:: Eversong ::

:: Saturday, October 18, 2003 ::

The Ages of the Eversong (Chris Turner)

Know that in times of Ages Yonder,
Men eschewed their ancient past,
These Prophecies lost to Folly and Squander,
And the Eversong began at last.

First came the Age of Finding,
The children knew their call,
Paths true and binding,
And the Eversong began its downfall.

Then came the Age of Reasons,
Great men argue, fight and scry,
Prophecies changing as the seasons,
And the Eversong began to die.

Next came the Age of Virtue,
Great deeds and tales of yore,
But their vanity began anew,
And the Eversong blossomed nevermore.

After came the Age of Means,
Marvels and wonders of power and control,
With flattery and loving obscene,
And the Eversong started to take its toll.

Soon came the Age of Pride,
Hail the men of gloating and gall,
Slow to praise and quick to chide,
And the Eversong ensnared them all.

Hence came the Age of Wars,
Tried to flee, the men of vanity,
Hatred's pets and Glutton's whores,
And the Eversong punished their inhumanity.

Last came the Age of Emergence,
Time to forgive, repent and rebuild,
Else all will succumb to mighty Vengeance,
And the Eversong will be fulfilled.

When Seven Ages join as one,
No more use, these forgotten Prophecies of aeons past,
Dark clouds herald that the time has come,
And the Eversong will end at last.

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One of the most complex, challenging and engaging pieces I ever wrote for a piece of fantasy work, titled "Eversong". I like this one much more than my previous attempt several months ago. I don't expect most readers to understand it, but read it and see what you think. I hope it at least conjures up some interesting images.
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:: Plod 4:28 PM [+] ::
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One-Eyed Jack, The Pasty Eating Pirate (Chris Turner)

One-Eyed Jack's not a Jolly Jack,
Flogging pasties all day from his run-down pasty shack.
No more Yo-Ho-Ho for this One-Eyed sailor,
Demoted to humble pastry retailer.
No more walking planks and adventures ahoy,
Just landlubbing commuters for this Pasty Potboy.
No more taverns and a pretty wench,
Swapped for Balti pies and their wretched stench.
Who will gather round and hear tales of Cheesy wraps,
When other pirates tell of treasure aboard seaborne deathtraps?
Cutlasses, Parrots, Rum and Peg-Legs,
Over roaring seas and crashing skegs,
All swapped for an Apple and Blackberry tartlet,
And the life of a pasty-eating pirate.

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Surreal! Every day on my way into university, I go to Euston station - and just outside is a "West Cornwall Pasty Company" snack wagon (note: that's NOT pronounced "pay-stie" for my American friends...it's like the a in "last"), selling a range of hot pastry snacks. Their logo, curiously, is a pirate stuffing his face with an enormous pasty, and I wondered what on earth pirates had to do with cheese & ham wraps or toasted sandwiches. I have some random thoughts sometimes! Hope you liked it, all the same.
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:: Plod 3:59 PM [+] ::
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Reflections on the Minstrel (Chris Turner)

It is a sad thing to be a character in a poem,
To lose yourself in a world of fantasy,
Living life on a turn and whim,
And hide in a world of falsity.

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Just a short...reflecting on that Humble Minstrel I wrote of so long ago.
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:: Plod 3:18 PM [+] ::
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The Gloucester Street Girls (Chris Turner)

On the damp street corner,
And the frozen wint'ry lane,
Stand the Gloucester Street Girls,
Like a gaggle, watching life go by.

"How is your Sidney?", asks one,
"Oooh, I'm glad you asked," replies another.
"It's nippy today, wrap up well," drones the mittened one,
"Oooh, young folk of today," warbles the next.

Like time itself, they have been there forever,
(But never after 12, it gets cold you see)
Age has wearied them, and the years have condemned,
Spring chickens have not become wise owls.

"My Arthur loves his garden," mumbles one,
"We never had gardens in the war," replies another.
"They don't make them like that anymore!", mutters the mittened one,
"Oooh, young folk of today," prattles the next.

The street corner lives for them,
It has heard all their conversations,
And one day it will stand empty,
When silence comes to Gloucester Street.

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Another poem that has been on the back burner for a while, I decided to write it today. Every day, as I walk up to the History department, I have to pass this crowd of old women on Gloucester Street, and without fail they're always there - but, as the poem states, never after 12. They're just harmless old ladies, passing the time for many empty hours in the day, and have become part of the local furniture. I hope I captured their essence well enough for you to be able to picture them.
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:: Plod 1:56 AM [+] ::
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The Painter (Chris Turner)

THE PAINTER

By Chris Turner

“Oh, I am so glad you asked me how I’m doing! So much has been happening, and you just wouldn’t believe it! It’s so nice to receive visitors. Miss Katie says I can have as many visitors as I like now I’m here. I like it here. It’s very peaceful. I think the décor is a little tacky, but you soon settle in.

