And greetings once again fellow bloggers so something of a pre-emtive strike and fair warning of approaching events.
As you may have guessed from the title (or not) of this post, this is my one hundred and ninety-ninth post - which means that for my next trick I will be posting my 200th post
And what better way to prematurely celebrate than to join the Revolutionary Revelry request to write a pome.
Now the host of that fair site did actually ask us to post our voice again this week, but I have decided not to for two very good reasons. Firstly my voice is about as exciting to listen to as paint is exciting to watch dry and secondly because my 200th post (which will follow on Friday) is going to be a song.
And I know that not all my readers like my songs (and who can blame them) -so I'm setting you all the challenge, whilst there's a few of you actually reading, to make some suggestions for posts you would like to see on the other side of 200 - answers to this question, along with comments about favourite Pixie moments should be given on my 200th post - or not as the case may be.
So - Poetry Bus.
We were asked to go somewhere and really listen to the sounds around us - and I'm afraid I cheated here a bit, because what I actually did was find two pieces of verse I had already writ on the subject of odd noises and unearthed them from the "deleted" items on my computer.
Here is the first - based on a true event of staying on someone's sofa a few years ago.
Creaks and Groans
Through the ceiling comes mysterious sounds
Creaks and groans, excited moans
The bed jerking wildly, each spring uncoiling
Tempo rising, passion takes control
Headboard slams against the wall
Sounds like someone rowing a boat
Oar after oar, stroke after stroke
Till silence once again fills the world
Downstairs the household waits
Someone screams for more
The frantic sounds begin again
Creaks and groans, excited moans.
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The second entry to the poetry bus this week is a song lyric, one that got recorded by myself and my friend Argent sometime ago - but you'll have to imagine the pseudo-latino rhytmn as I can't find the CD right now:
In The Early Hours
Don’t you know that it’s true, cos I don’t sleep anymore?
I’ve got that haunted look, and I don’t smile
Every breath of wind, is a howling gale, every creaking stair, is a man breaking in
In the darkest hour I lie awake, I’ve taken all that I can take
No I don’t dream, coz I can’t sleep anymore
In those restless hours, I stare at the ceiling
While the world is asleep, my thoughts are spinning
Just another night; and I can’t get through another day
Is there something wrong, is there something disturbing me
The bags in my eyes, look like they’re from Tesco’s
Every night is the same, I’m always tired in the day, and I don’t know, if I can go on
I’m hearing voices in the night, and I don’t know if I’m alright
9 comments:
Poem I: Absolutely, music in the making!
Poem II: Perhaps, not insanity but all the activity from the other room?
Great contributions, DFTP! So glad you resurrected them! Thank you!
My hubs used to spend a lot of time in hotels and he vivdly remembers a similar set of noises as takes place in your pome I. When I lived in Newbury, I used to hear suggestive noises from the flat above but the guy there was alone blecchh!!! Great writing and here to number 200!
I enjoyed both of these. I was imagining what I would do in the first circumstance - my first thought was to tell them to get a room, but I guess they HAVE a room already, heh.
I'm so tired from going to bed late & a restless night that the 2nd poem is hitting too close to home!
The bags in my eyes, look like they're from Tescos '
is a deadly line. The first one was fun, I've never heard other people shagging.(That I recognized!)
I think we've all had nights like that - both kinds! (in fact, one of the apartments I had in LA featured the first kind more or less every night)
Question, which maybe you've answered before and repeatedly and it's right there on the sidebar but I'd have to click away from the comments and start this over to go check, what happens to the pixies if perchance one feeds them?
Loved number 2. Possibly because I identified with it so completely.
Coo, 200th post. Can I ask why you are called Don't Feed The Pixies? I never see any pixies on your blog. Or, in fairness, much food.
jeanne - thanks. Poem II was when i was going through a period of insomnia
argent - hotels are funny places, you always get some noise from somewhere
Bug - hope you're feeling more awake now
TFE - the bags under my eyes come in very handy for shopping sometimes
Nanu/Titus - that's a hard question to answer. At the time i started this blog i was very bored at work and on the verge of going mad as a result - so i would joke that whilst most people say it's madness to talk to yourself i would say it's rude to ignore the little pixies.
This post has nothing to do with pixies and not much to do with food, so i guess it made as much sense as Monty Python's Flying Circus having no circus, nothing to do with flying and no one called Monty Python - it just seemed a good idea at the time
The second one is very sad and mournful, touching. And I like the first alot too - reminds me of a couple of awkward experiences!!
Helloooo! Just stumbled across you in time for the party (actually I was going thru my old blogs and realised I never replied to a comment you made on mine - how rude of me! Sorry)
Poetry bus? Is there really a poetry bus? The second one sounds like a blues song, the first - well I thought it was going to be someone on a rowing machine (ahem!)
Congrats on reaching your 200 post.
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