…and his new name is Captain Dapper!

A few posts ago in my effort to complete one of the exercises from my Writing Poetry book I composed a doggerel poem based around a superhero called Captain Comet. I enjoyed writing it so much that I’ve been thinking of using the character more ever since, but the only problem was that I discovered that he’s not an original!

Sadly, a little internet research soon revealed that Captain Comet is in fact a well-established DC Comics character. Being a comic superhero fan myself, I couldn’t possible think of ripping him off. So, since then I’ve been in search of a more original title. I flicked through the C and K sections of the dictionary looking for another two-syllable word that would fit the poem and the personality of my superhero, but I just couldn’t find anything.

However, inspiration struck this morning totally out of the blue. Earlier today my colleague Kevin came into work dressed rather sharply ready to deliver his Excel training session. I commented on his “dapper” appearance. Later on I glanced back here at the Words section of our blog thinking I hadn’t updated for a while, I put two and two together and Captain Dapper was invented!

I’ve checked him for originality and although I found an obscure reference to a character of that name in Chapter 73 of some book called The Mysteries of London and as the name of a racing horse based in Australia and New Zealand, I feel it carries the uniqueness required. So on that note, here is the rewritten version of my superhero doggerel. Hopefully Captian Dapper will make a swift return in another poetic episode soon…

Captain Dapper is a superhero
You can reach him on emergency dial nine nine zero
If you’re lucky he’ll pick up after just one ring
And be over faster than you can sing
Help me Captain Dapper! Help me quick!
My cat ate a rat and I think he’s going to be sick
More handsome than Brad Pitt
He’ll arrive dressed in a suit, made-to-fit
Before you know it, old pusskins is long forgotten
‘Cause you’re eyes are glued to the Captain’s perky bottom
But while you admire his buns of steel
Poor little fluffy’s covered the Captain in his morning meal

Taking a little break from the exercises from John Whitworth’s book I’ve been working on I recently composed this after reading these words of Baha’u'llah (Arabic Hidden Word No. 1)

O SON OF SPIRIT!
My first counsel is this: Posses a pure, kindly and radiant heart, that thine may be a soverignty ancient, imperishable and everlasting.

Forged

A bead of light
Sparkles and pulsates
Distant as the seabed
Nearer than your very core
Blacked-out
Encased and sticky
Unreachable
By all but an evanescent hand
That stirs and shakes it
Feeds and nurtures it
Unbeknownst to its carrier
The heat of growth encrusts the shell
Hard as clay
Tensile as steel
The sooty residue flakes and crumbles away
Revealing the hidden treasure
Forged within

In Chapter 3 of John Whitworth’s book he talks about modernism and post-modernism. I shall let you delve into Wikipedia for more info on those, except to say the general gist that I gleaned from the chapter was that it is all-too-often that poetry is regarded in an overly serious manner. Below is an example of so-called Modernism by E. E. Cummings.

l(a
le
af
fa
ll
s)
one
l
iness

Don’t even ask me to explain. Swiftly moving on, Whitworth talks specifically about one brand of post-modernism called Ludic poetry, which essentially means playful. Hence my earlier comment about over-seriousness. To that end Exercise 3 is comprised of 5 parts all of which include a task that has what is both a constraint and a catalyst for amusing results. Below is my effort for part 1, the premise of which is that the poem contains one word beginning with each letter of the alphabet in the order they appear in the alphabet, with the exception of ‘x’ for which you can use ‘ex’ words instead.

Part 1 of Exercise 3

Advice on Animals

A brave cat doesn’t eat fish. Grey horses imbibe juice. Koala’s love macadamia nuts or particularly queer ripe strawberries. The ugly vegetable will exfoliate your zebra.

Anyway, all this has rather reminded me of my writing origins. My earliest memory of writing poetry is back in secondary school in English literature class. I remember telling my teacher at the time I had the imagination of a raisin. In other words, a grape that had, had all the “creative juice” squeezed out of it. Looking back that very statement in itself was quite an imaginative metaphor, but I didn’t believe I could string more than two meaningful words together at the time.

It wasn’t long after that however that I wrote some lyrics for a music group at a Baha’i Sunday School, but more pertinently I remember writing rhyming birthday cards for my buddy Mark a few years in a row. These were always based on comic parameters, quirks of our friendship etc etc. Not since then, and the revolting rhyme-esque effort I made for Exercise 2 have I explored “funny” poetry. I must say I’ve been missing out and am looking forward to Parts 2 to 5.