Do you like my new jumper? I adore the little harlequin squares. They’re so me. Each little square reminds me of a battenburg cake, or one of those modern ice-creams…what do you call them? Neo…Nip…Well, you know the ones. When you get to my age, these things do slip your mind from time to time. It’s really comfortable to wear – not like that awful hessian thing I had all those years ago. I used to itch for hours in that thing. I can remember Sebastian buying it for me, so I had to wear it really. It was like wearing a nest of fleas. Oh, and the beret? Yes, I’ve still got it – even after all these years. Its never left me. You need one to be an artist. It’s like a badge of honour. It’s a little on the small side now, but you’d expect that after all these years.

I can still remember where all the paint splashes come from. You see that one? That’s “Twilight in Manila.” I bet it doesn’t look like much to you! To me, that splash is a complete canvas. I remember it well – the deep blue sea, a couple holding hands on a beach, and a beautiful red…Oh, where is Manila again? The Caribbean? Was it a Caribbean sunset? Oh, I can’t remember. It doesn’t matter, I suppose. One sunset is much like another to a painter. It’ll look beautiful whether it’s Manila or Peckham. Artists make things look beautiful, you see. Even things that look ugly on the surface. An artist looks deeper than ordinary people – even in Peckham. Miss Katie doesn’t always understand, but she’s very nice and supportive. Not very critical, but I suppose we can all do with a “yes” man from time to time, can’t we?

Miss Katie isn’t as good with my hair as Sebastian, though – I tell you. I saw myself in the mirror the other day and I looked terrible! It’s all wispy and silver. It shouldn’t be like that. I used to have lovely hair. I saw all the styles. I’ve looked like Elvis, each one of the Beatles, even a couple of footballers in my time. Not Charlton, though. He’s a good striker, but you wouldn’t want him as your fashion consultant. At least his hair isn’t silver, though. Do you think it makes me look more chic? Maybe it’ll come in fashion one day. I’ll ask Miss Katie if she can do something with it. Do I look like a wise old master? I wonder. No, it’s not right. A cutting edge artist shouldn’t look like an institution.

I always found hair fascinating, you know. No two people have hair alike – did you know that? You can study someone’s hair and never copy it exactly. Too much detail. It always gets blobbed on most unceremoniously, no finesse or style. I don’t like painting it. I did a study of hair in a work of mine…oh, what was its name? Sebastian will know. Miss Katie won’t, though. I don’t think she appreciates art like Sebastian. Anyway, it doesn’t really matter. It got hung in the library in a local exhibition, but nobody really understood it. I was too avant-garde for the locals. Sometimes, an artist really feels like he is among the barbarians. It’s lonely, having an artist’s mind.

Do you like it here? I must say, I do like my garden outside. This chair overlooks it perfectly. Miss Katie says I can have my box and canvas this afternoon, and then I can paint it! I don’t like having all these other people in it, though. I keep asking them to get out of my garden, but they don’t listen. Even when I go out to them, they won’t listen. Miss Katie says I was shouting at them this morning, but she doesn’t understand how rude it is to walk around in somebody else’s garden. She was brought up in a different time, you see. My parents won’t let anybody walk in our garden uninvited. The dog doesn’t like it at all.

I learnt to paint in our garden – did you know that? I started painting flowers. They’re such promising subjects, you know. Much better than a model. Some people call them “still life”, but I don’t think anything living is still. No matter what those flowers look like to the casual eye, somewhere inside them, something is growing – lots of little things are happening – but the uninitiated call them “still.” Sebastian is so good at flowers – they’re really his forte. He says that the secret of the flower is in the stalks, and that anybody can paint a good petal. Everybody always sees the petals in a flower, because they’re the bits the flower wants you to see – but they key to a really good flower is in its stalk. If you painted a man with a really fat belly, would you only paint his head and shoulders? To appreciate living things, you have to see them as a whole, my friend. Miss Katie likes flowers too, but I can’t really paint them. Sebastian can, though – maybe he’ll do one for her.

I did a painting of Mrs. Goldfrank a fortnight ago, but I could tell she didn’t really appreciate it. She cried when she saw it, but I could tell she didn’t like it. I didn’t understand why she was crying, really. Nobody ever cries over my paintings. They don’t understand them – I’m too avant-garde, you see. Especially for the locals. Mrs. Goldfrank should be grateful that she had a Cubby Shaw original, quite frankly. The London galleries used to fawn all over them, I can tell you. I used to turn them down when they called – all too mainstream, you see. I didn’t want my work displayed to tawdry Japanese tourists with their cheap disposable cameras. I hate those instamatic things.

