Stories, Poems and Other Stuff...
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts

Tuesday, June 03, 2014

Advice




Never pass on the chance to use a toilet.
This is especially prudent when traveling eastward
from Barstow.
Sure, you can pull off to the side of the road,
but you run into the chance of getting bit by a scorpion
with your pants down. Nobody wants to leave a corpse
that way.
Don't eat seafood in Kansas City, or anywhere within
a 800 mile radius.
Doing so will swear one off of lobster forever.
Trust me on this one.
Never pick your nose in traffic.
You are not invisible while in your car.
Make sure to tell those dear to you that you
love them.
Make sure to tell your adversaries that you
hate them.
Say hi to your mailman. He has a hard job and enjoys idle
chit chat.
Create at least one thing in your life.
Children don't count. That's a colaboraton.
Clean out your wallet once in a while.
Sometimes you'll find cash that you forgot about
because you are getting older.
Don't tell others what to do.
Don't let others tell you what
to do.
Never make your bed.
Drink a lot of beer in moderation.
Only shop at Walmart for entertainment.
Be all that you can be,
but not in the Army.
Most of all,
don't listen to the advice from anyone
willing to give it freely.


© Charles Scott 2014

*I may have to add to this as time goes by*

Sunday, June 01, 2014

Parent of the Year (or, making beer money with dad)

 


CRACK!
I never saw the old man
move that fast.
I mean, one minute he's
holding a cue, the next
he's hitting this poor mark
with 18 oz of wood
on the side of the head.
That poor guy didn't see
it coming.
Hell, I didn't see it
coming.
"C'mon, we gotta go,"
I tell my dad as he is grabbing the guys money
off the table.
I pull dad along as stunned,
angry,
rednecks
start to head our way.
Okay, let me tell you,
I thought I was dead,
or at best
left in a coma
if we didn't leave.
If he weren't my dad
I would have left him.
I know any other
hustling,
drunk,
septuagenarian
would have died that night.
I pushed the old man
into the Cordoba,
prayed it would
start. (it did)
We peeled away,
no headlights in the
rear view.
"How much did we make?"
I asked.
"$40.00."
The rest of the ride home
was silent.



© Charles Scott 2014

Monday, May 26, 2014

From Matthew J. Hall

 This needs to be in a physical form that fits into a back pocket to be taken out more often than not and read.



From the Depths and Through the Madness

From Matthew J. Hall

 This needs to be in a physical form that fits into a back pocket to be taken out more often than not and read.



From the Depths and Through the Madness

Saturday, May 24, 2014

Kicking Myself In The Ass

Saturday mornings are generally quiet times for me. After having to wake up at 5:30 for the last twenty or so years, my body has been conditioned to wake up at the same time each day. I like the chance for quiet reflection, reading, writing and clearing my head from the hectic week before. This Saturday I was on my third cup of coffee, catching up on blogs and emails when I found myself thinking about where I am in regards to my poetry, writing and where I want to go with all of this “artistic” endeavor.

This age of blogs and social networking has made it easy to be a part of any community without actually being in physical contact. I am part of a few poetry groups on Facebook. I regularly check out what others are doing within the poetry scene locally. Yet it has occurred to me that I do not get out and physically network with people. Okay, networking sounds like a selfish, look at me approach. What I am trying to convey here is that I don't get out and interact with other writers and poets in my area (and there are a lot of stellar poets and writers in Kansas City) In the last year I have been to one poetry reading. Just one. I really enjoyed it. I always have the intention of going to any of the regularly scheduled readings, events and so on. Somehow life gets in the way. (usually in the form of a twelve hour day, on call schedule and everyday existence)

This got me to thinking about the number one excuse people, who say they are writers, use when trying to justify their lack of progress. The, “I don't have enough time to write.” defense.

A lot of writers, those writing, have full time jobs that have nothing to do with writing. They also have families, bills and are forced to do the menial tasks needed for everyday life. I know Bukowski had a shitty time suck job. I also know he did his own laundry at the laundromat. (I watched Born Into This the other night and he was filmed loading his laundry into his car) I am pretty sure Vonnegut mowed his own lawn. Hell, he even sold two stroke Saabs after his first published novel!