So, on to exercise two. Write a poem in McGonagallese doggerel.

What is this doggerel?

Well perhaps the best way to explain is to read an example. Check out William McGonaggall

And here’s my effort….

Captain comet is a super hero
You can reach him on emergency dial nine nine zero
If you’re lucky he’ll pick up after just one ring
And be over faster than you can sing
Help me Captain Comet! Help me quick!
My cat ate a rat and I think he’s going to be sick
More handsome than Brad Pitt
He’ll arrive dressed in a suit, made-to-fit
Before you know it, old pusskins is long forgotten
‘Cause you’re eyes are glued to the Captain’s perky bottom
But while you admire his buns of steel
Poor little fluffy’s covered the Captain in his morning meal

This effort is also inspired by Roald Dahl whose brilliant Revolting Rhymes for kids I’ve recently had the pleasure of reading. Have no doubt, I am nothing but a big kid…

It’s been a number more months than I’d normally hope since I last made a post to this part of our blog, but thanks to my little sister and her very thoughtful gift purchasing efforts I’m making a reappearance. Parisa recently gave me a book called Writing Poetry by John Whitworth. The book not only contains poetry and guidance on how to write poetry, but also specific exercises one is encouraged to carry out in attempting to broaden their poetic horizons. I’m certianly not the kind of writer who isn’t open to new horizons, that much is for sure. And apparently I’m not particularly concerned about embarrassing myself either as I’ve decided to share my voyage of discovery with all our blog readers. So, this should be fun!

Exercise 1 - Write something, anything, but exactly 50 words long, no more, no less.

Poetry it seems is quite a ponder-
  some subject
There are very few rules by which
    one must abide
Which means it can be hard to distinguish
      a poem
        from any other sort of
          prose
And hey Mr. Gates! Why does your dictionary think that
             pondersome
               is not even a Word?

It seemed to me from the example answer provided by Mr. Whitworth that the idea of this exercise was to simply see what effect a simple limitation would have on your writing experience i.e. I was forced to edit and re-edit my words until I had the correct number. As for the layout, he developed what was initially a plain paragraph into something broken into lines and then further into indented lines with a sort of cascading effect, where each line was indented further than its predecessor. He called this concept “free verse“. I decided to explore this idea myself. I could say more about the subject as it is addressed by John Whitworth, but I don’t want to make these posts too lengthy so I will try to make use of available references in Wikipedia wherever possible. I guess the intriguing thing to think about free verse is how words, sentences and language can be influenced by the way in which they are divided. I wonder whether in some sense this notion could even change the intended meaning of something much like the use of a comma in punctuated language can? Hmmm….

Invisible to you

If only you could see me now
I’ve been moved to write
To pour out my soul to the world
Plain for all to see
Like I’ve got something to offer
But then you don’t agree
Because the simple truth is
I’m invisible to you

If only you could see me now
Working my fingers to the bone
Straining my limbs
On my hands and knees
I’d give it all for you
If only you’d believe
But what can I do?
If I’m invisible to you

There’s not enough time in the day
For all that I have to accomplish
My nights are sleepless
And my hopes are endless
I’m on an impossible mission
And I won’t ever give up
Whether I like it or not
I’ll still be Invisible to you

Should I paint myself blue
Standing on the horizon
Like some kind of superhero
Cape flailing in the wind
Fists reaching to the sky
A shimmer in my eye
And still wondering why?
I’m invisible to you

I’m beginning to learn that having the opportunity to publish my poetry online is as much a voyage of discovery for me as I hope it is for the reader. The reason I say that is because as someone who’s been writing fairly regularly in their spare time for the last seven years or so I sometimes stumble upon things I’d forgotten I’d written, files on a disc somewhere I didn’t know still existed or bits of paper that I have lumped into my “poetry box” and never got around to typing up. Often I find things I can’t remember the motivation behind, that are incomplete or that barely even make sense to me. Perhaps that sounds all rather odd, but then maybe any other writers out there will empathize with what I’m saying. Anyway, here is one such piece that I recall definitely had some purpose, some message it was supposed to convey, but I’m not entirely sure what it was…perhaps someone else would like to figure it out for me?

