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

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.

Coming Soon

I read. I read a lot. It is not uncommon for me to have a few books in various stages of reading, along with reading magazines, journals and literary magazines (especially online rags). What I am about to say is in no way a form of bragging, however, as a result of all my reading I come across a lot of really good authors and poets that most have never read.

I also think. I think a lot. Okay, I daydream. I have hours during any given day to think about a good many things. Story ideas. Poems. My bank account. So, while thinking the other day I had the idea to start something that would highlight some of the writers I have been reading as of late. Mind you, there is a bunch of crap out there, but there is also really good stuff out there that deserves to be read by people other than writers. What I came up with is quite possibly the most brilliant idea I have ever come up with. Of course I don't have many good ideas, so this is as good as it gets...

I have added an installment to my blog titled: Five Questions With: (insert writer here)

Each piece will highlight a writer or poet who I am reading and is willing to answer questions from an unknown writer. (that would be me)

I am hoping to have the first installment within the next few weeks. Keep checking in. I promise that you will not be disappointed when it finally arrives.

© Charles Scott 2014

Coming Soon

I read. I read a lot. It is not uncommon for me to have a few books in various stages of reading, along with reading magazines, journals and literary magazines (especially online rags). What I am about to say is in no way a form of bragging, however, as a result of all my reading I come across a lot of really good authors and poets that most have never read.

I also think. I think a lot. Okay, I daydream. I have hours during any given day to think about a good many things. Story ideas. Poems. My bank account. So, while thinking the other day I had the idea to start something that would highlight some of the writers I have been reading as of late. Mind you, there is a bunch of crap out there, but there is also really good stuff out there that deserves to be read by people other than writers. What I came up with is quite possibly the most brilliant idea I have ever come up with. Of course I don't have many good ideas, so this is as good as it gets...

I have added an installment to my blog titled: Five Questions With: (insert writer here)

Each piece will highlight a writer or poet who I am reading and is willing to answer questions from an unknown writer. (that would be me)

I am hoping to have the first installment within the next few weeks. Keep checking in. I promise that you will not be disappointed when it finally arrives.

© Charles Scott 2014

Stuff I read while waiting to write...

 Check out Matthew J. Hall's site:  http://www.screamingwithbrevity.com


I long for the day when I can eat cheese and drink whiskey without interruption.

Stuff I read while waiting to write...

 Check out Matthew J. Hall's site:  http://www.screamingwithbrevity.com


I long for the day when I can eat cheese and drink whiskey without interruption.

Books I forgot about..

Something to read........© Charles Scott 2013

Books I forgot about..

Something to read........© Charles Scott 2013

Clubbing 1988

 A writing exercise that keeps me writing daily. Not a lot of words per day, but word count does not matter so much in this. Normally it involves a couple of paragraphs, maybe a sentence or two, or some obscure, archaic word along with definition written down to make me feel literary and ease my addiction to the act of writing. Some days I feel like a weaning puppy. The following is an addition to something I posted a few days ago. I have no idea which way this is going. Maybe Robert will score. Maybe Jenny will mace Robert and kick him in the gut as he claws at his burning eyes. Maybe they will date, get married and raise a child who later becomes a serial killer, or televangelist. One thing remains, it is still just an exercise.

Clubbing 1988

The smell of smoke machine, dimly lit dance floor pierced by flashes of red green and blue with bursts of seizure inducing strobe guarantee blurry, red eyes in the morning. New Order's Blue Monday at a billion decibels turn flesh bags, dressed in black, into a synchronized dervish. Sweat, various body odors and stale vomit fill the air. Yet no one cares. --All everyone wants to do is dance.--

All conversations, if we were to read them in an email or text, are all CAPS!

Jenny slips on the sweaty dance floor, crashing on her ass. She is noticed by one of the many males similarly dressed in black, “ARE YOU OK?” he asks.

Jenny, looking embarrassed and perplexed replies, “NO, I AM NOT GAY!” She thought, “ Who asks that?”

“NOT GAY. ARE YOU OK?”