I write this with lofty aspirations of being a full time writer one day. This may be realized on the day of my retirement from plumbing. It may come sooner. I don't know. I have never been good at reading the stars. Like any other occupation, I know that I will have to get out and meet people, join a group or workshop. When I decided to put more time and effort into writing I knew it would be hard. It has paid off in, if nothing else, the satisfaction in knowing that I am creating something. Knowing that, in the truest sense, I am a Writer. Now I just need to get out and present it.

So, to the poets and writers in Kansas City I want to say thank you for inviting me to events. I ask that you continue to do so. I also ask that, if you see me in a bookstore, walking down the street or driving through Kansas City that you would grab me by the neck and force me to attend something. I am easily lured by whiskey, beer and sometimes cheese.

Also, after checking out my blog stats, I have noticed that I have been getting hits from the U.K., Germany, Lithuania, France and the U.S.A.. Let it be known, I like to travel. Hit me up. As I said before, I am easily lured by whiskey, beer and sometimes cheese. I am always lured by cash.



© Charles Scott 2014

Kicking Myself In The Ass

Saturday mornings are generally quiet times for me. After having to wake up at 5:30 for the last twenty or so years, my body has been conditioned to wake up at the same time each day. I like the chance for quiet reflection, reading, writing and clearing my head from the hectic week before. This Saturday I was on my third cup of coffee, catching up on blogs and emails when I found myself thinking about where I am in regards to my poetry, writing and where I want to go with all of this “artistic” endeavor.

This age of blogs and social networking has made it easy to be a part of any community without actually being in physical contact. I am part of a few poetry groups on Facebook. I regularly check out what others are doing within the poetry scene locally. Yet it has occurred to me that I do not get out and physically network with people. Okay, networking sounds like a selfish, look at me approach. What I am trying to convey here is that I don't get out and interact with other writers and poets in my area (and there are a lot of stellar poets and writers in Kansas City) In the last year I have been to one poetry reading. Just one. I really enjoyed it. I always have the intention of going to any of the regularly scheduled readings, events and so on. Somehow life gets in the way. (usually in the form of a twelve hour day, on call schedule and everyday existence)

This got me to thinking about the number one excuse people, who say they are writers, use when trying to justify their lack of progress. The, “I don't have enough time to write.” defense.

A lot of writers, those writing, have full time jobs that have nothing to do with writing. They also have families, bills and are forced to do the menial tasks needed for everyday life. I know Bukowski had a shitty time suck job. I also know he did his own laundry at the laundromat. (I watched Born Into This the other night and he was filmed loading his laundry into his car) I am pretty sure Vonnegut mowed his own lawn. Hell, he even sold two stroke Saabs after his first published novel!

I write this with lofty aspirations of being a full time writer one day. This may be realized on the day of my retirement from plumbing. It may come sooner. I don't know. I have never been good at reading the stars. Like any other occupation, I know that I will have to get out and meet people, join a group or workshop. When I decided to put more time and effort into writing I knew it would be hard. It has paid off in, if nothing else, the satisfaction in knowing that I am creating something. Knowing that, in the truest sense, I am a Writer. Now I just need to get out and present it.

So, to the poets and writers in Kansas City I want to say thank you for inviting me to events. I ask that you continue to do so. I also ask that, if you see me in a bookstore, walking down the street or driving through Kansas City that you would grab me by the neck and force me to attend something. I am easily lured by whiskey, beer and sometimes cheese.

Also, after checking out my blog stats, I have noticed that I have been getting hits from the U.K., Germany, Lithuania, France and the U.S.A.. Let it be known, I like to travel. Hit me up. As I said before, I am easily lured by whiskey, beer and sometimes cheese. I am always lured by cash.



© Charles Scott 2014

A Poem Written for Those of Us Waking Up and Realizing We Got on the Wrong Bus

 
I'm mad....
I am pissed off
at the whole
bill of goods.
Epiphany sucks
the marrow
out of the
strongest of bones!



© Charles Scott 2014

A Poem Written for Those of Us Waking Up and Realizing We Got on the Wrong Bus

 
I'm mad....
I am pissed off
at the whole
bill of goods.
Epiphany sucks
the marrow
out of the
strongest of bones!



