Who Are You? (Poetry by Oz)

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In his spare time, Oz is a respected music journalist. Also, I was fortunate in that my maternal grandparents lived with us, and my granddad was passionate about Robert Burns and the Lake poets, and could recite vast swathes of their work. And he was a huge influence on me, so I just grew up with the idea that poetry was a normal thing that happens in a working-class household.

The first poetry I remember responding to personally, though, was Brian Patten when I was maybe 11 or The final piece in the early picture was Robert Calvert, who was doing really interesting spoken science fiction poetry with Hawkwind, who I also discovered when I was 12, and have been a fan ever since — 45 years or so later, there are things about his approach that, though you may not see any similarity in my writing, I still see in my approach to certain projects. A long answer, which just takes me up to starting writing poetry, but these were the things that set the wheels turning — part grandfather born in the last years of the 19th century, part future-focused space rock.

How aware are and were you of the dominating presence of older poets traditional and contemporary? I remember a few of us bunking off games in the library, and a teacher finding us and deciding to tell us about the poetry he loved. In my 30s, I went to York University as a mature student English and Art History , by which time I had a real enthusiasm for early 20th-century poetry — imagism and surrealism in particular — and, much to my own surprise, became passionate about medieval literature.

I think it was initially the music of the language. However, I went to see a performance of a couple of the York Mystery Plays in the original language, in a medieval church, and it sounded magnificent! I belong to an online group which grew out of a prose poetry project at the University of Canberra. It put writers in the form in touch with each other in a creative dialogue.

My critical faculties come into play later, whenever I find the time, but I have this half hour or so each day during which I will write. And — with due apologies if this sounds arrogant — I have a pretty good hit rate on raw material that will develop into something worthwhile. Very much so.

Sometimes it takes the delicate application of the finest chisel, and sometimes it takes a pneumatic drill. Or maybe explosives. The very general answer is that they gave me the passion for what I do now. I was absolutely hooked, and picked up everything available — and, indeed, waited eagerly for his further books.

Apart from the understated surrealism of the story, the language and structure of the paragraphs was closer to poetry than to prose. That, I think, is much more complex and subtle. That is very hard to say, as there are so many writers whose work I admire, and for different reasons. A profoundly different writer, who also incorporates visual material is Bella Li, who I only discovered a few months ago. She has an unashamed debt to the surrealists, but there is a pared-back, meditative quality to her writing that is like imagining Solaris as a haiku sequence — or something like that, anyway.

Her books are wonderful. A complete contrast, but Simon Armitage is a poet who seems to be everywhere these days, and quite rightly so. I could — and frequently do — go on, but I will just namecheck Agnes Lehoczky and Bob Beagrie, whose work constantly astounds me in its linguistic intensity. There are more …. Way, way back when I left school, I went to Art College, where I studied photography, and I have kept up a keen interest and taken the pictures for the covers of most of my books, as well as a number of others and a few albums, too.

I also play a bit of music — at a rather basic level of competence — and whenever I can I put that into the mix. A clean sweep! Surrounded by my loving family. There are no other roads, so who cares the color? It was a horror story, not a morality play They were so presumptuous, What I needed! Bluebirds fly Yes I suppose they do! You are right! I liked those gorgeous orange woozy poppies but so what, I was asleep anyway.

Do you see what I mean? Not really. Not any more than anywhere else. Despite what they say. Anyway, everyone clearly had their own agenda. It was a matter of convenience and opportunities. What was mine again? Oh yeah. For it to stop. We love you! All of us! I never really lost it To begin with! But do you think that I believed any of it? I escaped And now I think that I know how to do it. And I can do it again. But to someplace Else. Continue reading Joanna May Return to Oz:.


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Thrown off course by a wild storm, circling but never finding the runway. With no time to get warm one could lose out on all that matters in a flash fire. With no notice, another goes astray till love comes 'to melt' this glacier within. Removing blinders off one's eyes as well as the might of have been. Till all that matters is honest communication between friends. Being a person that grew up on the Wizard of Oz, I relate to going off course, and needing help finding ones way home.