Ah, she thinks, that makes more sense. “YES!” She reaches to the back of her dress and notices that it is wet. “IS MY ASS WET?” turning her back toward the Robert Smith clone.

“NO. IT IS RATHER SMALL!”

Again with the perplexed look, Jenny just goes with it and says thanks, walks toward the exit.

Vampire Diaries follows her. They get close to the exit, and can talk in a normal register. “My name is Robert.”

“Jenny.”Slight editing (slight is an understatement) a few more words and still no idea where this is going.

Clubbing 1988

The smell of smoke machine, dimly lit dance floor pierced by flashes of red green and blue with bursts of seizure inducing strobe guarantee blurry, red eyes in the morning. New Order's Blue Monday at a billion decibels turn flesh bags, dressed in black, into a synchronized dervish. Sweat, various body odors and stale vomit fill the air. Yet no one cares. --All everyone wants to do is dance.--

All conversations, if we were to read them in an email or text, are all CAPS!

Jenny slips on the sweaty dance floor, crashing on her ass. She is noticed by one of the many males similarly dressed in black, “ARE YOU OK?” he asks.

Jenny, looking embarrassed and perplexed replies, “NO, I AM NOT GAY!” She thought, “ Who asks that?”

“NOT GAY. ARE YOU OK?”

Ah, she thinks, that makes more sense. “YES!” She reaches to the back of her dress and notices that it is wet. “IS MY ASS WET?” turning her back toward the Robert Smith clone.

“NO. IT IS RATHER SMALL!”

Again with the perplexed look, Jenny just goes with it and says thanks, walks toward the exit.

Vampire Diaries follows her. They get close to the exit, and can talk in a normal register. “My name is Robert.”

“Jenny.”

As all of this is going on one of the bartenders slices his hand while cutting a lime; a hippie wearing something other than black, sticking out like a hippie in a sea of goths, sits in a corner attempting to light a joint with a spent Bic lighter; I am puking in the piss stained bathroom. The assumption from everyone close to me is that I am drunk. In fact, I am not drunk, but suffering from food poisoning contracted from a rancid gyro eaten a few hours prior.




© Charles Scott 2013

Clubbing 1988

 A writing exercise that keeps me writing daily. Not a lot of words per day, but word count does not matter so much in this. Normally it involves a couple of paragraphs, maybe a sentence or two, or some obscure, archaic word along with definition written down to make me feel literary and ease my addiction to the act of writing. Some days I feel like a weaning puppy. The following is an addition to something I posted a few days ago. I have no idea which way this is going. Maybe Robert will score. Maybe Jenny will mace Robert and kick him in the gut as he claws at his burning eyes. Maybe they will date, get married and raise a child who later becomes a serial killer, or televangelist. One thing remains, it is still just an exercise.

Clubbing 1988

The smell of smoke machine, dimly lit dance floor pierced by flashes of red green and blue with bursts of seizure inducing strobe guarantee blurry, red eyes in the morning. New Order's Blue Monday at a billion decibels turn flesh bags, dressed in black, into a synchronized dervish. Sweat, various body odors and stale vomit fill the air. Yet no one cares. --All everyone wants to do is dance.--

All conversations, if we were to read them in an email or text, are all CAPS!

Jenny slips on the sweaty dance floor, crashing on her ass. She is noticed by one of the many males similarly dressed in black, “ARE YOU OK?” he asks.

Jenny, looking embarrassed and perplexed replies, “NO, I AM NOT GAY!” She thought, “ Who asks that?”

“NOT GAY. ARE YOU OK?”

Ah, she thinks, that makes more sense. “YES!” She reaches to the back of her dress and notices that it is wet. “IS MY ASS WET?” turning her back toward the Robert Smith clone.

“NO. IT IS RATHER SMALL!”

Again with the perplexed look, Jenny just goes with it and says thanks, walks toward the exit.

Vampire Diaries follows her. They get close to the exit, and can talk in a normal register. “My name is Robert.”

“Jenny.”Slight editing (slight is an understatement) a few more words and still no idea where this is going.

