Does Something Happen at 9:15 GMT?

[TheFifthElement]

Its a bit rough and ready (kind of like Sean Bean!), but inspired by a comment by Virgil somehow it had to be posted RIGHT NOW! I confused myself a great deal writing this, and I have to confess I got a little bit carried away in parts.


For Virgil

Does Something Happen at 9:15am GMT?

9:15 - something stops. Starts. Remembers,
perhaps, the exertion of its birth.
Is it a mother’s moan that’s carried
in the cry of the wind that blows
unwanted newspapers to the gutter?
The rain begins, sudden, uncompromising,
driving people from the streets.
It is an inhuman beat, a song
known and yet forgotten
in the grey and voiceless wasteland
that has become the human soul.

9:16 - two strangers meet buying coffee;
both late, uncompromisingly so.
Their eyes meet, and they speak
in a language neither knows
nor understands. It is the language
of the eyes, the hands, the scent
that carries on the wind like a cry,
or a moan misunderstood.
Their fingers meet, briefly,
as they each reach for their cup,
share, for one moment, their singular
nature, then turn away.
The bonds of miscommunication break,
something is lost, buried in the unwanted
newspapers that gather at their feet.

9:17 – a watcher waits on one side
of the park, watches as two strangers
walk their separate paths. They are
blown, like the unwanted newspapers
that fall into the gutter, on a wind that
carries the cry of a mother’s moan.
His umbrella drums with the beat
of the rain that falls, uncompromising.
He is forgotten, grey and voiceless
in a city that has become a wasteland,
in a language misunderstood.

9:18 – the wheels of commerce turn,
the voice of trade and industry sings
inside a grey and voiceless wasteland.
Protected from the wind, the rain that drums
a beat on all the windows, people walk the
same but separate paths, sharing a singular nature.
Their lives are like unwanted newspapers
blown into the gutter, uncompromisingly.
They watch each other, look for signs
that someone speaks a language they
can remember and understand.
Inside they moan, like a mother’s cry.

9:19 – two friends meet on their way
to buy coffee, the rain drums a beat
on their eyes, their hands. The wind
speaks a language they both understand,
a song once forgotten, now remembered,
despite the grey and voiceless wasteland.
Uncompromising, they ignore the
unwanted newspapers blown into the gutter
and the cry, like a mother’s moan,
the exertion of birth.

9:20 - things return to normal, the something
that was is gone, carried away on
the same wind that blows
unwanted newspapers to the gutter.
It leaves the wasteland, flows across the hills,
until it meets a mountain stream.
It is carried across the ocean,
to the other side of the Atlantic
where the listener, in another time zone,
in another place, hears and remembers
the wind that moans, like a mother’s cry,
the cry of something once forgotten,
uncompromisingly so.

[Auzel]

I think its was splendid you didn't get carried away at all, well mabye a little but in a good way, I favor poems that have some sort of mark or reference to time, you don't think thats strange do you. Of course not.



9:16 - two strangers meet buying coffee;
both late, uncompromisingly so.
Their eyes meet, and they speak
in a language neither knows
nor understands

Anyway out of the whole poem this was the part that I was most drawn it sort of the turning point you see at first I wasn't quite that engaged and then I began to like it a bit when I read the line "The rain begins, sudden, uncompromising,driving people from the streets" But the part about the two stangers just sold it to me. I was enthralled from that time forward.

[PrinceMyshkin]

Its a bit rough and ready (kind of like Sean Bean!), but inspired by a comment by Virgil somehow it had to be posted RIGHT NOW! I confused myself a great deal writing this, and I have to confess I got a little bit carried away in parts.


For Virgil

Does Something Happen at 9:15am GMT?

9:15 - something stops. Starts. Remembers,
perhaps, the exertion of its birth.
Is it a mother’s moan that’s carried
in the cry of the wind that blows
unwanted newspapers to the gutter?
The rain begins, sudden, uncompromising,
driving people from the streets.
It is an inhuman beat, a song
known and yet forgotten
in the grey and voiceless wasteland
that has become the human soul.

