I invented Neo-Extreme Poetry several years ago, and am the only writer of its kind in Britain today. I am aiming to get a publishable collection together and would welcome any comments.

Here are a couple to start off with.

The Awakening.

O lonely owl
O boistrous goat
'neath thine eyes the dripping throat
...of time the bloodstained snarling clock
deranged and dizzy crows the cock.


Gerbils

Gerbils tumbling like water
into the void of space
so distant
...so silent
drawn towards a distant star
far
...far away.

Gerbils sipping ice-cold drinks by a pool
on the edge of time itself
fading
...fading so fast.
Into a distant Galaxy
so bright
...so light
and Gerbils eat their sandwiches
peacefully.

I wish I was a Gerbil.



What do you reckon to them?

How about this sam,


Hearts and flowers,
roses,thorns.
Soft as silk,springtime fawns

Waterfalls,dew drops,
everything.
autum,winter
awaiting spring.

Sharpened silver,
death and life,
tears of salt,
golden knife.



not quite as extreme but not bad me thinks

Ah, now we're talking! That's an excellent example of neo-seventies bubble-stop verse. Just the right amount of superlative syntax - and it scans beautifully well.

However, I would be tempted to include the definite article at the beginning of the last line in the final stanza, just to 'bend the words around the corner', so to speak.

Yes, very nice.

This is one I wrote for my wife before we were married. It is now a proud part of my Long-Late-Autumn Collection of 1984.

Suenos (Dreams)

Paper, please! - my friend so small
Your brother's grubby and he's tall
He's signed his cheese-pot
Smoked his wheels
And gargled gladly with his peas.

So listen , friend, to me take note
Don't turn this way - don't let life float
Splice the mildew
Quake your beak
And thread your truffles once a week.

It still makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end after all these years.

Oh Sam my man,that is just pure class.

You must give me some pointers.

Well, thank you kindly, Tango. I feel belittled by your sympaticality.

I would suggest to you, as I do all my students, that you amble around Fargate one Sunday afternoon until you see what you are looking for. Just smell those colours around you, you'll see what I mean when you get there.

Make many notes with words in your mind and then, after numerous hours of ambling, when you are once more in your abode, transfer them to paper and make them sing, and sing out loud!

Make them tell the eternal story. Make them shout at the buildings and trees. But most of all, make them caress the very crust of life itself.

Ah, I can hear a rainbow!

I am off down to Fargate now to conjure up some more work.

Seeing the title of this thread I assumed the poetry was composed under extreme conditions, in a similar way to extreme ironing.

For instance, jumping out of an aeroplane and before the parachute opens:

Don't push
The light, so much
The ground, so close
My house, so near
This cord, my lifeline
Safe at last


Or swimming with sharks:

Fish
Why me

Noooooooo,Sam its only saturdayand its very windy.

Gusts aloft,sucking the life from the skies and grasping to the trees.
Clawing at our every sense,kneading the air around us with blustery fingers and blowing arms.
Though deprived of pleasure it carries on,it stays the king of light and natures charms.


So dont go out its windy

Heed, I do your warning, Tango. Thoughtful, indeed it was of you to remind me of the gusty conditions on the other side of my meagre walls. O to be home!

But, alas! I did manage to conjure up a draft of something which I believe in all seriosity will eventualiate into an important piece of contempory prose.

It is, I announce, beneath.

Untitled

So very much I gazed that sky
brusque dragons blinded ghostly scene
whilst bathed in moonshine - flakes burn dry
so very much that filfth washed clean.

So hardly ever shoals glide free
'pon and through life's briny soup
tragic, logic, darkness be
so hardly ever swims the loop.

Not ever was that swirling mist
that spiralled deftly t'wards thy door
took heed of life's clenched ugly fist
not ever was the grimy floor.

I had a vision of extreme poetry being similar to extreme ironing before I opened this thread. I'm dissapointed.

Glad it was of some help to you sam,I like to warn people when the weather is in anticipation of being slight of brisk.
I did,however fail to inform you of,

Swirling demons,grasping out towards our very inner selfness
clawing inwardly at your soul.
Heartless manifestations,wreeping your fruits of conciousness
your minds eye be their goal.
Salvation be thy only dream,wishing,wanting,loathing
seek out your desire
Though walking on to lower plinth searching,earthen folds
hearts of wind and breath of frozen fire.