© Charles Scott 2014

Saturday, May 10, 2014

A Good Poem



I was asked,
“When do you know you have written a good poem?”
Oh, the question
I have yet to answer.
I don't know. I haven't written one yet.

Bad poetry is easy to spot,
but a good one
takes time to read, ingest,
digest.- whereas,
a bad one burns
the stomach
and no amount
of antacid, Pepto
or Prilosec
will cure it.

A good poem
makes the poet go mad
looking for
the right word
-not any word-
the perfect word,
torn from the bone
and placed on the plate
to be devoured,
filling the gut.

Yet still needing to
mirror life,
mundane...exciting,
mediocre...explosive!

A good poem,
to the poet,
is as evasive as
The Flying Dutchman,
Elvis or
D.B. Cooper.

A good poem
is best created at night (so says Hank)
anything else is like
running naked through a shopping mall.
It is best created
with a warm buzz
of beer,
whiskey
or cheap homemade wine.
The lack of either creates MADNESS.
The surfeit creates
beauty.

A good poem
rips the heart out,
mends the soul,
exposes the truth
and exaggerates
the
mundane.


© Charles Scott 2014

A Good Poem



I was asked,
“When do you know you have written a good poem?”
Oh, the question
I have yet to answer.
I don't know. I haven't written one yet.

Bad poetry is easy to spot,
but a good one
takes time to read, ingest,
digest.- whereas,
a bad one burns
the stomach
and no amount
of antacid, Pepto
or Prilosec
will cure it.

A good poem
makes the poet go mad
looking for
the right word
-not any word-
the perfect word,
torn from the bone
and placed on the plate
to be devoured,
filling the gut.

Yet still needing to
mirror life,
mundane...exciting,
mediocre...explosive!

A good poem,
to the poet,
is as evasive as
The Flying Dutchman,
Elvis or
D.B. Cooper.

A good poem
is best created at night (so says Hank)
anything else is like
running naked through a shopping mall.
It is best created
with a warm buzz
of beer,
whiskey
or cheap homemade wine.
The lack of either creates MADNESS.
The surfeit creates
beauty.

A good poem
rips the heart out,
mends the soul,
exposes the truth
and exaggerates
the
mundane.


© Charles Scott 2014

Sunday, March 16, 2014

Five Questions With Matthew J Hall

They say that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. They also try and tell us what beauty is. They also say that eating cheese and drinking whiskey is bad for you......What do they know? And who the hell are theyanyway?



To me poetry is more than rhyme and meter. It is more than a love letter. It is more than a lyrical picture of some natural setting. There is room for all of that stuff within poetry, just not on my bookshelf. No, to me poetry is a kick in the gut, raw emotion, coming from the darker, hidden recesses of our minds. An exploration into the caverns where all the bad things, the unpleasant and ordinary things, dwell...the stuff we hide or forget about.



There needs to be a bit of the soul in every poem. That is where the life is. A life not lived with rainbows and love songs, but one that is lived everyday....A life of the ordinary, in real situations, thinking real thoughts that we all think, but never talk about. That is the kick in the gut.



In this first installment of Five Questions I want to present to you Matthew J Hall. Sometime last year I came across his poetry in Kleft Jaw (an online lit mag) or from one of my many nights scouring the internet for good poetry. I remember reading the poem, “When We Were Kids” and was blown away by it's pensive quality. Like most people, I find myself reminiscing. Usually it is not about the spectacular events, but more the mundane stuff that actually shapes us. This poem reminds me of times spent remembering the little things, some good, some bad and how those moments molded me into the person I am today.





When We Were Kids



growing up in a small market town

we didn't have a shopping centre

or a cinema or a train station



the police station had two cells

the library had three sections

the museum had a penny farthing



my brother and I used to sneak behind the slaughterhouse

and lift the lid of a metal trolley so we could stare at the sheep guts

and the maggots therein

the stench was phenomenal

I can smell it now



our school building was white and held all the appearance of a hospital

during long summer nights of the sort that can only exist in memory

we would clamber on top of the roof and smoke our secret cigarettes



one of my teachers hung himself

a boy's father also hung himself

as did a boy a year my junior



all of this was before the age of mobile phones

my friends and I would make prank calls and laugh

inside of red telephone boxes



I stepped inside of one the other day

in order to reminisce

there was a fine black spider hanging from the receiver

he looked like he had been there for quite some time



I dialled a number and while I waited for an answer

I thought about suicide and rooftops

blue skies and cigarettes

maggots and discarded animal insides

Matthew J. Hall




Matthew J Hall is a poet in the truest sense. He puts on the page that which is in his heart. And that, a life lived in the day to day is beauty.