9:16 - two strangers meet buying coffee;
both late, uncompromisingly so.
Their eyes meet, and they speak
in a language neither knows
nor understands. It is the language
of the eyes, the hands, the scent
that carries on the wind like a cry,
or a moan misunderstood.
Their fingers meet, briefly,
as they each reach for their cup,
share, for one moment, their singular
nature, then turn away.
The bonds of miscommunication break,
something is lost, buried in the unwanted
newspapers that gather at their feet.

9:17 – a watcher waits on one side
of the park, watches as two strangers
walk their separate paths. They are
blown, like the unwanted newspapers
that fall into the gutter, on a wind that
carries the cry of a mother’s moan.
His umbrella drums with the beat
of the rain that falls, uncompromising.
He is forgotten, grey and voiceless
in a city that has become a wasteland,
in a language misunderstood.

9:18 – the wheels of commerce turn,
the voice of trade and industry sings
inside a grey and voiceless wasteland.
Protected from the wind, the rain that drums
a beat on all the windows, people walk the
same but separate paths, sharing a singular nature.
Their lives are like unwanted newspapers
blown into the gutter, uncompromisingly.
They watch each other, look for signs
that someone speaks a language they
can remember and understand.
Inside they moan, like a mother’s cry.

9:19 – two friend meet on their way
to buy coffee, the rain drums a beat
on their eyes, their hands. The wind
speaks a language they both understand,
a song once forgotten, now remembered,
despite the grey and voiceless wasteland.
Uncompromising, they ignore the
unwanted newspapers blown into the gutter
and the cry, like a mother’s moan,
the exertion of birth.

9:20 - things return to normal, the something
that was is gone, carried away on
the same wind that blows
unwanted newspapers to the gutter.
It leaves the wasteland, flows across the hills,
until it meets a mountain stream.
It is carried across the ocean,
to the other side of the Atlantic
where the listener, in another time zone,
in another place, hears and remembers
the wind that moans, like a mother’s cry,
the cry of something once forgotten,
uncompromisingly so.




11:34 pm DST. I'm blown away by this poem! If there's any justice in the world, notwithstanding your disclaimer, you have at least a sneaking suspicion just how good it is!

11:35 pm DST. Something I've always wanted to ask of a poem I admired as much as I do this one: What were the circumstances in which you wrote it? Did you write it by hand or on a keyboard? Were you alone at the time and aware of being alone? Were you sipping something? Did you sit for some time after you finished it and wonder? Did you long to read or show it to anyone, and did you - or was posting it here enough for you?

11:38 pm DST. I believe you have one or two children. What a treasure (and a mystery?) it is going to be to them when they are old enough to read this, to become acquainted with this side of their mother they may not have known, or to meet her again at some younger age!

[jon1jt]

Before I forget:


become the human soul


sharing a singular nature

in my opinion the lines are superfluous because all of that singularity is ensconced in the following, which are, undoubtedly, my favorite of the poem:


it is an inhuman beat, a song
known and yet forgotten
in the grey and voiceless wasteland

Whether intentional or not, i found it interesting how the inversion of 'moan' and cry read in the last line of Stanza 9:18 compared to 'mother's moan' elsewehere:


Inside they moan, like a mother’s cry.

I love the loop you create with the unwanted newspaper, the wasteland, the mother's cry/moan, uncompromising. The encounter between the strangers appears more actual than chance, or is it not? Hmm. And what lingers in the aftermath - for me - is the watcher. Is he a single piece of machinery comprising that roaring cityscape or is there more to him being there? You see, this is the stuff, the questions, the subtleties, the signifiers and galloping energy, a rhapsody that kicks in its own striving and wantingness, that effects---that makes the poem all the more intriguing and worth reading again and again. Nothing more to say. ;)

[Virgil]

This is outstanding Fifth. I need to read it some more to be able to give more insightful criticism. But on first read, it blew me away. ;) I'm glad I inspired it.

[TheFifthElement]

This is outstanding Fifth. I need to read it some more to be able to give more insightful criticism. But on first read, it blew me away. ;) I'm glad I inspired it.

I'm glad you liked it Virgil, well on first read anyway; it is still a little rough on the edges. Without you it would not exist, so I definitely owe you one -thanks for the inspiration ;)

Jon thanks as always for your comments. I'd be inclined to agree, certainly about the "sharing a singular nature" line, which I added as an afterthought. It could be removed as easily and nothing will be lost. I got a bit carried away in the repeating imagery which, on balance, I'm quite happy with, but I'm still a little bit unsure about 9:19. That being said it works, I think.