Brayden Allen Feb My Mind's Storm. I want to hear the echo of my own words. Everyone from my past are ghosts and i hate pulling out the ouija board. Rituals, sacrifices, spells, and even prayers. God whispering to me telling me he knows how it will end but i have to wait to see the road bend. Understanding that we are one with the earth and this is my place on earth. Nat Lipstadt Jun I love most men; certain men more than others, not because they are soft to the touch, look great in thigh highs, can fix a backhoe, lay hands on animals, just as they do upon their grandchildren, or write better poetry than me, because they make me weep from zealous delight at their capricious unprecedented constancy of their honorable actions they are soft to the core, which is itself wrapped in a leather soldered steel, which defines them by their self-questing constant, asking themselves preface and postface, doing it well, in between, what is the honorable thing?

BJ Donovan Mar Beyond Oz. It's 2 am and I'm wide awake. I keep chasing the same doubt around my head. I'm 70 and I'm almost dead. I've misspent my youth and fumbled love and lovers forgotten. At the end of the yellow brick road I'm the Tin man without a heart looking for love. Dorothy's dead. The stars are bright tonight. I stare at the north star and walk 'til I can't or 'til I find her. She has my heart in her heart and will take me into her journey beyond the yellow brick road. Oh, the beauty! Carmen Jane Mar 5. She pours poetry in her drawings When her age is only four Answering her talent's callings That were never seen before.

Zealously she churns the marker Into spirals,into circles Making scribbles on the paper And connecting miraged circuits.

Butch Decatoria Aug An Estranged Place. This place is estranged Yeah? Oh Gaia - namaste. So yeah? Deb Jones Jan A little puff of air will carry her off to Oz. Traveler Sep The Wizard of Trump. Eryck Aug The end Its a constant chore I abhor just to get you up and moving out the door. Push you out the nest to fly, throw you in the water to sink or swim, to try. Its more of a witnessing to the feeling of the allowing and the letting. Must remove you and remote you, no longer develop you or devote you. Your on your own.

I have to let you go now. Even her jealousy got the best of her as she got onto my Hello Poetry account and deleted almost all of my notifications which are also connected to the wonderful comments people have posted at the end of my poems.

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She said I was flirting. Daniel A LaPlume Feb Chris N. I sit alone In a chair Made for one To sit on. A homemaker who is Alone, who is Back from the Dead. So, Now look at us. So Beautiful.

All Rivers

BJ Donovan Jan Bleached cattle skull in a desert O'keeffe would be proud of is where I found myself at noon with mad dogs and Englishmen. I was lost at sea. Searching for a landmark blinded by the darkness of dementia. I smell your familiarity and take your hand and smile. Robin Carretti Aug This is far from a car S-p-a- -C-y Oh! Collison in Space or Good earth how do we collide into one another planet some fire exposed in our words can we change the way we feel we collide again but what happens when our planets collide. Robin Carretti Jul No love me to please me as I do My Bill is always waiting at the upside down table Like the will-hunting For God sake who is on first Going up with the bucket list Feeling down to adore me You're going down Oh!

Christ Don't push my buttons the elevator I saw your Realtor going to The Skyline Hilton I-O-U trillion hearts that were down and wasted Falling eyelashes no surprise That stock exchange stars fault Money lip up and honey eyes down Do you want this in singing or shall we both go down drowning I'm going to wash that man right out? When we're down and about or feeling all over the place the roundabout we cannot get over something that we go more down and down but be pulling our weight going up but who will fill our heart when you just about had enough.

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Bob B Aug Don't take it as a threat; it Just shows how far I've reached. Wall Street will fumble And stocks will take a tumble If I ever get impeached. You know how much I've preached. Without my expert thinking The country will be sinking If I ever get impeached. I'm the only one with answers as to how.

Excuse me while I take a bow. But he will stand right by me While others vilify me If I ever get impeached.

wisolyvahode.tk Oz Hopkins Koglin

You'll all have to worry When I unleash my fury If I ever get impeached. Butch Decatoria Jan 2.

Inspiration, History, Imagination

Begotten Cold. Bob B Feb Stuck on the Wall.



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