So is cheese and whiskey.



Note: There are links below that I wanted to cleverly insert into the text. However, I am not as tech savvy as I once was, so please check them out. You will not be disappointed.









Five Questions With: Matthew J. Hall












1. What/who inspired you to start writing?

I come from quite a musical family and started playing the guitar when I was about nine. I was too lazy to learn other people's songs all the way through so I started writing my own. When I was about ten, I heard John Lee Hooker's 'Boom Boom', even at such a young age I was blown away by the sound and raw emotion of it. Most blues songs tell a story. So, I started writing my own and continued throughout my youth. All these songs and stories were written into the pages of a notebook until it was full and then I'd throw it away. Not because I thought what I'd written was worthless, more a case of the pages having served their purpose. In some ways nothing has changed, no matter how pleased I am when a piece gets accepted, it's the actual act of getting the words down that inspires me to write. I didn't start seeking publication until the last few years and that was only because I had been writing more and more and started to feel that as it was taking up so much of my time, maybe I should do something with it rather than just continue to fill notebooks.



2. How would you describe your writing style? or describe your process

I generally write in the mornings because I work in the evening. I don't have a process in terms of structure and routine. I feel like too much of life is about turning up at a certain time and following process and procedure. The day I start writing like that, will be the day the fun stops and consequentially, so will the writing. I smoke a ton of cigarettes and drink a lot of coffee when I write. Most of the poems I've written drunk have been total shit. The first third of a bottle of whiskey is fairly sharp and creative, but then I get greedy and everything goes to hell. The rhythm's off and I churn out every cliché in the drunk-ass book. I never write hungover, the guilt won't allow it. I don't really know what my writing style is. I know I like the idea of writing with brevity, hence the name of my blog, Screaming With Brevity. Less is more, but only when it's written well. Particularly, in poetry I tend to be drawn towards the less verbose writers. I like poems that are lyrical without wasting words. For me a good poem will quickly remind you of things you may not want to remember.



3. What are common themes in your writing?

My poetry tends to lean towards the literal rather than the abstract, although I certainly do enjoy the metaphor. I've had my battles with addiction over the years and due to those experiences I'm quite interested in inner conflict, which shows up frequently. I have written some fairly dark shit, but hope is certainly a reoccurring theme.



4. What are you working on right now?

Writing poetry is ongoing for me and I get such fullfilment from it. Last year I really enjoyed putting together a few short collections of poetry and making them available online and this year I'd like to combine those books, add some some additional material and publish it as a print edition. Writing fiction, on the other hand, doesn't come so easily. A couple of weeks ago on my blog I announced 2014 as the year I would be focusing more on writing fiction and hopefully having some published. Those are the two main things I'll be working on this year.



5. Brushes with celebrity

I walked past Pulp's front man Jarvis Cocker in Hyde Park, London once. I don't know if they made much headway in the States but they were fairly significant during the whole Brit-Pop scene in 1990's England. I didn't really care for his band but I did enjoy the radio documentary he presented for the BBC last year on the life and work of Richard Brautigan



Question 3. www.screamingwithbrevity.com

Question 4. http://issuu.com/mjh1979

Question 4. http://www.screamingwithbrevity.com/fictitious-aspirations/

Question 5. http://www.brautigan.net/


#interviewmatthewjhall #poetry #fivequestionswith
© Charles Scott 2014

Five Questions With Matthew J Hall

They say that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. They also try and tell us what beauty is. They also say that eating cheese and drinking whiskey is bad for you......What do they know? And who the hell are they anyway?



To me poetry is more than rhyme and meter. It is more than a love letter. It is more than a lyrical picture of some natural setting. There is room for all of that stuff within poetry, just not on my bookshelf. No, to me poetry is a kick in the gut, raw emotion, coming from the darker, hidden recesses of our minds. An exploration into the caverns where all the bad things, the unpleasant and ordinary things, dwell...the stuff we hide or forget about.