Auzel thank you also for your comments, and welcome to Lit-net. No, I don't think it is strange to enjoy poems which are referenced to time, or marked in some way :). Will we be seeing some poetry from you?



11:35 pm DST. Something I've always wanted to ask of a poem I admired as much as I do this one: What were the circumstances in which you wrote it? Did you write it by hand or on a keyboard? Were you alone at the time and aware of being alone? Were you sipping something? Did you sit for some time after you finished it and wonder? Did you long to read or show it to anyone, and did you - or was posting it here enough for you?


Thanks for your comments Jerry. Ok, I'll give you a run down of how this went. First, I posted a thread on the Lit-net admin thread questioning whether something happens at 9:15am GMT as I can't seem to access the site from then until 9:20am GMT. Virgil posted on there a comment along the lines that he thought it was one of my poems, and thought it was an original title which meant that, of course, I then had to write a poem to this effect. So, in my procrastinatory manner I avoided writing altogether and went off and did some exercise instead (mini-stepper - yak!) and whilst there I started writing the poem in my head. I always start off there. So I had probably the first 5-6 lines, and the ending written, but not written, in my head, I had a wash, got changed, headed downstairs and started writing on my computer what was written in my head. I pulled some of the poem together, first stanza, last stanza, second, in no particular order, then I made dinner, came back to it and finished it off before bath and bed time for the kids. At this point, I decided I ought to read it out to see if it worked, so I read it to my daughter who promptly put a cushion over her head. I asked her if she liked it, she said it's getting in my hair, which I took to mean 'no'. Posted it, worried it wasn't really finished, fretted a bit, drank wine, went to bed, got up this morning, read the comments, felt better. Oh, I had a shower somewhere in there too, and watched some TV (The Tudors by BBC - very, very, very good!).

I was not alone, very much not - generally when I'm writing it is punctuated by cries of Mum...blah, blah, blah, demands to be cuddled, to supply food, drink, entertainment, negotiate peace treaties, etc. That being said, I suppose on one level I am always aware of being alone. It is mine, and everyones, 'singular nature' to be so, I guess.

[dibyendra]

Such a splendid poem of yours Fifth. You have excelled this one ! This poem as a whole is brilliantly expressed from my point of view.

These lines are so impressive and intrigued me as well :


The rain begins, sudden, uncompromising,
driving people from the streets.
It is an inhuman beat, a song
known and yet forgotten
in the grey and voiceless wasteland
that has become the human soul.

The following stanzas intrigued me a lot Fifth !


the wheels of commerce turn,
the voice of trade and industry sings
inside a grey and voiceless wasteland.
Protected from the wind, the rain that drums
a beat on all the windows, people walk the
same but separate paths, sharing a singular nature.
Their lives are like unwanted newspapers
blown into the gutter, uncompromisingly.
They watch each other, look for signs
that someone speaks a language they
can remember and understand.
Inside they moan, like a mother’s cry.


two strangers meet buying coffee;
both late, uncompromisingly so.
Their eyes meet, and they speak
in a language neither knows
nor understands. It is the language
of the eyes, the hands, the scent
that carries on the wind like a cry,
or a moan misunderstood.
Their fingers meet, briefly,
as they each reach for their cup,
share, for one moment, their singular
nature, then turn away.
The bonds of miscommunication break,
something is lost, buried in the unwanted
newspapers that gather at their feet.

This poem of yours is a precious jewel Fifth ! :thumbs_up

[TheFifthElement]

Thank you so much dibyendra :D . I forgot to ask, did you have a nice birthday?

[PrinceMyshkin]

Thanks for your comments Jerry. Ok, I'll give you a run down of how this went. First, I posted a thread on the Lit-net admin thread questioning whether something happens at 9:15am GMT as I can't seem to access the site from then until 9:20am GMT. Virgil posted on there a comment along the lines that he thought it was one of my poems, and thought it was an original title which meant that, of course, I then had to write a poem to this effect. So, in my procrastinatory manner I avoided writing altogether and went off and did some exercise instead (mini-stepper - yak!) and whilst there I started writing the poem in my head. I always start off there.

So much wiser than starting off in someone else's head - mine,for instance!


