Terry Jones

Is a wanker.

One protester has died because of his vain and idiotic plan to burn The Koran. How many more lives need to be lost until this "Pastor" has enough publicity and attention.

He is dangerous and blinkered. He is also another example of how "Religion Poisons Everything" (Christopher Hitchens,'God is Not Great')

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Standing at an ATM
Card in hand,
Machine accepts it
With a automated sigh
As coked up rich cunts
Canter by, laughing,
Smoking, high five

Fag hanging from
Acrylic nails,
They go from bar to bar
Bathroom stalls.
I type in the PIN –
Four digits
To deny me.

If, a big if, a massive
Fucking improbable if,
I can get cash
Then I can crash
On the lash
Off the leash
Drunken British
Baring darkened,
Crooked teeth.

I type in a sum
Something small
Hopefully enough.
A pregnant pause –
An aborted cause,
A secret clause
Is you have to wait –
The machine spits out
Pictures of the Queen.

The missus and me
Hit the street
Another bar
Where the rich cunts meet,
I get our drinks;
She finds some seats:
Is this seat free?
Is this seat free?
For me fella and me?

The difference between
Them and us,
The missus and me, is
Those rich gets
In their
Suits and boots
With their expensive
Hair and clothes,
And drugs, and
Plastic tits
Is simple.

Me and my proletarian
Ideals hanging onto
Poetry like it’s a
Nursing mother
Dancing to the low level
Corporate drum is simple.

They are rich and I am not.

Shameless Self-Promotion

New blog at the amazing: http://www.poetryinstasis.wordpress.com/

Using one blog site to advertise another, I think the internet might implode if you don't click on it. Then how will people get poorly streamed football and porn? It is a responsibility I don't think you should take lightly. Or avoid.

In other news, the new season has started. Burnley are undefeated (one win and a draw).

In the Premiership one round of matches has been played and from it we can garner some facts:

1. Chelsea will walk the title, they beat West Brom six-nil
2. West Brom will go down, they lost six-nil
3. Wigan are awful
4. Blackpool might surprise everyone, but most likely will do what my beloved Burnley did.
5. Bolton Wanders will be mediocre but safe
6. Blackburn Rovers will be exposed as being owned by Satan and funding a secret Alien Invasion and will then be disbanded with all their players and supporters imprisoned for Treason

I wonder how many will come true - my guess all of them.

Tram's, Theft and Moral Obligation

On my way home from employment today I boarded the Luas from Abbey Street, it was - as is to be expected at rush hour - crammed. I feel, at this juncture it is necessary for me to digress somewhat. I am paranoid, and I mean not "they are after me" paranoid more "that man wants to rob me" paranoid. I suppose, cautious to the nth degree would be a better description. I suspect the worst because the worst will normally happen.

Anyway, back on the tram - to the immediate right of me sat on the disabled chairs (chairs for use of disabled people and not chairs with some physical handicap) sat a man. He had obviously expensive headphones on, following the wires downwards I could see that they were attached to an iPod. Again, an expensive luxery item.

Within the crowd two men, roughly mid twenties, were walking down the crowded aisle. Thin men with tattoos and short hair.

At Smithfield a couple pushing a pram embarked. They stood near the entrance doors effectively blocking it off. The Luas started up again.

The man with the iPod sat watching a video, the two tattooed were walking further down the aisle. The new parents cooed at the child. My eyes flitted from person to person and from my feet to my hands. Sometimes they shake. My own iPod was playing something non-descript. My mind began to wander when the entire tram burst in to noise and bustling, awkward violence.

The two lads had grabbed the man's iPod as soon as the tram stopped. He was clinging on the one of their coats screaming "give me my phone, give me my phone". The one who had grabbed it was desperately trying to break free and flee through the slowly closing doors. His mate stood as a barrier between the man and the thief. As they were running for the doors the clattered into the pram, the man still shouting and trying to hold on. Unfortunately he was unsuccessful and the two lads got away - ironically, running towards the courts in a bid to escape. About four minutes after the robbed man got off the tram the inspectors came and asked for my ticket. A woman started to describe what happened and I briefly added some supplementary detail. Such as they were young, one had distinctive tattoos. Bullets on his hands. But I got off at my stop and left for home.

This has gotten me thinking. Is there anything else I should or, indeed, could have done? I don't think I could have made it across the people to stop the men - nor could I have done anything of any great value if I did. I could have called Garda Confidential and gave a description but they will not recover the phone nor would they be able to get the men. The phone is probably covered by insurance on the contract. One could argue that by displaying such an expensive item so brazenly is asking for trouble. That is a controversial and dispassionate point, but a point none-the-less. I have mine close to my body and difficult to steal. Also, they do have frequent warnings about pickpockets on the tram system. But that evades the point that someone just minding his own business was violated and stole from. And I, along with others, didn't and to an extent - couldn't - do anything. I wish I could have stopped them but that would only have preceded with me getting a sound beating. Not something that I am particularly keen on getting.
Am I under a moral obligation to say or do something? What, realistically, could I have done?