There needs to be a bit of the soul in every poem. That is where the life is. A life not lived with rainbows and love songs, but one that is lived everyday....A life of the ordinary, in real situations, thinking real thoughts that we all think, but never talk about. That is the kick in the gut.



In this first installment of Five Questions I want to present to you Matthew J Hall. Sometime last year I came across his poetry in Kleft Jaw (an online lit mag) or from one of my many nights scouring the internet for good poetry. I remember reading the poem, “When We Were Kids” and was blown away by it's pensive quality. Like most people, I find myself reminiscing. Usually it is not about the spectacular events, but more the mundane stuff that actually shapes us. This poem reminds me of times spent remembering the little things, some good, some bad and how those moments molded me into the person I am today.





When We Were Kids



growing up in a small market town

we didn't have a shopping centre

or a cinema or a train station



the police station had two cells

the library had three sections

the museum had a penny farthing



my brother and I used to sneak behind the slaughterhouse

and lift the lid of a metal trolley so we could stare at the sheep guts

and the maggots therein

the stench was phenomenal

I can smell it now



our school building was white and held all the appearance of a hospital

during long summer nights of the sort that can only exist in memory

we would clamber on top of the roof and smoke our secret cigarettes



one of my teachers hung himself

a boy's father also hung himself

as did a boy a year my junior



all of this was before the age of mobile phones

my friends and I would make prank calls and laugh

inside of red telephone boxes



I stepped inside of one the other day

in order to reminisce

there was a fine black spider hanging from the receiver

he looked like he had been there for quite some time



I dialled a number and while I waited for an answer

I thought about suicide and rooftops

blue skies and cigarettes

maggots and discarded animal insides

Matthew J. Hall




Matthew J Hall is a poet in the truest sense. He puts on the page that which is in his heart. And that, a life lived in the day to day is beauty.



So is cheese and whiskey.



Note: There are links below that I wanted to cleverly insert into the text. However, I am not as tech savvy as I once was, so please check them out. You will not be disappointed.









Five Questions With: Matthew J. Hall












1. What/who inspired you to start writing?

I come from quite a musical family and started playing the guitar when I was about nine. I was too lazy to learn other people's songs all the way through so I started writing my own. When I was about ten, I heard John Lee Hooker's 'Boom Boom', even at such a young age I was blown away by the sound and raw emotion of it. Most blues songs tell a story. So, I started writing my own and continued throughout my youth. All these songs and stories were written into the pages of a notebook until it was full and then I'd throw it away. Not because I thought what I'd written was worthless, more a case of the pages having served their purpose. In some ways nothing has changed, no matter how pleased I am when a piece gets accepted, it's the actual act of getting the words down that inspires me to write. I didn't start seeking publication until the last few years and that was only because I had been writing more and more and started to feel that as it was taking up so much of my time, maybe I should do something with it rather than just continue to fill notebooks.



2. How would you describe your writing style? or describe your process

I generally write in the mornings because I work in the evening. I don't have a process in terms of structure and routine. I feel like too much of life is about turning up at a certain time and following process and procedure. The day I start writing like that, will be the day the fun stops and consequentially, so will the writing. I smoke a ton of cigarettes and drink a lot of coffee when I write. Most of the poems I've written drunk have been total shit. The first third of a bottle of whiskey is fairly sharp and creative, but then I get greedy and everything goes to hell. The rhythm's off and I churn out every cliché in the drunk-ass book. I never write hungover, the guilt won't allow it. I don't really know what my writing style is. I know I like the idea of writing with brevity, hence the name of my blog, Screaming With Brevity. Less is more, but only when it's written well. Particularly, in poetry I tend to be drawn towards the less verbose writers. I like poems that are lyrical without wasting words. For me a good poem will quickly remind you of things you may not want to remember.



3. What are common themes in your writing?

My poetry tends to lean towards the literal rather than the abstract, although I certainly do enjoy the metaphor. I've had my battles with addiction over the years and due to those experiences I'm quite interested in inner conflict, which shows up frequently. I have written some fairly dark shit, but hope is certainly a reoccurring theme.