I like my work to be seen by connoisseurs. Mind you, I don’t expect I’ll achieve any fame in my lifetime. I suppose that’s how all the greats are, though. Nobody liked Lowry until the “Northern” thing was in. Sebastian hates it up north. No culture. They were so rude to us when we went on holiday to Blackpool once. Nothing to do except go on strike – and they don’t even have any political beliefs. How can you believe in anything when all you do is drink beer and go on strike? Anyway, Lowry’s passé these days. Yesterday’s man. It might be fashionable to paint on cardboard boxes at the moment, but being at the cutting edge is about guiding the fashions of the future, and then leaving them behind to the sheep. I told Mrs. Goldfrank about northerners when I was painting, but I don’t think she really understood. It’s not her fault. She’s a woman after all.

I think Mrs. Goldfrank wants me to stop painting, too. I’m sure she’s conspiring against me, telling everyone to hate my work. I’ve known some rivalries in my time, but never as evil as her. You be careful when you go near her – she’ll probably try and turn you against me. I saw her talking to Miss Katie this morning, but she won’t listen. She’s on my side, you see. Mrs. Goldfrank says I should go into a special home, like a funny farm. Can you believe that? She thinks my art is subversive. Don’t listen to her archaic imperialist dogma, though. People like her want to suppress artistic freedom so they can carry on with their capitalist agenda and lead us into a nuclear war.

I painted a picture in…1963, I think, called “Cuban Sunset”. No, wait a minute. That’s not right. “Manila Sunset?” Oh, it was before your time anyway. It was the most political picture I ever painted, and it had them scared, you know. That’s why they wouldn’t hang it in London – they were too afraid it would be subversive. These days, they try and ridicule me. I drew a hammer and sickle on a postcard of HMS Victory the other week. They’re nice, those postcards – you can get them from the shop down the road. Miss Katie take me to see them sometimes. Anyway, you could tell that they’d got to the people outside, because they all laughed at me. Maybe some of them found it funny because they’re like children. The others were laughing because they want to ridicule the left into submission. Miss Katie says I’m not to draw on things that aren’t mine any more, though.

Sebastian used to be quite a protestor in his day. Oh, yes, your Uncle Sebby once even got arrested on a CND march – did you know that? Oh, you did. I remember I did a painting of the occasion – “Peckham, 1965” it was called. I think it was Peckham, anyway. It definitely wasn’t Manila. Sebastian was the talk of all the parties at the time. We got invited everywhere – even to Tammy’s place! Have you met Tammy? Oh, you must. He’s such a card! Delightful cocktails – you must try a Buck’s Fizz! Have you had one before? Oh, well…I suppose they’re a bit passé now, after all. Babycham will never go out of fashion though.

Well, my dear, I can see you have had a long day, and I have so enjoyed your company. Sebastian will be here soon, I’m sure, and I know you have things to do. You young folk are so busy these days – it’s all rush, rush, rush! Miss Katie will show you the way…she’s very nice, you know. It’s so nice to receive visitors, and I’m nicely settled in. It’s a bit tacky, but I like it. And Miss Katie says I can have as many visitors as I like.”

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A short monologue that I scribbled down when considering how to convey the early stages of Alzheimer's. One of the symptoms is an inability to form abstract thought, so I considered what the effect would be on somebody who had only ever thought in such a manner. "The Painter", whoever he is, is clearly living in a world of his own, and nothing can be taken for granted. Is he really a great artist? Is "Sebastian" even alive? Is he even talking to a visitor? The narrator has become cut off from the real world, but his brain is still highly active, but just in his shell-like world. I hope you liked it.
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:: Plod 3:42 PM [+] ::
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Sarah, Don't Cry Tonight (Chris Turner)

Out there somewhere is a pretty young girl
With eyes of hazel and hair of golden hue,
Whose tears fall like warm droplets upon the morning dew,
Cried out, her face like a jaundiced pearl.

On through the uncaring garish light of day
Painful little streams flow over her red-raw cheeks,
Ever looking skywards to the voice that never speaks,
Isolated in her cruel passion-play.

Please, someone, love her come the twilight,
Sit and cradle her atop her lonely grassy spur,
Stay, protect, comfort and cherish her,
And make sure my Sarah has no reason to cry tonight.