This just reminds me of the lines by Martin Niemoeller - who was a Catholic priest during Nazi regime:

"First they came for the Communists, but I was not a Communist so I did not speak out. Then they came for the Socialists and the Trade Unionists, but I was neither, so I did not speak out. Then they came for the Jews, but I was not a Jew so I did not speak out. And when they came for me, there was no one left to speak out for me.”

Thoughts of the Day

When writing these things a lot of ideas pass through my mind. What do I want to say? Is there a form of poetry that I want to tell the reader about? Just how drunk am I really, honestly? The last few posts were me trying to be all clever and thoughtful. Now this, dear reader, is not. This is just me giving out. I wish it was more, I really do – but it isn’t.

My amazing ability to grow hair had reached a point where strangers would confuse me for Cousin It (picture on the internet somewhere). However, I decided to get a haircut. Yes, this is really a post about a haircut. So, with this intention I went to the hairdressers, well Barbers – the one in Stephen’s Green with the suit of armour in the doorway.

The following conversation took place:
“What can I do for you?” asked the Barber, we’ll call him Barney.
“Just a trim, please. I want some of the length and weight taken away but I want some length. But not as much length. But still some length. And some weight but not as much weight. If I had to but it as a percentage then I would say, 25% less weight and length.” I said.
“Ok” said the affable Barney (I don’t know if he is affable, but I cannot remember the last time I used that word).

So he started to snip, comb, spray, and ruffle. He said “this much?” indicating about an inch. This was fine and I indicated as much by saying so. He then proceeded to take far more off. Like a fuck, load more. Like nearly all of it. And for some reason hairdressers never talk to me, they never engage in that ‘hairdresser client’ banter that everyone talks about. Actually, one hairdresser in Ormskirk once called me a “boring get”. Who the hell other than me gets insulted by hairdressers? It is not like you can have a witty retort as the bastards have sharp scissors in their pampered, effeminate hands. And hairdresser scissors are sharper than most scissors. They are second only to surgeon’s scissors in scissor sharpness (that is not fact checked but I am sure it might be right, it does sound right). So I am sat in the chair with the horrific plastic green wrapping around my shoulders and this man – who I thought was affable but is not at all affable – performing a Slash and Burn policy on my head, his hairdressing style is similar to the Zippo raids carried out in the Vietnam War (again, not actually fact checked). Apart from the hacking going on around my ears, I have Key 102 on the radio playing Westlife and I swear to Jebus that this guy starts singing along. I know that they are stereotypes but you don’t have to play up to them.

Hack, hack, you raise me uuup so I can stand on mountains... hack, hack.

All the other barbers were sitting around doing nothing. I don’t think it is because they are shit at being a barber. Just that they had probably finished all their days barbering and was having a break. But anyway.

Hack, hack, stronger than I can be...

So he shows me the back of my head with that little mirror that they use. That is probably the single most pointless thing to do. If you don’t like it or they have hacked far too much off what are they going to do? Glue it back on? Wankers.

Walking home I kept seeing my own reflection and the hideous mess of a hair cut mocking me. Met up with the missus who started almost laughing when she saw me.

She said, “I suppose it’ll take some getting used to”
Yeah like a degenerative disease or AIDS takes some getting used to!

Bastard hairdresser.

And whilst I am here, they are some other things pissing me off:

1. That guy from Pineapple Dance Studios; it not the campness or the desperation to dance all the time. I’m grand with that. It’s the lisp.
2. The Clagon ads; who lets their kettle get that dirty. Sort it out, or you’d be drinking shit tea.
3. Fat Families; the TV show... and the families.
4. The Sex Education Show; it is a good idea but I don’t like how the presenter lady sounds so very forced when she says: “some people are gay, some are straight, and that’s normal” yes, yes it is but don’t sound so disingenuous.
5. Crap pornography.
6. The morbidly obese woman on the same show as point number 4 who claimed to be having sex five times a week. I just don’t believe her. She seemed like she was lying.
7. My fucking Internet connection; never works.

Specific Blog

Since I couldn't figure out how to change the name of the site, from this rather long winded title. To a nice and cogent "Poetry in Stasis" and also to have something thematically linked. I have created a new blog.

www.poetryinstasis.wordpress.com and a specific email poetryinstasis@hotmail.com the aim, simply is to have online poetry magazine. Featuring articles, reviews and what have you. I want it to be full of other people's opinions and beliefs. So send in an email about something you have seen, read or heard. And it will more than likely be put up.

