Archive for the ‘Proems’ Category

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Finding the Positive+ in Aspie…

17/11/2013

… & when personal relations appear to be perpetually going down the pan, then it’s pleasing to come upon some past [proetic] positives for being Aspie…

(+ to ponder the mysteries of the silent ‘p’ in psychic)

cucumbersandwiches

Minding Your ‘P’s on Cue

Strolling across the lawns for
a picnic with poetry in the park
I became possessed with minding our ‘p’s on cue.
We searched for a sheltered spot by a stream
(that remind one of other pimply and pissy words)
because the wind was up and I said
‘it’s parky’ when the sun hid behind the clouds.
You called the sky perfect, only you pronounce it perfick.
I got out the flask of peppermint tea,
and cucumber sandwiches – salted but not peppered.
You told me ghost stories, but we didn’t hit on
poltergeist. (And when you said your acupuncturist
had pressed your points to do with fear of people
we didn’t mention paranoia or panic, only agoraphobia.
We were playing this game protectively.)
Then you kissed me on the cheek,
and I said ‘there’s one: pecks’.  You thought
that I meant pectorals and pointed
to your quads!  Later as our cues were down
I gave you a pinch and a punch – like on the
first of the month – but these were on your bicep.
And I asked you if your mother ever called
you a ‘pestilential pumpkin’?  No, you said,
and told me the Hebrew for cow and cows which
began with a ‘p’ but I don’t recall the singular nor plural…
You read the poetry – e e cummings and another one
about the hoi-poloi coming to the opera.
But when you kissed me on the lips
that was the real performance – especially
for the drama students perched on the hill.
Just as well they didn’t know your purple pants
were in my bag as they might perchance have
got even more pop-eyed…
But don’t let me get pernickety;
it really was a peachy afternoon
Poppet.

©  Luc(e) Raesmith  (circa 1995)

thanks Home Skillet for the cucumber sarnies pic:

http://hskillet.blogspot.co.uk/2012/01/cucumber-sandwiches.html

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Aspergic Word Played Out…

28/10/2013


GglPmgrntImage
Whilst this blog’s ‘retro diary enquiry’ posts may reveal my Andro self, albeit lived subconsciously pre-age-of-40, then my proems writing period (1994-2004) can reveal my also-unrecognised Aspie self…

This summer I was formally diagnosed as being on the Autistic Spectrum with Asperger Syndrome: a fact that is both a blessed relief and a source of further angst-riddled self-consciousness…  It is fortunately now-recognised that Aspies can be more right-brained creatives and not-necessarily the stereotyped maths and science ‘specialists’…

On re-reading my proems (up to 19 years on), I realise the Aspergic word play: the cacophony and dissonance of constant alliterative and assonance banter dancing about my non-neurotypical brain, was channelled into for-performance writing. Currently, however, I appear to be more caught up in a chaotic choreography of over-punctuation and dis-spelling…

I proffer here one of my favourite – and possibly most Aspie – proems: ‘Verisimilitude’.  I can never remember what *’verisimilitude’ actually means; it sounds like ‘very silly mood’ which is appropriate to the content…

[* a definition of this title can be found in Part 2 of the Glossary post under said same blog Category]

This ‘foodie‘ proem was composed in a-total-of-23 minutes from a list of 70 words that I really liked the sound of and which I had spontaneously put-to-paper in 5 minutes.  (I can now only recall **52 of those words – the most obvious sound-wise – and these are alphabetically listed below the poem for my/anyone’s interest…)

[** perhaps not coincidence that 1-of-the-52 is ‘testosterone’: the andropausal medication of choice…]

GglFalafelsImage

Verisimilitude

The seditious plebian matriarch
of the voluminous – nay pulcritudinous – stature
was concocting a jambalaya:
a sublime recipe with a hint of vanilla
(“prevents flatulence” she would yodel onomatopaeically).
She served sassafrass to complement this dish,
and would gesticulate eruditely at her guests,
who dared not be cacophonous
nor proffer claptrap in her presence,
for she had a temper both
maniacal and diabolical,
and globular spittle would emit
from her tubular vocal regions
should any testosterone-imbalanced male
be so obstreporous as to call her cooking
wundebar”.

Such was her pernickety nature,
garnered through antiquity and germinating
virginal maidens who had met
with disastrous liaisons to local rascals
who lured them behind iguana bushes –
with tart pomegranates or falafels
in the dusty hectares of that region.

Our matriarch would gather
her rumbunctious crew
in the vestibule, its décor
alluding to zen and cello music,
and offer pontrifract cakes and
invite them to browse through encyclopaedic
tomes on lesser-spotted aardvaarks,
and how to perform an endoscopy,
and the initiation of the hierophants.
In short, as hospitable matron she was incandescent.