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I'd been reading a bit of John Keats and felt like writing my own love poem - not something I do all that often. I imagined a lonely girl, crying, all alone with nobody to turn to. I leave it to the reader to decide who the narrator is, and what his relationship is (or was) to Sarah, and why she is crying.
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:: Plod 4:02 PM [+] ::
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Ages of the Eversong (Chris Turner)

In the time of ages past
A traveller came from afar,
Across hills and oceans vast
Under the watchful eye of the Hooded Star.

Now the time of ages present
The traveller comes to right our wrong,
Ere we remain existent
And all is not lost before the Eversong.

For in the time of ages to come
The traveller will chart our destiny,
But if this lonesome outcast should succumb,
All are damned to nightmarish eternity.

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This is the opening poem of a fantasy work of mine, still in writing. It's very abstract. I'm not too sure what I think of this one yet - I'm storing it here just in case I lose the scrap of paper with the original on. It's meant to be prophetic, but I doubt it'll have much meaning without the rest of the book. Incidentally, the title is "Ages of the Eversong", which you may notice is also the title of this page. I like plagirising my own work :)
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:: Plod 11:25 AM [+] ::
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If (Rudyard Kipling)

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream--and not make dreams your master,
If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build them up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much,
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son.

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One of my favourite poems. Simply wonderful.
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:: Plod 7:48 AM [+] ::
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The Proprietor of Carefully Selected Junk (Chris Turner)

Selecting quality junk is a skillful art,
And purveying it a noble cause,
A trade for the most stout of heart,
A calling for those who need no applause.

Toiling in the muck and grime,
Bringing delightful treasures to our eyes,
Sorting the hideous from the sublime,
He turns clutter into a fruitful enterprise.

Come market-day he dons his dickie-bow,
It's all suits and a smile,
No hint of his world below,
His unkempt look now most erstwhile.

And afterwards, like Jekyll and Hyde,
He's back among his warrens of gunk,
Finding and restoring with pride,
That next piece of carefully selected junk.

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This poem was inspired by my father, who is a professional antique dealer. I wanted to poke a little fun at his trade, contrasting the world I see at home - endless piles of clutter stacked in cardboard boxes - with the world in which it is all taken to. Honest to God, if anyone ever saw the inside of the antiques trade and where most stuff comes from, they'd never touch it with a barge pole :)
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:: Plod 3:35 AM [+] ::
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Sleeping Off Insomnia (Chris Turner)

Tick, Tock, Tick, Tock
Ever onwards goes the clock,
Bang, Crash, Bang, Crash,
Damn the neighbours midnight bash,
Boom, Whump, Boom, Whump,
Sliding into downward slump,
Jingle, Clang, Jingle, Clang,
Mind be silent - hurtful prang,
Thump, Pain, Thump, Pain,
Never sleep again.

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Just a short. I fancied experimenting with a bit of repetition and sound in my work, and chose an insomniac as my subject. What goes through the mind of someone who cannot sleep? Do they blame their surroundings or themselves? Can they think properly at all, or are they reduced to simple, brutal, primitive cognitive functions? All these are little questions I considered while writing this poem. I hope it captured a mood for the reader, especially the pounding rhythm. Is the narrator suffering from a headache, or a far worse pain?
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:: Plod 5:14 PM [+] ::
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On the Values of a Good Book (Chris Turner)

You can find great comfort in a book, my friend,
And read of happy tales and deeds of nobility,
Or you can be moved by sadness and pain,
Or chuckle merrily at comic hilarity.

Non-fiction is good for wise owls,
Bestsellers are good for chatty types,
Classics are good for the educated souls,
And poetry is best for pretentious types.

But above all, my friend, a book needs passion,
A product of the artist's internal fighting,
The craftsman's touch seeping through every word,
Because, my friend, the only thing better than reading is writing.

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More a piece of doggerel than a poem, I scribbled this down in the early hours of the morning. Just some thoughts of mine on literature, but I don't like it much. I really just wanted to stick in that middle verse!
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:: Plod 6:57 AM [+] ::
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The Man on Platform Five (Chris Turner)

The man on platform five doesn't have much to do,
He just sits and stares at passing trains,
His eyes staring vacantly in the distance.
Trains chunter past him, he doesn't bat an eye,
Crowds of busy people bump into him,
All to busy to notice the man on platform five.
His anorak is creased and dirty,
His hair invisible under his tweed flat cap,
And all around him a disconnected swirling world.
But this doesn't seem to bother the man on platform five,
His silence is his world, inaction is his pleasure,
And his thoughts are his comforts.
When all around is hurry, bustle and noise,
It seems strange that anyone could find the time to be the man on platform five.