Clubbing 1988

The smell of smoke machine, dimly lit dance floor pierced by flashes of red green and blue with bursts of seizure inducing strobe guarantee blurry, red eyes in the morning. New Order's Blue Monday at a billion decibels turn flesh bags, dressed in black, into a synchronized dervish. Sweat, various body odors and stale vomit fill the air. Yet no one cares. --All everyone wants to do is dance.--

All conversations, if we were to read them in an email or text, are all CAPS!

Jenny slips on the sweaty dance floor, crashing on her ass. She is noticed by one of the many males similarly dressed in black, “ARE YOU OK?” he asks.

Jenny, looking embarrassed and perplexed replies, “NO, I AM NOT GAY!” She thought, “ Who asks that?”

“NOT GAY. ARE YOU OK?”

Ah, she thinks, that makes more sense. “YES!” She reaches to the back of her dress and notices that it is wet. “IS MY ASS WET?” turning her back toward the Robert Smith clone.

“NO. IT IS RATHER SMALL!”

Again with the perplexed look, Jenny just goes with it and says thanks, walks toward the exit.

Vampire Diaries follows her. They get close to the exit, and can talk in a normal register. “My name is Robert.”

“Jenny.”

As all of this is going on one of the bartenders slices his hand while cutting a lime; a hippie wearing something other than black, sticking out like a hippie in a sea of goths, sits in a corner attempting to light a joint with a spent Bic lighter; I am puking in the piss stained bathroom. The assumption from everyone close to me is that I am drunk. In fact, I am not drunk, but suffering from food poisoning contracted from a rancid gyro eaten a few hours prior.




© Charles Scott 2013

To finish is sadness to a writer—a little death. He puts the last word down and it is done. But it isn't really done. The story goes on and leaves the writer behind, for no story is ever done.

JOHN STEINBECK, The Paris Review, fall 1975

Read more at http://www.notable-quotes.com/s/steinbeck_john.html#tu0Jbd6ZZPBLqcYt.99

 "To finish is sadness to a writer—a little death. He puts the last word down and it is done. But it isn't really done. The story goes on and leaves the writer behind, for no story is ever done."

JOHN STEINBECK, The Paris Review, fall 1975

To finish is sadness to a writer—a little death. He puts the last word down and it is done. But it isn't really done. The story goes on and leaves the writer behind, for no story is ever done.

JOHN STEINBECK, The Paris Review, fall 1975

Read more at http://www.notable-quotes.com/s/steinbeck_john.html#tu0Jbd6ZZPBLqcYt.99

To finish is sadness to a writer—a little death. He puts the last word down and it is done. But it isn't really done. The story goes on and leaves the writer behind, for no story is ever done.

JOHN STEINBECK, The Paris Review, fall 1975

Read more at http://www.notable-quotes.com/s/steinbeck_john.html#tu0Jbd6ZZPBLqcYt.99

 "To finish is sadness to a writer—a little death. He puts the last word down and it is done. But it isn't really done. The story goes on and leaves the writer behind, for no story is ever done."

JOHN STEINBECK, The Paris Review, fall 1975

To finish is sadness to a writer—a little death. He puts the last word down and it is done. But it isn't really done. The story goes on and leaves the writer behind, for no story is ever done.

JOHN STEINBECK, The Paris Review, fall 1975

Read more at http://www.notable-quotes.com/s/steinbeck_john.html#tu0Jbd6ZZPBLqcYt.99

Words paint beautiful pictures. One does not need to be verbose or a sesquipedalian to paint a mental picture. Sometimes, when being wordy one comes off as a written blatherskite. Think Hemingway on Faulkner, “Poor Faulkner. Does he really think big emotions come from big words?”. With that, I share quite possibly the best lyric ever written. It is from the song, Jumping Jack Flash by the Rolling Stones, "I was raised by a toothless, bearded hag."

See, best lyric ever that paints a beautiful picture. The picture that comes to my mind's eye is that of Witchy Poo from HR Pufnstuf. Sure, she does not have a beard, but she is a hag. Pretty sure she is toothless too.