4. What are you working on right now?

Writing poetry is ongoing for me and I get such fullfilment from it. Last year I really enjoyed putting together a few short collections of poetry and making them available online and this year I'd like to combine those books, add some some additional material and publish it as a print edition. Writing fiction, on the other hand, doesn't come so easily. A couple of weeks ago on my blog I announced 2014 as the year I would be focusing more on writing fiction and hopefully having some published. Those are the two main things I'll be working on this year.



5. Brushes with celebrity

I walked past Pulp's front man Jarvis Cocker in Hyde Park, London once. I don't know if they made much headway in the States but they were fairly significant during the whole Brit-Pop scene in 1990's England. I didn't really care for his band but I did enjoy the radio documentary he presented for the BBC last year on the life and work of Richard Brautigan



Question 3. www.screamingwithbrevity.com

Question 4. http://issuu.com/mjh1979

Question 4. http://www.screamingwithbrevity.com/fictitious-aspirations/

Question 5. http://www.brautigan.net/


#interviewmatthewjhall #poetry #fivequestionswith
© Charles Scott 2014

Monday, March 10, 2014

Frank Reardon....My next book purchase

My next book purchase.




 Frank Reardon



The Open Road of Your Bookcase

When a man has nothing but his
name and a mouthful of words, no
money just personal hate and inner
famine, when the road opens up in
front of his old beat up shoes, the
possibilities become limitless. The
cynics and elitists vanish. Those
doubt soaked ladies become tiny
incidents. The memories decide not
to pan out and the jobs could be
anything: fisherman, lumberjack,
miner, store clerk, or the priest
of a lonely heart.

The road is experience and truth.
It's the place of one thousand ghosts.
It becomes the palace of your open
mast (the one you simplify with true
grit and courage.) When a man has
simple things like notebooks, pens,
selected music, and powerful works
from the typewriter, he can see people
stripped to the bone. He can see a
man's blood pump on the outside. He
can tell what comfort really does for
the people of the arm chair relax. Art
never had a bigger challenge than that
of true passion taken by feet that truly
need to see the earth.

To see and to meet, to plunge the
knife in deeply, to taste and to seek.
I shall gain this knowledge by rafting
across the great colony of despair and
seeing the real suffering. The real deal
all over, not to look within the same
walls of one, two, or three towns, I shall
listen to similar winds across the plains
of my own sorrows and gain the slick
confidence that most will not even
attempt to try. I'm not better or worse,
but I seek formal gain and a card
player’s smile. When I leave your
town I will open my brain and suck in
your truths, and before I leave upon this
road again, I shall leave myself upon
the shelves of your bookcase.

Frank Reardon....My next book purchase

My next book purchase.




 Frank Reardon



The Open Road of Your Bookcase

When a man has nothing but his
name and a mouthful of words, no
money just personal hate and inner
famine, when the road opens up in
front of his old beat up shoes, the
possibilities become limitless. The
cynics and elitists vanish. Those
doubt soaked ladies become tiny
incidents. The memories decide not
to pan out and the jobs could be
anything: fisherman, lumberjack,
miner, store clerk, or the priest
of a lonely heart.

The road is experience and truth.
It's the place of one thousand ghosts.
It becomes the palace of your open
mast (the one you simplify with true
grit and courage.) When a man has
simple things like notebooks, pens,
selected music, and powerful works
from the typewriter, he can see people
stripped to the bone. He can see a
man's blood pump on the outside. He
can tell what comfort really does for
the people of the arm chair relax. Art
never had a bigger challenge than that
of true passion taken by feet that truly
need to see the earth.

To see and to meet, to plunge the
knife in deeply, to taste and to seek.
I shall gain this knowledge by rafting
across the great colony of despair and
seeing the real suffering. The real deal
all over, not to look within the same
walls of one, two, or three towns, I shall
listen to similar winds across the plains
of my own sorrows and gain the slick
confidence that most will not even
attempt to try. I'm not better or worse,
but I seek formal gain and a card
player’s smile. When I leave your
town I will open my brain and suck in
your truths, and before I leave upon this
road again, I shall leave myself upon
the shelves of your bookcase.