AWOL EXERCISE #16
Here’s a very short poem called ‘Biography’ by Sophie Collins:
She is a 23-year-old poet of indeterminate origin. Her poems have appeared in swimming light reflections, the face of the incredulous Meister, Christ’s translucent orb, and elsewhere.
And here are a couple of Wikipedia biographies:
Your task is simply to write a short biography. It might be you, or a fictionalised you, as Sophie has done, or of a famous person, or a fictional person, but the key thing is to make it as strange and wacky as you can. How do we define ourselves? By where we live? By the things in our life we love? The people? So my biography might be a list of objects I love (and hate). Or a shopping list. Or a sequence of twelve questions about myself I don’t bother to provide answers for. Or, as Hugo Ball does, a sequence of pseudo-nonsense words that somehow make sense of me.
Zag by jodi glass
Zag, of Zig and Zag(tween puppet brothers) got his big break in 1986, in Ireland before appearing on the Big Breakfast,(Channel Four production) in 1994 to 1998. they released two singles, both in the top 40. Zag known for his curtain hair style and purple tracksuits, along with his brother are living on earth, have not revealed their home planet but live in a suburb not known on Earth. 18 years after the big breakfast, Zag moved to the children’s channel CBBC, where they give advice, on everyday life by podcasts. Zag is the more confident of the two and like Zig keeps their life private, their loud nature has entertained audiences for the last 30 years. (correct as of July 2017)
Being by Kathy Low
Resided in a mazey…..
the mirror in the wrong labyrinth.
a store of stories,
astonished at the reality of this illusion.
Vibrant wildness and
the stillness of peace.
A benediction of sorts.
Conversation with Yourself by Lotty 6th July 2020
Conversation with Yourself
Tell me something, when you write these poems about finding love one thing you have never said enough is how much you love yourself, because if you don’t know your own self-worth when you do eventually meet that special girl what wonderful rare treasure can she be expected to find if you don’t make peace with who you are in your mind?
This is a question I have longed for an answer to. Instead, you write poems and lyrics about fucking assholes and dicks who make you feel blue and in the rubble and the ashes you’re always asking what can I do to get more chances with them.
So make peace, also love yourself in your mind and then I guarantee that special woman you will find.
Lotty 6th July 2020
The Times Of Strange Me by elisheva katz
The Times Of Strange Me
July 1st 2020
I am cold, I am scared, I am naked in my own truth. They say all the songbirds are dead, but I heard them singing only an hour ago. Who put this poison in the air? Life will never be the same again.
July 2nd 2020
All day and night I have been praying to God, for the songbirds to sing. But when I woke up this morning I woke up to silence. Blood runs cold. I feel sick
I walk, I keep walking, this is what I have to do in order to live. It helps keep the beast away. Along the beach we see, songbirds lying on their backs, stiff, lifeless. Each one has a rose stabbed into it’s chest. Wolf heart is whimpering. I hold him close to me.
I cry too.
July 3rd 2020
Sometimes it is hard to get up in the mornings. Today is one of those mornings. My legs are like lead, it hurts to breathe when I stand. I hate the way my body and mind betray me so. I go out with wolf heart and keep walking, walking, walking, walking, we must keep walking.
July 4th 2020
Independence Day. In my minds eye I can see families, friends celebrating their independence. But I ask myself if this independence is for everyone. You see I look around and I see some people being treated like their not even human. Do we learn anything from history. Most of the time it seems not, at least to me. Independence Day is a great celebration of victory! Of course, that’s if you are one of the accepted in society.
July 5th 2020
It is hot, it is hard to breathe, it is Summer and we are still here. I thank God, we are still here. Somehow this virus seems to of made time go quicker than it usually does. All my dreams I had at the start of the year, of what I was going to do, grabbed from me by this virus. I hate this virus. It is like it has taken on the transformation of a person, a cruel dictator controlling how the world lives, a terrorist tearing families apart.
I think about those who have had their loved ones taken so cruelly away from them by this bastard. This fucking evil bastard. If only we could get a gun and blow out it’s brains. But it’s a coward and makes itself invisible.
I wonder how long it will take the scientist’s to get a vaccine.
July 6th 2020
It feels like we are all stepping into a new age in time. Everything feels different then what it was before the virus.
My special friend said to me, some of us will not change and stagnate in time, some of us will change with a new recognition of how precious life is, then their will be those who are too weak to hold themselves up. It will be us who are strong who will hold up the weak and carry them, until they are strong enough to live again.
July 7th 2020
Life can be a bastard. So fucking cruel and unfair. But just lately I have discovered that life is more beautiful then not. We tend to focus on the bad in this world, focus on those who stab us in the back.
But what if we focus on the beauty in this world. What if we put all our energies into those who love us, care for us, are kind to us. Can you imagine how free we would be.
Written by elisheva katz
Vanilla Autobiography by Peter Marshall
I was born 45,890 high tides ago. That’s just a tad over two billion seconds. Most of them frittered away. It was the pre-dawn hours when that clock first started ticking. My older brothers were both hospital-born kids. I never did ask how awkward my nocturnal appearance was. If future events were anything to go by, I must rank highly on the annoyance meter. Three in the morning and miles from the maternity hospital, back in the days when no-one around had a car. Or a telephone. And it must have been fraught as my eldest brother had only lasted three bare days. I never did get shown his place in the nearby cemetery. Or even get told he’d existed. Mind you, at the grave, my mum hadn’t been allowed to go, only a couple of the men-folk, so perhaps it is no surprise I was never told. By that time my dad was on his feet again, having spent 17 months in an isolation hospital with tuberculosis. He’d given it to my other brother, who was lucky in only spending five toddler months locked away on a children’s ward. As a family, we were living in mum’s childhood home with my grandmother and a maiden aunt. The good old days!
My first real memory is of riding up and down the middle of the cobbled street between the rows of privet hedges on either side. I was at the far end of the street, nervous because I was pushing the ‘don’t go too far’ to its limits. My tricycle was a battered, heavy tin affair with chipped and faded paint from being kept in the garden. Then, of a sudden, there was this huge clattering roaring monster chasing up behind me with men back and forth at the sides. Pedal as I might, I couldn’t go fast enough to get away from it, so I sat on my iron horse, exhausted, wailing at the top of my voice whilst those burly blokes could only look on in consternation. Usually, my brother and I were content to get on with things independently – a state of mutual ignoring. But this day I was so grateful that he popped out of nowhere, scooping me up from my frozen terror. Bin lorries have never looked the same since!
Always, the willow tree gave me shade, started as a twig plunged into the front garden soil. Perhaps, just perhaps, one day, like that twig, I will unfurl my life:- my loves and hates, my hopes and fears. But I’ve successfully avoided that today.
Peter Marshall 2020 07 09