©  Luc(e) Raesmith

GglVnlaImage

antiquity      aardvaarks       cacophony      cello       claptrap       concoct      decor      diabolical      disastrous      erudite        encyclopaedic       endoscopy      falafel        flatulence       gesticulate       globular      hectare       hierophant       hospitable       iguana       incandescent      initiation        jambalaya        liaisons        maniacal        matriarch       obstreperous       onomatopoeia        pernickety        plebeian        pomegranate        pontifract      proffer        pulchritudinous      rascal        rambunctious       sassafrass       seditious        spittle        sublime      tart      testosterone       tome        tubular       vanilla       verisimilitude       vestibule       virginal       voluminous       wundebar       yodel      zen

(pomegranate, falafel & vanilla images courtesy of google: artists unknown)

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Sickening for SPAM: a dining dilemma…

06/10/2013

1.  Continuing an edibles theme this week and entering a contentious arena:

to SPAM or not to SPAM?

2.  That Hormel tinned treat – gourmet delicacy-4-some – became septegenarian last decade & is enjoying a come-back in these austerity times.  Get ALL the facts from Wiki…

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spam_(food)

3. SPAM does sometimes wend its meaty way into my recycled-black-plasti-crate ‘larder’ when it’s ‘on’ BOGOF special at my local supermarket…

(for the non-shopaholically-inclined, see Glossary Category Part 2 re ‘bogof’)

4.  I recently encountered someone using Marmite (the veggie-if-not-vegan savoury sandwich filler and toast topper) as a verb, as in you either marmite something or you don’t. So it is too with SPiced hAM: supposedly love it or loathe it…

Spam Poem, July 99

5. Not-quite-dissed (but bombed) during the Poetry Slam performance at Ways With Words literary festival of 1999, in Dartington’s Great Hall, my rendition of the mid-Nineties-composed ‘Sickening for SPAM’ was, ironically, immortalised by festival artist, Sue Kendall…

http://www.wayswithwords.co.uk/

Hopefully the proem will express the mélange of my emotions on this aforementioned contentious & meaty issue…

Sickening for SPAM

My dad was in advertising
when he went to work on an egg.
To beat the foetal nausea
my mum guzzled SPAM.
(Sperm’n’eggs coalesce.
Ergo SPAM’n’coal cravings.)
Thus was “healthy appetite”
graffiti’d on my genes.

As a special Sixties treat
Sunday’s roast was the
clove-studded tin-shaped
gammon-substitute.
Yummers! they said, swooning
over the dinky winding key
that unlocked all that
succulent SPAM goodness.

Going on Cornish holidays:
cornflakes at 6 am, then
on-the-road in-a-layby
9 o’clock SPAMwiches
(white sliced with crusts on)
and Camp coffee in a Thermos.
If you’re going to be carsick
have your bathing cap
at the ready.

By the time Monty Python
had gone “Spam’n’eggs,
Spam’n’chips, Spam’n’Spam”,
we’d gone upmarket
caravanning in France.
But first, our mum went
down market, bottom-ranking
SPAM-substitute “Mozart”
in her bag-on-wheels.
SpamJigsawFrontOh! Je vais vomir
with pommes de frites

Living près de l’English Riviera
The S.A.D. – and sometimes
nauseating – grockels now
come to us, craving sun.
On May Day they’ve thrown up
all caution to the deceptive wind
and turned Spam-flesh-pink with
white halter’n’straps striping.

Retaining my tofu-pallid
complexion, I day-trip into
no-man’s-land: surfing
the world-wide-web for
haikus on SPAM.
Cybernetic reams of
puke-up-pink and
gag-along-greasy
seventeen syllable offerings.

SpamJigsawBackToday, we take these
vacant vacations,
sitting right-at-home
with the gnawing fear
of being ‘spammed’:
for virus-spawning
advertising to spew
all over our microchips…
Quel horreur!
“error…error…error…”
grafitti’d on our screens.

©  Luc(e) Raesmith

And for those who dare…

http://web.mit.edu/jync/www/spam/

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How Diplomacy Fails & War Thrives…

15/09/2013

I proffer a proem to illustrate the microcosmic scenario mirroring the macrocosmic dilemma…

With apologies to those who:

have a solvent abuse  habit
are not allowed to marry
have chosen a vegetarian/vegan lifestyle
are challenged by being mute
have only the use of a bath
are offended by stereotyped/clichéd management labels

and  –  wishing peace to those who live in an actual war zone

ShowerHead

A Factory Fracas

Tongues still, eyes steeled, hunching backs
Jill and Liz set records with adhesive –
for power shower top notch thermostats –
glue-raced against the enemy:
Sylvia (over 65; for work she lied) and
Sandra (only 16; witless woman-child).
Glueing signatures now faked;
thermostats cracked, half-baked.
Management comes unstuck: abusive…

With shop floor sanity abated,
our Liz and Jill retaliated:
coded signatures hastily created;
tales of wedding bells and frocks related.
With saveloys warming in the thermostat oven,
they form the bitch-witch shower parts coven.
Nattering fingers, deft tongues, never slack,
yet management stuffed shirts strike back…