© Chuck Scott 2013 except for the picture. that's   © Sid and Marty Krofft

Words paint beautiful pictures. One does not need to be verbose or a sesquipedalian to paint a mental picture. Sometimes, when being wordy one comes off as a written blatherskite. Think Hemingway on Faulkner, “Poor Faulkner. Does he really think big emotions come from big words?”. With that, I share quite possibly the best lyric ever written. It is from the song, Jumping Jack Flash by the Rolling Stones, "I was raised by a toothless, bearded hag."

See, best lyric ever that paints a beautiful picture. The picture that comes to my mind's eye is that of Witchy Poo from HR Pufnstuf. Sure, she does not have a beard, but she is a hag. Pretty sure she is toothless too.

© Chuck Scott 2013 except for the picture. that's   © Sid and Marty Krofft

Two Poems Bukowski

gamblers all

sometimes you climb out of bed in the morning and you think,
I'm not going to make it, but you laugh inside
remembering all the times you've felt that way, and
you walk to the bathroom, do your toilet, see that face
in the mirror, oh my oh my oh my, but you comb your hair anyway,
get into your street clothes, feed the cats, fetch the
newspaper of horror, place it on the coffee table, kiss your
wife goodbye, and then you are backing the car out into life itself,
like millions of others you enter the arena once more.

you are on the freeway threading through traffic now,
moving both towards something and towards nothing at all as you punch
the radio on and get Mozart, which is something, and you will somehow
get through the slow days and the busy days and the dull
days and the hateful days and the rare days, all both so delightful
and so disappointing because
we are all so alike and so different.

you find the turn-off, drive through the most dangerous
part of town, feel momentarily wonderful as Mozart works
his way into your brain and slides down along your bones and
out through your shoes.

it's been a tough fight worth fighting
as we all drive along
betting on another day. 

Charles Bukowski

What A Writer

what i liked about e.e. cummings
was that he cut away from
the holiness of the
word
and with charm
and gamble
gave us lines
that sliced through the
dung.

how it was needed!
how we were withering
away
in the old
tired
manner.

of course, then came all
the e.e. cummings
copyists.
they copied him then
as the others had
copied Keats, Shelly,
Swinburne, Byron, et
al.

but there was only
one
e.e. cummings.
of course.

one sun.

one moon. 

Charles Bukowski

Two Poems Bukowski

gamblers all

sometimes you climb out of bed in the morning and you think,
I'm not going to make it, but you laugh inside
remembering all the times you've felt that way, and
you walk to the bathroom, do your toilet, see that face
in the mirror, oh my oh my oh my, but you comb your hair anyway,
get into your street clothes, feed the cats, fetch the
newspaper of horror, place it on the coffee table, kiss your
wife goodbye, and then you are backing the car out into life itself,
like millions of others you enter the arena once more.

you are on the freeway threading through traffic now,
moving both towards something and towards nothing at all as you punch
the radio on and get Mozart, which is something, and you will somehow
get through the slow days and the busy days and the dull
days and the hateful days and the rare days, all both so delightful
and so disappointing because
we are all so alike and so different.

you find the turn-off, drive through the most dangerous
part of town, feel momentarily wonderful as Mozart works
his way into your brain and slides down along your bones and
out through your shoes.

it's been a tough fight worth fighting
as we all drive along
betting on another day. 

Charles Bukowski

What A Writer

what i liked about e.e. cummings
was that he cut away from
the holiness of the
word
and with charm
and gamble
gave us lines
that sliced through the
dung.

how it was needed!
how we were withering
away
in the old
tired
manner.

of course, then came all
the e.e. cummings
copyists.
they copied him then
as the others had
copied Keats, Shelly,
Swinburne, Byron, et
al.

but there was only
one
e.e. cummings.
of course.

one sun.

one moon. 

Charles Bukowski

Share this blog....

#poetry #poems #ranting #lunatic

© Chuck Scott 2013

Share this blog....

#poetry #poems #ranting #lunatic

© Chuck Scott 2013

2 Poems

Visions of the Internet Anarchist

Revolution is a series
of keystrokes, in a 
dark room with the glow
of a laptop.
Triple espresso mocha latte
to the right,
all natural cigarettes
on the table, and many more
snuffed out in the ashtray
to the left.

