of a pretentious poet who held forth with his rhymes in any kind of social situation whether wanted or not. Hancock's parody reveals a solemn truth about our inner selves. We hate to be embarrassed. All that inner "tosh" is for dreamers and arty types. It sure ain't for bottom line corporate thrusters or geezers wot just gets on with life. Nah – all that stuff is for them softies wot can't get a hard on( a stiffie) or sits about  weepin' at the paradox of beauty set in savagery. If ya ask me they're all a load of poofs and wierdos. Me – I'd make 'em all sweep the streets or just lock 'em up. Nah mate – I can't be doin' with any of that fairy shit .I'm a regular kinda guy…..

Perhaps my own parody is a little cruel. I bet there's a few of you out there who will recognise a hint of this attitude. There are a couple of UK newspapers that rejoice in this kind of approach.

This weekend both myself and Emma Calin have got our books free for two days on Amazon Kindle as part of the grand KDP Select experiment.  The only reason for this is that we both work via Gallo-Romano media who do our formatting and techie stuff. All the platform building and net mending is too much for me. How on earth folk do it all on their own I just do not know. Now, here are the stats: Emma is grabbing 90% of the downloads. This means that free poetry with free MP3 audio is grabbing 10%. Well – this is 5 times more than the general market share for poetry. But am I grateful? Nah!

Oh please gentle citizens – check out my FREE poetry. All poetry products are delivered in plain wrappers by our discreet deaf mute robots  No one will ever know…..

Amazon USA

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