All the ladies sent to Coventry.
Jill struck wedding dumb and blue –
amidst the men’s machining din –
now counting endless logo pins: one, two, three
hundred; whilst Liz – for her polymer bond sins –
nicks plastic notches in the new
must-have-even-flow-you-know
superior just-cut shower heads.
Management glowers: white collars seen red…

………

So, when you next anoint your bod (with gel)
for sluicing shower on steel-mount rod,
spare a prayer for the women who
went to glue war just so you could
relish your thermostat guarantee,
flush your sleep-dusty aura well – and clean –
as management fat cats profits glean…

©  Luc(e) Raesmith

 

For explanation of ‘Coventry‘ and ‘saveloys‘: please see Glossary Part II post

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Yay! UK Trans* Pride No.1…

09/08/2013

“It wasn’t all cupcakes, candy and condoms”…

Trans* Pride, Brighton kicked off with a film night inside Dukes at Komedia cinema in the Laines:  a sadly shocking documentary about the lives of Transwomen in South America; a *MyGenderation’s short: ‘Alice’– living her (poetic +) life in Kemptown, BN1; a French film, ‘Tomboy’ – depicting a young person’s gender identity exploration amongst friends and family… (*see MyG’s work – inc T*P documentary video via F’bk link here)

https://www.facebook.com/MyGenderationDocumentaryFilm?fref=ts

Saturday’s Pride event in New Steine Gardens exceeded all expectations in terms of persons-attending-numbers, weather, cycle-powered juice drinks, tip-top-performers, organisation, political-yet-personal-friendly-vibe, hen party attendees, non-corporate-ness, & gingerbread (trans)men…   Thank you Universe!

MxAndrsHHSlfFaceUp

Mx Andro HisHerself
Foto credit: Ludo Foster

Privileged to be a perfomer on the (inflatable!) stage, I/we belted out my proems (very loud & rather proud) to beat the rain and squall – and beating-a-retreat punters… & invited audience members to join me in the chorus (in italics) of the verse:  ‘Just Call Me You / Person* / Luc’ (as below –  & as in *Person is Not a Rude Word…)

Having ‘snapped’ the setting-up, and sat out a damp-dismantling of the park event, I lasted a few hours only of the Trans*frau cabaret/dance event at The Blind Tiger pub&club: amazing performances from guest stars Lazlo Perlman and Rhyannon Styles (and one dance to Depeche Mode, ‘Just Can’t Get Enough’ ).  See more evidence of the whole (s)hebang on the Trans* Pride F’bk page…

https://www.facebook.com/TransPrideBrighton?fref=ts

(Proudly wore my large “tranny lanny / well ‘ard trans lanyard” on the night bus home – emblazoning ‘Trans* Person’ to the world…)

Sunday blazed blue & peachy for the great-Tshirts&Tattoos-exposure that coloured the Trans* Beach BBQ-Picnic.  Kites were flown; shoulders got burned; chargrilled haloumi was delish (sans relish); some braved the waves; dogs sheltered beside T-hairy’d legs; shadows stretched…

Huge gratitude & respect to all those who put in vast amounts of work (up front & behind the scenes – past & present) to make this wonderful weekend happen:  Alex, Claire, Elliot, Fox, Jane, Lewis, Nick, Nicky, Phleim, Phoenix, Rory, Sabah, Sarah, Sharon, Steph, Tanya, Vicki – and other unknown / unnamed persons & organisations…

All revealed right here…

(with ‘sound track’ : Daylight & the Sun, courtesy of Antony & The Johnsons)

Just Call Me You / Person / Luc

I’m quite a dapper dresser me,
My many hats can cause a stir:
Recycled, bargain togs are up-my-street
(And I’ve been spotted in faux fur).
I’m a case of ewe/ram dressed as lamb,
But still,  I think you will concur that
“I’m not a bloody Lady
And I’m not a bleedin’ Sir”
 
I like a parasol/umbrella me;
My trolley: not just a Hoppa shopper;
My walking stick folds up quite neat;
My bus-rides-cushion is fake fur.
You’ll oft’ find me with my shades & fan;
And yet,  I think you will concur that
“I’m not a bloody Lady
And I’m not a bleedin’ Sir”

Always been a comfort-eater me…
Beer?  No thanks – I’ll have a cuppa.
Sometimes spirits, yes – but never neat!
(Me ‘meds’ more-like to make me slur…)
No, I’d rather scoff scone, cream & jam,
And so,  I think you will concur that
“I’m not a bloody Lady
And I’m not a bleedin’ Sir”

I’m an Aspie ‘tranny’ person see –
With quirks & moods & temper.
Colours & words make me complete
(And umpteen snaps wi’ mobile camera).
It’s everything friggin’ ‘queer’  I am
So,  please,  you must concur that
“I’m not a bloody Lady
And I’m not a bleedin’ Sir”

© Luc(e) Raesmith
July 2013-07-23
(for Trans* Pride UK, Brighton & Hove, No. 1)

…and The Pride-ness continues (ever-remindered as a wet-park-tideline on my best Spanish leather shoes)