And Julian Assange is
aroused.....

Same Shit, Different Day

Time fades from the past
bright in the present,
slowly lighting the future.

Hazy memories
hide present mistakes
destined to repeat,
as the future grows brighter.

Never learning,
stagnant, always moving
forward.

© Chuck Scott 2013

2 Poems

Visions of the Internet Anarchist

Revolution is a series
of keystrokes, in a 
dark room with the glow
of a laptop.
Triple espresso mocha latte
to the right,
all natural cigarettes
on the table, and many more
snuffed out in the ashtray
to the left.

And Julian Assange is
aroused.....

Same Shit, Different Day

Time fades from the past
bright in the present,
slowly lighting the future.

Hazy memories
hide present mistakes
destined to repeat,
as the future grows brighter.

Never learning,
stagnant, always moving
forward.

© Chuck Scott 2013

Something to read while I take a break from writing......

http://www.crackthespine.com/p/current-issue.html

Something to read while I take a break from writing......

http://www.crackthespine.com/p/current-issue.html

chuck scott: Five Questions with Chuck Scott

chuck scott: Five Questions with Chuck Scott: *Some days I have lots of time to daydream. This is a result of my daydreaming of being a published novelist/essayist/blogger of great renow...

chuck scott: Five Questions with Chuck Scott

chuck scott: Five Questions with Chuck Scott: *Some days I have lots of time to daydream. This is a result of my daydreaming of being a published novelist/essayist/blogger of great renow...

Because I feel an obligation to post something, no matter how inane.....

I have been busy as of late. I have been writing short stories and some other stuff that seems to stay in a form of incompleteness. 

Sending out poems and such has a way of taxing my soul.--I am an impatient man..

I have a couple of rewrites to do, and that in itself makes me want to gouge my eyes out with a broken screwdriver. 

Until I finish, I leave you with this, written by someone else who is long dead....

Men Say They Know Many Things

Men say they know many things;
But lo! they have taken wings, —
The arts and sciences,
And a thousand appliances;
The wind that blows
Is all that any body knows.

Henry David Thoreau

Because I feel an obligation to post something, no matter how inane.....

I have been busy as of late. I have been writing short stories and some other stuff that seems to stay in a form of incompleteness. 

Sending out poems and such has a way of taxing my soul.--I am an impatient man..

I have a couple of rewrites to do, and that in itself makes me want to gouge my eyes out with a broken screwdriver. 

Until I finish, I leave you with this, written by someone else who is long dead....

Men Say They Know Many Things

Men say they know many things;
But lo! they have taken wings, —
The arts and sciences,
And a thousand appliances;
The wind that blows
Is all that any body knows.

Henry David Thoreau

Poetry Reading

First poetry reading

in a couple of decades.

I laughed.

I cried.

I sat in awe.

That night I learned:

Georgia Peaches

are FREAKY!

Kansans punch

two year olds,

in the face,

for crying.

During intermission

while smoking a cigar,

playing cool and aloof (who am I kidding?)

I listened to conversations.

One common thread,

among poets who

stay in the game is:

poetry kills the poet-

but what a way to go.

While waiting for the crapper

I was let in on a little known

secret,

(to men)

about women’s public restroom

etiquette.

Women,

whatever you do,

never,

I mean never,

talk on your cell phone

while on the can.

--You will be busted out

by one of your sisters

with explosive bowl syndrome—

I learned the significance

of PBR in a can, also

that same PBR

on an empty stomach

is money well spent.

Most importantly,

I remembered that words are best shared

with other people. 

Poetry Reading

First poetry reading

in a couple of decades.

I laughed.

I cried.

I sat in awe.

That night I learned:

Georgia Peaches

are FREAKY!

Kansans punch

two year olds,

in the face,

for crying.

During intermission

while smoking a cigar,

playing cool and aloof (who am I kidding?)

I listened to conversations.

One common thread,

among poets who

stay in the game is:

poetry kills the poet-

but what a way to go.

While waiting for the crapper

I was let in on a little known

secret,

(to men)

about women’s public restroom

etiquette.

