Reading Rimbaud

Reading and weeping, in fact. A bit anyway. 

Well, not that much, but it's worth a passing mention

that whilst the french might've buggered up our written language,

spoken english is not a patch on French when you're reading Rimbaud.

A guy at a Creative Writing course open day once told me:

"we do tend to favour people with a second language". I took it,

foolishly at first, as a bit of snobbery, but now I get it. I think I get it.

There are many ways to say a thing ( or thingasay) and they all lose

something in translation whan we write them down. For this,

I have learned that we may blame the French. Especially when the rugby is on.

Blank verse or prose poetry however, is something we should give credit for.

That's why I thought I'd write this down - since I had nobody to say it to

and I don't speak french very well. Now, for the rest of this poem it's over to Google translate:

 Lecture et pleurant, en fait. Un peu quand même.

Eh bien, pas tant que ça, mais ça vaut une mention de passage

que, tandis que le français pourrait avez enculer jusqu'à notre langage écrit,

anglais parlé n'est pas un patch sur le français quand vous lisez Rimbaud.

Un mec à un cours d'écriture créative journée portes ouvertes m'a dit une fois:

«Nous avons tendance à privilégier les personnes ayant une langue seconde». Je l'ai pris,

bêtement au premier abord, comme un peu de snobisme, mais maintenant je comprends. Je pense que je comprends.

Il ya beaucoup de façons de dire une chose (ou thingasay) et ils perdent tout

quelque chose dans la traduction WHAN nous écrire. Pour cela,

J'ai appris que nous pouvons blâmer le français. Surtout quand le rugby est en marche.

 Vers blancs ou prose poétique cependant, est quelque chose que nous devons donner le crédit.

C'est pourquoi j'ai pensé écrire cela - puisque je n'avais personne à le dire à

et je ne parle pas très bien français. Maintenant, pour le reste de ce poème, c'est fini pour Google translate:

 Reading and crying, actually. A little anyway.

Well, not that much, but it's worth a passing mention

that, while the French could have fucked up our written language,

spoken English is not a patch on the French when you read Rimbaud.

A guy in a creative writing course open day told me once:

"We tend to focus on people with a second language." I took it,

silly at first, like a bit of snobbery, but now I understand. I think I understand.

There are many ways to say one thing (or thingasay) and they lose

something in the translation WHAN write. To do this,

I learned that we can blame the French. Especially when the rugby is on.

Grubs or poetic prose, however, is something we must give credit.

That's why I thought of writing this - since I had no one to tell

and I do not speak French very well. Now the rest of this poem is over for Google translate.

Gnome Is Where The Heart Is

Birchover Park and the gnomes

Wont mean much to many

But to those of us to whom it does

I say this: “I hear you were last seen,

Fostered and shaven-headed, climbing a floodlight

Stantion at the City Grounds’ Radcliffe Road end.

I hope life has gone well for you and will always remember the

supporters club we created. You were an odd fellow

like myself and your brother was a perfect nightmare…

The Gnomes are all but extinct now.

Maybe it’s the popularization of high garden culture

on the telly – or something in the water?

Whatever, at least your names turned out to be poetic":

Good night Coal and Sea-Grave.

Boys like You

i always knew you'd be gone
and singing the one about the soldiers
and blue bloods in the world outside
of this room. It's awful sad not to know

Boys like you

But the left foot we joined about
has lost all hair and withered
sometimes in the bush and sometimes
on the same old stairs

where we dithered.

The Forest Of Good Hope

Theresus Negative
An old man was he
He married Virgin Mary
Queen Of Galilee

Made a monkey out of me
I was so blind
I couldn't see
For the leaves and tree

and

being quite scared of heights
I was unhappy, at best
to discover that the production company
hadn't paid the fucking fee.

So I stole the ladder
left them in 'negotiations'
a mile high and not at all
poplar.

Barack Obama is Ageing Before Our Eyes

Once you've got a bad back
There's no turning black.

listening to people shout in anger on a daily basis with occasional howling by the under 5's...

What's wrong with the titles intended subject of matter is that when you do - you begin - or continue - to think - that it really doesn't (matter) about them or you or this.

It's something of a miracle that this exists at all.

Sometimes...