So I had probably the first 5-6 lines,

Those are so often the magical ones, aren't they, when we've picked up the first clue in a treasure hunt and we don't altogether know what the prize at the end of all the clues will be but we know what fun it will be (or how pleasurably scary) it will be to chase after the next and the next...


and the ending written, but not written, in my head, I had a wash, got changed, headed downstairs and started writing on my computer what was written in my head. I pulled some of the poem together, first stanza, last stanza, second, in no particular order, then I made dinner, came back to it and finished it off before bath and bed time for the kids. At this point, I decided I ought to read it out to see if it worked, so I read it to my daughter who promptly put a cushion over her head. I asked her if she liked it, she said it's getting in my hair, which I took to mean 'no'. Posted it, worried it wasn't really finished,

You know perhaps what Graham Greene - no mean writer - said: that a writer is someone who always fails...


fretted a bit, drank wine, went to bed, got up this morning, read the comments, felt better. Oh, I had a shower somewhere in there too, and watched some TV (The Tudors by BBC - very, very, very good!).

I was not alone, very much not - generally when I'm writing it is punctuated by cries of Mum...blah, blah, blah, demands to be cuddled, to supply food, drink, entertainment, negotiate peace treaties, etc. That being said, I suppose on one level I am always aware of being alone. It is mine, and everyones, 'singular nature' to be so, I guess.:thumbs_up

[TheFifthElement]

So much wiser than starting off in someone else's head - mine,for instance!

but perhaps better than those I start in my a*se. They don't tend to be so good ;)

[PrinceMyshkin]

but perhaps better than those I start in my a*se. They don't tend to be so good ;)

Wait a sec! Will you just wait one cotton-picking second! Do I detect some sly comparison here between your a*se and MY head?

[TheFifthElement]

Wait a sec! Will you just wait one cotton-picking second! Do I detect some sly comparison here between your a*se and MY head?

:lol: :lol: :lol: would I ;) . Of course not, I was referring back to my original post in which I said that poems start in my head, as opposed to where else?!?!?!

What is a 'cotton-picking' second anyway? Is it a long one, or a short one? I have often wondered.

[PrinceMyshkin]

What is a 'cotton-picking' second anyway? Is it a long one, or a short one? I have often wondered.

It is something less than a New York minute, silly!

[SleepyWitch]

Does Something Happen at 9:15am GMT?

9:16 - two strangers meet buying coffee;
both late, uncompromisingly so.
Their eyes meet, and they speak
in a language neither knows
nor understands. It is the language
of the eyes, the hands, the scent
that carries on the wind like a cry,
or a moan misunderstood.
Their fingers meet, briefly,
as they each reach for their cup,
share, for one moment, their singular
nature, then turn away.
The bonds of miscommunication break,
something is lost, buried in the unwanted
newspapers that gather at their feet.

hey Fifth, I like 'singular nature' I don't think this line is superfluous. I'm especially intrigued by the idea of sharing their singular nature. isn't that what everyone wants in life, but it's a contradiction in terms and thus impossible? these two strangers manage to share their singular nature by accident, it's only a fleeting moment though and can't go on forever :thumbs_up

[dibyendra]

Thank you so much dibyendra :D . I forgot to ask, did you have a nice birthday?

hehe...ya it wasn't so wonderful but the blessing I got from my mama made that day so glorious. Thank you Fifth for reminding me that day again !

[Virgil]

After re-reading it Fifth, i like this even more. I love the repetitions. It gives the stanzas an interlocking, thematic whole. And very pretty too, the whole texture of it. Just one typo mistake I picked up: "9:19 – two friend meet on their way." I think you mean "friends."

[Scheherazade]

Everytime I come to this thread, thinking some more people are experiencing problems at 9.15 am!

Nice poem, Fifth :)

[TheFifthElement]

he he he, Scher something does happen at 9:15am GMT, but what it is seems to be something of a mystery!

Thanks for your comments Virgil, and for spotting the typo - duh! Off to correct as we speak...or type, or whatever!

Sleepy, thanks for your views on 'singular nature', I'm still thinking this is not necessary, it wasn't in my first version and it kind of flows better without. I don't know. It conveys something, but then it is something which has already been conveyed. Hmm, not sure.