Women,

whatever you do,

never,

I mean never,

talk on your cell phone

while on the can.

--You will be busted out

by one of your sisters

with explosive bowl syndrome—

I learned the significance

of PBR in a can, also

that same PBR

on an empty stomach

is money well spent.

Most importantly,

I remembered that words are best shared

with other people. 

Sorry Kids

Slicing through

the dung of it all, 

the sick of it all, 

the sum of it all.

Blunderbuss to the head,

an epiphany,

sudden realization,

clarified awareness

that we know nothing more

than the day before

or through all of history

other than, 

wars remain,

people kill,

poverty remains, 

people starve,

and children suffer

from our muddled traipsing 

through the 

bogs of life....

Sorry Kids

Slicing through

the dung of it all, 

the sick of it all, 

the sum of it all.

Blunderbuss to the head,

an epiphany,

sudden realization,

clarified awareness

that we know nothing more

than the day before

or through all of history

other than, 

wars remain,

people kill,

poverty remains, 

people starve,

and children suffer

from our muddled traipsing 

through the 

bogs of life....

Be Strong Boston!

As some of you know I spent a good part of my life outside Boston, in fact most all of the 80's and the first couple of years of the 90's. I am not a native to New England, but from the time I was born until my early 20's Massachusetts was the longest I had lived anywhere. I am a transient who has longed for a hometown and consider Billerica, Massachusetts mine. I miss it tremendously and if I ever get to retire Chastity and I are moving there to spend our waning winters ass deep in snow and summers in the White Mountains (still New England). Don't get me wrong, We love Kansas City but c'mon, it's not friggin New England!

All that to say, in light of the attack on Boston, I have had time to reflect. I, like many, have a hard time trying to sort out what kind of person thinks that killing and maiming people is a good thing. What is more distressing to me is all of the assumptions being made as to who did this. It seems the go to enemy is Muslim. Without any proof the media put it out there that it could possibly be a Muslim attack, because as we all know, normal white bread Americans aren't known to blow things up.

Journalism used to be a noble profession, now it's just words with no facts, a propaganda tool creating fear.

I am thinking it was some disgruntled dude from Greenland. Hell, they've been mad at us forever. Just ask any native of Greenland, they hate us for the clubbing of baby seals and global warming. Homeland Security missed that one.

All kidding aside. The type of person who did this was only one type, IDIOT. Idiots have been ruining it for everybody since forever. We need to police the idiots.

If there is anything good that came out of this it would be the common people looking after and caring for each other. It gives me hope for humanity.

Boston, I love you. You are all in my thoughts and prayers... B strong!

Chuck

Be Strong Boston!

As some of you know I spent a good part of my life outside Boston, in fact most all of the 80's and the first couple of years of the 90's. I am not a native to New England, but from the time I was born until my early 20's Massachusetts was the longest I had lived anywhere. I am a transient who has longed for a hometown and consider Billerica, Massachusetts mine. I miss it tremendously and if I ever get to retire Chastity and I are moving there to spend our waning winters ass deep in snow and summers in the White Mountains (still New England). Don't get me wrong, We love Kansas City but c'mon, it's not friggin New England!

All that to say, in light of the attack on Boston, I have had time to reflect. I, like many, have a hard time trying to sort out what kind of person thinks that killing and maiming people is a good thing. What is more distressing to me is all of the assumptions being made as to who did this. It seems the go to enemy is Muslim. Without any proof the media put it out there that it could possibly be a Muslim attack, because as we all know, normal white bread Americans aren't known to blow things up.

Journalism used to be a noble profession, now it's just words with no facts, a propaganda tool creating fear.

I am thinking it was some disgruntled dude from Greenland. Hell, they've been mad at us forever. Just ask any native of Greenland, they hate us for the clubbing of baby seals and global warming. Homeland Security missed that one.

All kidding aside. The type of person who did this was only one type, IDIOT. Idiots have been ruining it for everybody since forever. We need to police the idiots.

If there is anything good that came out of this it would be the common people looking after and caring for each other. It gives me hope for humanity.

Boston, I love you. You are all in my thoughts and prayers... B strong!

Chuck