Moral,dont forget your brolley.

Originally posted by Sidla
I had a vision of extreme poetry being similar to extreme ironing before I opened this thread. I'm dissapointed.

I was not aware of extreme poetry until today,all though sam will disagree,it can be taken in the same context as single word stories.
These stories are not to everyones taste,you must delve into your innermost regions of being to grasp the concept of the story,and to feel the content upon your soul.

This was my first attempt at it,I think you will agree it is a powerfull piece of work.
It is however no match for the might of Sams Extreme Poetry.



Fire

Sorry to disappoint you there, Sidla, but I am talking about 'Neo' extreme poetry, of which I am the inventor. I do take your point.

Extreme poetry written during very trying circumstances, is not related to the neo variety.

Also, is anyone familiar with appliance poetry? I also instigated this during the Green Syntax Revolution of some twenty years ago.

One poem by Jamie Fitz-Reptileface always stays in my mind.

Toasters

White and sleek they have controls
to brown your bread - more or less
I've seen them chrome
I've seen patterned ones
And they start as cheap as a tenner
Grilled bread in seconds.

I think he was poorly when he wrote that one.

Originally posted by Sam Miguel
Toasters

White and sleek they have controls
to brown your bread - more or less
I've seen them chrome
I've seen patterned ones
And they start as cheap as a tenner
Grilled bread in seconds.

Oh dear :)

It is a rather deflating poem. I feel the juxtaposition of 'patterned' and 'ones' does little to 'lift' the syntax, so to speak.

Although it is an important piece, the obviously metaphorical resemblence between a toaster and the current government is perhaps, one does feel, a little too obvious.

Having said that, it is probably the best example of its sort.

Then again, I won't be voting toaster next time round.

Of course, I am always encouraging my students to exploit pen and paper and not to be afraid to experiment. Donald Hitchins was a student of mine for many weeks and went on to produce a splendid anthology of one-line appliance verse.

Consider this:

'My Hoover sucks!'

Quite brilliant, I am sure you will agree.

Originally posted by tango2
Glad it was of some help to you sam,I like to warn people when the weather is in anticipation of being slight of brisk.
I did,however fail to inform you of,

Swirling demons,grasping out towards our very inner selfness
clawing inwardly at your soul.
Heartless manifestations,wreeping your fruits of conciousness
your minds eye be their goal.
Salvation be thy only dream,wishing,wanting,loathing
seek out your desire
Though walking on to lower plinth searching,earthen folds
hearts of wind and breath of frozen fire.


Moral,dont forget your brolley.

You know, you can almost smell the texture of this one. 'Swirling demons'. Dynamic stuff. 'fruits of consciousness'. Oh, yes please!!I can almost taste the next line!!

But what does it for me is the final four words. 'breath of frozen fire'. Splendid.

It evokes the very essence of life and provokes our minds to search for the answers to the impossible questions we ask ourselves in our subconciousness.

Finally, the full-stop represents the end of the poem. Clever stuff in a 'neo' sort of way. Well done Tango, well done!

I too feel that the fullstop was a turning point in my last work.almost teasing you to the end of it.

The very texture of the fullstop can sometimes be taken in a very emotional context,almost to the point of being sensual.
A comma often tries to emulate the same situation,but the tail at the bottom is always a give a way (to the trained eye).

I have observed,on many occasions the fullstop carressing the page....taunting the words to come to an end.


Having just heard this next piece of work,it has inpired me to live the life of a pauper,and to write poetry on old bus tickets.


Lighters,lighters, six for a pound
.......I also have mobile facias for Nokia 3310.
10 yellow dusters only a quid,
sorry got to dash the old bill are comming.

This was passed to me by a relative of Ernie Coleskuttle the renound street poet of the late 19th century.
His work has gone undiscovered for some years,it is said he had an insight into the future,this may be evident from the content of his work.
The above piece was actually written arround 1893 on christmas eve.

It seems, it most certainly does, that the human essence strives to destroy and multiplicate problems.

For instance: poetry, (and in particular neo-hard verse with social overtones) alights the sole which is a small bottom-feeding flatfish which happies at the bottom of deep seas.