Articles should be once or twice a week.

Arthur Golden: Memoirs of a Geisha

First thing to praise about this book, and the first thing that is truly striking about it, is the sheer depth of research that Golden partook in order to write this novel. The level of detail is staggering and totally immerses the reader in the world of the Geisha; the slightest details such as Sayuri’s make-up and hairstyle are described with such assuredness and skill.

A Geisha is an artist with expertise in music and dance, they would attend parties thrown by businessmen and pour drinks and generally entertain them. The closest Western equivalent would be Escorts, but they were not prostitutes. They are, fundamentally, a symbol of the old world in Imperial Japan. For the men, they were ostentatious displays of wealth.

The novel is written in the bildungsroman narrative structure, which follows the protagonist throughout their early life and development. Jayne Eyre being a classic example. Memoirs of a Geisha is another classic example as she starts of in poverty and ends in wealth. It is in the first person narrative and addresses the reader personally (“I am sure you understand” etc). This can lend a certain degree of informality to the narrative voice, which at all times is strong and engaging. There is no “and dear reader, I married him” style moments which is a, frankly, a relief. However, this form of narrative can only ever be from a singular perspective so does lack the depth of characterisation that using the third person narrative can sometimes deliver. This is over come by having a strong and interesting central protagonist.

One of the themes of the novel is the clash between the old and the new worlds. This is shown most brutally during the course of World War 2 – steel American bombers destroying towns made of wood. With this, there is the death of the old, traditional ways of doing things. The Geisha are shown as reluctant and resistant to change. Change is literally dropped on them at Nagasaki and Hiroshima. One gets the feeling that change, and the effects of the Great Depression, are happening to others in Japan and not the Geisha. This is a point that Golden makes frequently, the Geisha are closeted ornaments of men. The entire life is geared towards entertaining and pleasing them. They are taught traditional dances and instruments. Always with one goal in mind, to secure a wealthy “Danna” – that is to become a rich man’s mistress.

Another of the major themes is water. The sea and rivers are depicted in various ways, when she is a child it is depicted as violent, slate grey and restrictive. This symbolises how people in her small fishing village are trapped by this fundamental link to the natural world. This link is best shown through her father who is a fisherman. Her first idealised male is Mr Tanaka, who works for a fishing company and becomes her way out of poverty. Another recurring motif regarding water is that Sayuri’s personality is mainly made from the water element. This element means that she is adaptable and artistic – factors that help her in her life as a Geisha. During her time away from Gion during the War, she says that her personality turned to ice. This is symbolic of not only her own, but her nations struggle for survival. She has to become cold and hard in order to survive, it is only when she has the chance of return does she start to melt. Water is also embroidered on the Kimono that they wear and the jewels that adorn their hair. This is a visual link between nature and the women’s sexuality.

Another interesting theme to note is the relationships the Geisha, with Sayuri in particular, and the women in the novel have with the men. The men, her father aside, all have vested interests in the women. If the men in the novel are not making money from them – such as the dresser, the wig maker and the artist then they are professional men who are entertained by them or desire them for sexual gratification. The only non-professional man in the novel is Sayuri’s father. The men she entertains are either shown as idealised demi-God’s such as the Chairman, Mr Tanaka and to a lesser extent Nobu or as one-dimensional drunks and sexual predators, such as Dr Crab (who wins the bidding war for her mizuage, or virginity), the Baron, and the Minister of Finance. This is one criticism that one could level at the book; the men are sparsely drawn and at rather secondary. However, it can easily be argued that this is because the female narrative voice is surrounded by women so how would she know men to any real depth.
The women’s ambition, as previously mentioned, is to get a rich Danna. This role would give the men soul sexual access to the Geisha however, he would be expected to pay her Okiya and all her expenses. Throughout the novel Sayuri idealises the Chairman – the head of a powerful and successful electrics company – and he becomes her rason d’être. Everything action she takes through the majority of the book are geared towards having the Chairman as her Danna. One does ask would a woman really be obsessed with the same man for nearly twenty or so years. This does lead to one of the most disappointing aspects of the book, and that is the final two or three chapters. They are unsatisfying in the broader context of the book. If one thinks of “Great Expectations” by Dickens then this would explain why. These lead to a sense of anti-climax and a sense of Golden not so much rushing but desperately trying to tie up the loose ends. Maybe the ending is meant to in

However, this is still an engrossing and at times beautifully written book, some of the phrases are pure poetry. The pacing of the novel never really drags and that is some achievement for a work of fiction that runs to 420 odd pages. Any complaints about this book and the bildungsroman narrative structure are really rather secondary to a very good book.