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I scribbled this poem in my scrapbook after observing an old man at Sheffield station. He was totally lost in his own world, seemingly oblivious to everything that was happening around him. I wondered what was going through his mind, but then simply decided to write what I saw instead.
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:: Plod 6:52 AM [+] ::
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Fried Chicken Street (Chris Turner)

Welcome, dear friend, to Fried Chicken Street,
Where nauseous chip fat fills the air,
And discarded paper bags blow across your feet,
Where schoolchildren with dyed peroxide hair
Discard soggy, mangled chewing gum on the ground,
And housewives gather scraps from skips,
While ill-trained animals bark all around,
Where Ford Cortinas play dangerous games of hit and miss.

Stay a while, dear friend, on Fried Chicken Street,
Come see our drunken local guides,
Whose children fight with mother for scraps of food to eat,
While doner kebabs slowly rot their festering insides.
Admire our much loved park,
With its broken swings and rusty roundabouts,
It's still busy - even after dark,
And you're sure to be made welcome by our raucous swaggering louts.

Do you like what you see, dear friend, on Fried Chicken Street?
Where suited huddles depart for the city every day,
Important, busy people they have to meet.
Returning late to their little semi - wishing it had gone away.
The old ones rarely come outside anymore,
Their curtains twitching all the time,
Kiddies putting fireworks through their door,
And coppers telling them not to whine.

Could you help us, dear friend, on Fried Chicken Street?
Could you save the baker's or the butcher's shop?
Or are we condemned to TV dinners and cheap pre-packed meat?
Where, my friend, will Fried Chicken Street stop?
Community centres with broken windows,
And the council admitting defeat,
Its people swept away like little minnows,
Life goes on, as ever, on Fried Chicken Street.

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This poem was inspired by thoughts of my home town of Bexleyheath in South East London. It was a sad, depressing little place - rife with crime, and hardly safe to walk around in at night. I hope I captured some of the essence of the place, it's sights, sounds and smells. I guess we all probably know at least one Fried Chicken Street. The title, curiously, comes from the KFC chain of restaurants...as I was walking home one night, I couldn't find a bin to put some rubbish in - it was all overflowing with junk from KFC, and the stuff was spilling out onto the streets. All I could smell was fried chicken everywhere, and gangs of youths were gathered in the entrance to the restaurant, like moths attracted to a candle. I hope I brought some of it to life for the reader.
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:: Plod 5:05 PM [+] ::
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Uses and Disadvantages for History in Life

"A historical phenomenon, known clearly and completely and resolved into a phenomenon of knowledge, is, for him who has perceived it, dead: for he has recognised in it the delusion, the injustice, the blind passion, and in general the whole earthly and darkening horizon of this phenomenon, and has thereby also understood its power in history.

This power has now lost its hold over him insofar as he is a man of knowledge; but perhaps it has not done so insofar as he is a man involved in life."

- Nietzsche


:: Plod 4:18 PM [+] ::
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The Humble Minstrel Sits Alone (Chris Turner)

The Humble Minstrel sits alone this icy night,
His quill in hand,
His paper illuminated by dim candlelight.

His words tumble like a literary cascade,
His escape - his dreams,
For how much longer can he keep up this charade?

When people see him they clap and smile,
Always friends,
But they do not see the hurt all the while.

This projected mask of happiness,
A thin veneer,
Conceals an empty loneliness.

"Oh come Minstrel, let us hear you play!
Your words your songs!
Play for us, Minstrel, bring light to the day!"

But they do not see his torment,
Only smiles,
They do not hear his lifelong lament.

The Humble Minstrel sits alone this icy night,
His fading joy,
His essence bathing in solitary moonlight.

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Inspiration for this poem came from an image that came to me in my mind while sitting alone in my room. Rather strange, it featured a medieval jester sitting alone at a writing desk in an empty, darkened room, with nothing but a fading candle and a shaft of moonlight for company. The jester laments because he is alone, yet everybody sees him as happy and joyous, for he is the vehicle to take away their own misery. He is dehumanised in the eyes of others, little more than a functionary. The tragedy of the jester/minstrel is that nobody notices his feelings, because he spends all his time making them feel better. The poem is intended to be slightly allegorical.
:: Plod 4:30 PM [+] ::
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Why Today? (Chris Turner)

Why does my heart ache with a sorrowful groan,
When yesterday it was warm and tender?
Why am I confined to a prison of hurt,
When yesterday all was happy and free?

I have escaped from one torment,
Only to find another, more painful - more cruel.
Faith and Kindness have been wicked mistresses,
And honesty has deceived one who upholds it.

Why today is all so weary,
When yesterday I was alive and sprightly?
Why today does fear hold me in its icy grip,
When yesterday I held your gentle hand?
:: Plod 4:13 PM [+] ::
...