Sod the cod.

Ahh bottom feeding flat fish,now you are talking post decimation of the stromoliphic period.
These were hard times for all the stromo poets of the early 20th century,they have since been driven into low cost housing projects in order to rekindle there work.

It was once said that,the bottom feeding flat fish was to the life force of all beings.
We were to behold its splendor,but alas we discovered the humble Goldfish and its purity and stealth of mind.

Samuel Hardworthy once wrote:

A fish is golden,,majestic and bold,unless it flat and feeding on the bottom.

I can understand where he was going with this,he was trying to stress the difference in our characters.
To be the goldfish is to be the observer in the speculate of life,the flat fish however is to be flat and seeks its wealth from the soul.

And indeed, a goldfish has a memory span of 2.4 seconds so: if east meets west, a large aquarium is in fact a beetroot is a snake is a bottle of Malaysian lager, or a Netto cashier.

Flum!

Sorry to disagree,but i think it would be an Aldi cashier and a bottle of Dutch Beer,a cheese and tomato sandwhich (with pickle).
Not as vast as an aquarium,but a cheap plastic fish bowl,had maces pet shop still been there.

Get your apples 3 bob a pound.

Originally posted by Sam Miguel
I invented Neo-Extreme Poetry several years ago, and am the only writer of its kind in Britain today. I am aiming to get a publishable collection together and would welcome any comments.

Here are a couple to start off with.

The Awakening.

O lonely owl
O boistrous goat
'neath thine eyes the dripping throat
...of time the bloodstained snarling clock
deranged and dizzy crows the cock.


Gerbils

Gerbils tumbling like water
into the void of space
so distant
...so silent
drawn towards a distant star
far
...far away.

Gerbils sipping ice-cold drinks by a pool
on the edge of time itself
fading
...fading so fast.
Into a distant Galaxy
so bright
...so light
and Gerbils eat their sandwiches
peacefully.

I wish I was a Gerbil.



What do you reckon to them?

Quality!! The Gerbils poem is amazing!!

Thank you I do for your kind comments, you have made my Monday feel so splendid. I am happy.

I will post another piece for your critique very soon.

I wrote a poem for my goldfish Bet

Ode For Bet

Bet
Wet
Pet.

She liked it:)

Anglepoise lamp
On my desk
Bendy neck
Drooping head
Like a giraffe that brings me light


Fin.


:loopy:

Tips for extreme poetry. You could do worse than emulate that great wordsmith, namely Syd Barrett. I offer you this for your consideration and perusal. A true classic I'm sure you'll agree.

Bike (Barrett)

I've got a bike, you can ride it if you like.
It's got a basket, a bell that rings
And things to make it look good.
I'd give it to you if I could, but I borrowed it.

You're the kind of girl that fits in with my world.
I'll give you anything, everything if you want things.

I've got a cloak it's a bit of a joke.
There's a tear up the front. It's red and black.
I've had it for months.
If you think it could look good, then I guess it should.

You're the kind of girl that fits in with my world.
I'll give you anything, everything if you want things.

I know a mouse, and he hasn't got a house.
I don't know why I call him Gerald.
He's getting rather old, but he's a good mouse.

You're the kind of girl that fits in with my world.
I'll give you anything, everything if you want things.

I've got a clan of gingerbread men.
Here a man, there a man, lots of gingerbread men.
Take a couple if you wish. They're on the dish.

You're the kind of girl that fits in with my world.
I'll give you anything, everything if you want things.

I know a room full of musical tunes.
Some rhyme, some ching, most of them are clockwork.
Let's go into the other room and make them work.

Originally posted by nomme
Tips for extreme poetry. You could do worse than emulate that great wordsmith, namely Syd Barrett. I offer you this for your consideration and perusal. A true classic I'm sure you'll agree.

Bike (Barrett)

I've got a bike, you can ride it if you like.
It's got a basket, a bell that rings
And things to make it look good.
I'd give it to you if I could, but I borrowed it.

You're the kind of girl that fits in with my world.
I'll give you anything, everything if you want things.

I've got a cloak it's a bit of a joke.
There's a tear up the front. It's red and black.
I've had it for months.
If you think it could look good, then I guess it should.

