Post-post-modernism

I have been so slack with posting since summer but I am determined to get back into it this year and really have fun with writing in my final stages of Uni. With dissertation and final assessments I’m definitely going to need some fun!

So far in my third year I’ve been trying to get my head around modernist poetry, me and poetry aren’t the best of friends anyways so I’ve been struggling. So for a laugh (and a bit of procrastination) my friend and I have been making silly ‘post-post-modernist’ poems to try and wrap our heads around it all. Here’s a couple, eat your heart out Mr T. S. Eliot…

Millennial

What have you done today,

to make you feel proud

bedding changed, washing on

what have you done today,

to make you feel

scroll scroll scroll scroll

double tap

what have you done today,

to make

je pense, donc je suis

what have you done today?

 

Make America great again.

Grab her by the pussy

There is strength in solidarity-

#MeToo

Make America great again.

A young beautiful piece of ass

37 more victims

#MeToo

Hedi Klum, sadly she’s no longer a 10

#MeToo

Make America great again!

 

 

 

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Objectification of the Mundane

Over the past week, I attended the Port Eliot festival and put my writing skills to the test by trying something new, journalism. For three days we created a daily newspaper that was researched, written, edited, printed and hand folded on site. It was amazing. And I thought I’d share a snippet of the work I created with you all…

Objectification of the Mundane

Against the sound of the falling rain came the operatic voice of the first Neo-Naturist. Dropping the robe that covered her, she began to set up home on the Art School stage, busying herself with tidying. Her body paint looked tribal and raw, contrasting her preened 60s bouffant hair. Following her was a man in sandals and nothing more. His blue body was smeared with neon hand prints, smudged and dripping in the rain. He poured himself a glass of wine. Next came a young man, painted with jeans a t-shirt and following him were the stars of the show, Jenifer and Christine. In something of an evolution, they were transformed. To their mud smeared bodies the others added bold swirling lines of pink and blue paint. The almost ritualistic scene was topped by the blue male shouting the prose of absent Neo-Naturist Wilma’s book, Surf Mama, in an animalistic cry.

The Neo-Naturists absorbed themselves in their own little community as passers-by walked on with uncomfortable bafflement. But some stopped. As a small crowd formed the oddly mundane performance came to a close and three small children led the crowd in a cheer. They had got what the others had missed: these people were not doing anything unnatural or strange. They had not objectified the mundane acts simply because they were done in the nude. It was the adults that walked on who were straying from nature, their instincts warped by the culturally encouraged prudishness towards nudity in this over sexualised world. Why is it that we can only be naked in certain spaces or for certain reasons?

newspaper.JPG

Tink

Now, poetry and me do not get along, it’s my nemesis. However, I recently read Carol Ann Duffy’s collection, The World’s Wife and loved it! In the collection, she takes well known female characters, Little Red Riding Hood for example, and develops them from somewhat mute women into someone with a back story and a voice. With this in mind, I thought it would be fun to have a go myself and I chose Peter Pan’s right hand girl, Tinkerbell. As I’ve already said, me and poetry are not friends but this was actually really fun so I thought I would share it… and hope for the best.

Tink

Wind rattles wearily around my sleepy hollow home,

The hours wonder by heavily since he has flown,

Leaves have turned slowly from luscious green to gold,

Yet I am still alone- without him to hold.

Large puddles form at my feet as each day ticks by,

There is nothing I can do except sit here and cry,

So I sit here patiently as the seconds go by,

Yet he soars high over a twinkling midnight sky.

You think I’m the happy fairy with the long blonde curls,

Made dizzy by his love as it whirls and whirls,

But there is no more happiness and no more gleeful twirls,

That happy fairy is gone as away my love he hurls.

Pan is now flying towards her with the ruby red hair,

She is his latest prize to trap and ensnare,

To think that was that me a few short years ago,

Suddenly I’m replaced with a brutal heave-ho!

I am not bitter or angry towards Wendy,

I only hope she does not the suffer the sadness of which I’ve had plenty,

No amount of fairy dust can fix my broken heart,

So now swiftly from his life I, Tinkerbell, must depart.