Just a Few Questions from the Panel
Why do you want to be a poet?
What sort of work do poets do?
What, in your view, is the difference
between the work of a poet
and the work of a civil engineer?
What would you say
if you were asked to write concrete poetry?
What would you say
if you were asked to build a concrete boat?
Why do some poems rhyme?
What makes a slum?
What is a Found Poem
and where might you find one?
What is conservative dentistry? What should be done
in the case of an elderly person who steals a bar of soap?
What are the qualities of a sound net-ball defence?
Why do you want to be a poet?
Is there a future in fish farming?
—C. J. Allen
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from A Strange Arrangement: New and Selected Poems (Leafe Press, 2007)
The News and The Weather
Too much has already been said
about the spring. More than enough
ink has been squandered on the fall.
It would be impossible to entirely cast out
the volumes that dwell on light.
That winter is marching steadily
down from the hills is as much
yesterday’s news as ripples of sand
on the beach being like something
or something else. The wet-linen
colour of almost every cloud
in literature is, frankly, boring.
It is time to address other things:
empty boxes of rain that are sometimes
trees, the neglected battalions of grass …
—C. J. Allen
____
from A Strange Arrangement: New and Selected Poems (Leafe Press, 2007)
The Duck’s Back and How it Got Like That
You have taken to returning
to the old notebooks,
where the other life is,
‘the properly narrated one’,
where you consider the duck’s back
and how it got like that,
the morphology of clouds,
how stars explode, the habits
of gravity and time. These days
you wake up in the dark
and ask yourself what you know:
the names of the Telemark saboteurs;
how the best way of writing about it
is never writing about it; that the light
at the end of the tunnel is no chink
in the gloved and greaved murk
of Erebus, neither is it the apocryphal
oncoming locomotive. It is only
some bastard with a torch.
He is not looking for you.
—C. J. Allen
____
from A Strange Arrangement: New and Selected Poems (Leafe Press, 2007)
Sonnet About a Handgun with Diamonds
I am writing this sonnet about
a handgun with diamonds. The light
fires off the facets and dazzles.
But this is a handgun alright.
We are swinging through somewhere quite louche
in a taxi that smells of incense.
The mirror is hung with red tassels.
The driver is black and farouche.
If none of this makes any sense,
remember this sonnet’s about
a handgun encrusted with jewels
and, as such, the usual rules
should be left at the door. Got that? Right.
A handgun is what this is about.
—C. J. Allen
____
from A Strange Arrangement: New and Selected Poems (Leafe Press, 2007)
‘Poems of Universal Wisdom & Beauty’
I forgive everyone. I’m like
that. I don’t gossip too much.
I’m a kind of hero. The moon
is like a big empty plate up there,
don’t you think? No? Okay.
I’m a very democratic writer.
Most days I’m at work on my magnum opus:
‘Poems of Universal Wisdom & Beauty’.
I’m understandably excited. Music drifts
through from the other room
like smoke while I type away
merrily. When lunch arrives I eat it.
I’m trying to free myself
from the idea that intelligence can only be
conveyed by thought, especially
the complex, allusive sort. Readability
is my new thing. Readability
equals intelligence.
—C. J. Allen
____
from A Strange Arrangement: New and Selected Poems (Leafe Press, 2007)
Advice from Parnassus
Literature is a fine career for a young person.
It’s so straightforward. You just write
down your deepest feelings. In fact
they don’t even have to be deep, any feelings
will do. The media can’t get enough.
Everyone knows this.
If you want to you can describe mountains
or sex scenes, what people say, the way
they stare into each other’s eyes
as if desperately trying to decode secret messages.
There’s so much scope. You slide your coin
in the slot, take a swing at the horizon
and see what comes up. It’s a breeze.
Don’t waste your time on cybernetics,
the greasy corporate pole. That sort of thing
is strictly for numps and loobies. Drop by
any time, and remember, when you enter a room
carry yourself magnificently, especially your head,
which you should think of as a vase of lilacs,
preferably painted by Chardin.
—C. J. Allen
____
from A Strange Arrangement: New and Selected Poems (Leafe Press, 2007)
Poetry is Your Friend
It’s undeniably true, life
weathers you. There’s no doubt
about that. Gardens crammed
with slightly creepy little elves,
a van parked on a deserted lane,
the sky almost purple when you look out.
That’s when you turn to poetry.
You may not know it of course,
but that’s what you’ll be doing.
You’re doing it right now, superficially
despite yourself, riding this wave
of energy out of nowhere. It feels good,
doesn’t it? Like a high-sugar drink
or that special moment, you know
the one. It’s here to help
even if it sometimes forgets,
gets all wrapped up
in counting syllables and such.
It wants you like a tyrant or the sun.
—C. J. Allen
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from A Strange Arrangement: New and Selected Poems (Leafe Press, 2007)