You're the kind of girl that fits in with my world.
I'll give you anything, everything if you want things.

I know a mouse, and he hasn't got a house.
I don't know why I call him Gerald.
He's getting rather old, but he's a good mouse.

You're the kind of girl that fits in with my world.
I'll give you anything, everything if you want things.

I've got a clan of gingerbread men.
Here a man, there a man, lots of gingerbread men.
Take a couple if you wish. They're on the dish.

You're the kind of girl that fits in with my world.
I'll give you anything, everything if you want things.

I know a room full of musical tunes.
Some rhyme, some ching, most of them are clockwork.
Let's go into the other room and make them work.

Amazing! never seen poetry like this before! It's mental!

Like the poets have all been on acid!

Her is some work from the great Wordsworth Avenue,this was created while he worked with Chaucer School.

I have a car,tis a very splendid car indeed,
Not a bike,though id like,to wash it now and then.
A pound of potatoes is quite cheap these days,
I have a nice garden,oh no…on my lawn,a weed
My window cleaner is good,does do an excellent job,
Not a plumber,nor electrition not even a baker,
Have you seen those new cd players.
Ihave very clean windows,KFC…corn on the cob

I know cars are not invented,but im sure they will be one day.



What a hero

All this creativeness makes me feel glad: indeed my heart is on fire and my feet are dancing. Congratulations to you all.

I am submitting my latest rendition: A man on a Train (We find out his Name is Len) for you to digest and offer me advice. Thank you. Thank you all.

A man on a Train (We find out His name is Len)

by

Sam Miguel

A man on a train sits by a window
alone with his whirlpool thoughts
a dark reflection screams in his eyes
as the train disappears into the tunnel.
As the train emerges again
we find out his name is Len.
He's not there now.
He's nowhere to be seen.
Two long minutes later he re-appears
and takes his seat by the window.
He lights his pipe and smokes.
He likes to smoke his pipe, you know.
At the station he mingles with the crowd
and becomes so insignificant.
He likes to do his garden at the weekend
when he has the time.

It took me almost three years of midnight oil-burning to tune in and get the balance right in this Edwardian bubble-drop
maga-sonnet.

I love it, though. It dampens my eyes.

It is truely a mega sonnet,I didnt mean to doubt you but I did check.
Yes it has 16 lines,a sonnet times 4 truely a genuine mega sonnet.

It almost reminds me of the work I did some years ago,while sitting in the old Bridge street Bus Terminus.Its called bread and jam.



Im sitting here,waitng.
Ihope the 79 comes along very soon,
...even the 89 will be fine.
Here comes a bus,wonder what it is.
Shall I go to the kiosk,I could buy 10 number 6.
Only 37 and a half pence.
I could buy a mars bar,a bag of crisps even.
My bus has arrived,im so happy.
Now I can go home,have my tea of bread and jam.

Do you know, I simply love poems about bread and jam. It is such an anti-relevant subject in this modern auto-flimbistic society.

Younger forum members should take note that in the '70's there was little else to eat but bread and jam. It needs poems like this (which are valuable documents and modern local history in the making) to highlight the hardships we went through in those dark, dreary days.

But we were happy. Oh yes, we were happy.

Wonderful evocotive stuff, Tango.

I had one about Lemon Curd,but the world just isnt ready for such an outspoken bit of work yet.

The bread and jam inigma,is I feel an indication of our dual personality...is it bread and jam or is it jam and bread,is it strawberry or blackcurrant...white bread or brown,sliced or crusty...from the co-op or did your nan bake it.

To change the jam for Lemon curd,or dare I say it...even marmalade,would be so provocative and would stir up ill feeling within the poetry circles.

I am moved to rubbing the mist from my eyes at the very thought of it.
Lemon Curd poems,have for some years been studdied by the post pectinilist poets,we need to go a long way before we even begin to understand there casmagoric teachings.

Writing and understanding fine Poetry is, in my opinion, the art of letting one's mind be deliciously turned around corners and corkscrewed through space by specially chosen words.

So intense are my emotions when I begin to read such a piece of work for the first time, my nose begins to swing up and down uncontrollably in anticipation at discovering what the outcome will be.

Marvellous.