It’s called Jet Pilot

Bet you think you are a jet pilot
With twenty-twenty vision
Soaring in the clouds of your wonderland
Convinced you never miss a thing

I know you saw the pink sunset that day
In all its pastel glory
But did you see the author’s pen
Writing a foolish romance story

I know you saw the bald eagle gliding by
Swooping and swooning
But what about the orphan boy
Tossing and turning

I know you’ve seen all the constellations
Shimmer in the night sky
But did you see the civilizations of old
Ages and eons gone by

Bet you think you are a jet pilot
With twenty-twenty vision
Soaring in the clouds of your wonderland
Convinced you never miss a thing
Nothing more that life could bring
Not another song to sing
Switched on your autopilot
Sitting back to take it all in
Did you forget where to begin?

I saw a jet fighter once
Zooming by
I wondered how fast it went
To which war it had been sent
What the symbol on its wing meant
The I smiled and stood up
Grabbing my white cane
And putting on my shades
Waving goodbye to the jet-plane

This poem is in tribute to my mother’s creative ability and inspiration. “The Artist’s Loving Hand” is actually a line from the song “Vincent” by Don McLean which he wrote in dedication to Van Gogh, one of my mum’s favourite artists after whom I was named. Below is also a picture of my mum when she visited Haifa in the early nineties. She was ill at the time and it was her last visit to the Holy Land.

The life sustaining air, despite its transparency, is caressed by…
The falling flower petal, directed upon a windy descent, lands in…
The sweetly blown kiss, so lovingly dispatched, is captured by…
The child’s pure smile, accompanied by laughter, is coveted by…

…The Artist’s Loving Hand

The jagged mountain peaks, so disorderly, are perfectly drawn by…
The imprisoned imagination, words cannot free, is emancipated by…
The naked canvas, is clothed in the warmth of a colourful dream by…
Memories of distant days, are etched into the fine lines and wrinkles of…

…The Artist’s Loving Hand

The yearning of the absent heart, is absorbed into the very bones of…
The weighty load borne by the broken shouldered spirit is alleviated by…
The brush that paints in the language of art, is speechless without…
The unseen shadow, forgotten and insignificant, is treasured by…

…The Artist’s Loving Hand

Tears of fondness are tenderly cushioned and wiped gently away by …
The creator, that blessed each soul with the power to create, is worshipped by…
The ring of praise, bejeweled and glowing, ornaments the finger of…
The life of the artist, her inner being, her very essence, is an enigma,
Whose only tangible manifestation might be an intricate calligraphy,
Shaped like a graceful swan, and deftly scribed by none other than…

…The Artist’s Loving Hand

So, as I’ve already said I’m slowly trying to re-publish all the writing that appeared on the previous version of our site. Thus far I’ve not put back any of the pieces inspired by my mother, so I figured that’s what I’d do now. Most of you out there who read our blog won’t have met my mum who passed away over ten years ago now after a four year fight against cancer. Her name was Faezeh, she was born in Yazd, Iran, moved to England as a student where she met a travelling New Zealander who turned out to be her future husband and well you know the rest.

She was passionately creative and a talented artist, who enjoyed painting and sculpture. She was also known in the Baha’i community for her particularly beautiful chanting voice, as well as her hospitality. I was just shy of 15 when she passed away and at the time I really didn’t appreciate how much influence she would have on my life. I am quite certain that it is her spirit that often infuses my enthusiasm for creative writing and undoubtedly her will that strengthens my dedication to the Baha’i Faith.

This poem is one of the very earliest things I wrote though it was some years after my mother’s passing which is a reflection of how long it took me to really start dealing with her loss. It is called, When.

When I’m dreaming, do you think of me?
When I’m sleeping, are you next to me?
When I’m hoping, do you help me try?
When I’m broken, do you hear me cry?
Do you know that, that I want you back,
But I cannot have you and I can’t handle that?

When I’m walking, do you follow me?
If I start falling, will you catch me?
When I’m lost, will you show me through,
To the other side, where I will find you?
Because you know that, that I want you back,
But I cannot have you and I can’t handle that?

When I forget, do you forgive me?
When I regret, will you set me free?
When I’m angry will you calm me down,
And console me because you’re not around,
And you know that, that I want you back,
But I cannot have you and I can’t handle that

So I remember and I think of you
And I can feel a love so true
I see a picture of your smiling face
And I can feel you warmth and grace

Lady’s Sunrise is not in fact the original name of this poem, but as I’m not one for naming name’s I’ve replaced the name of the person who this poem was dedicated to by a more cryptic reference. In short, this person is a very good friend to both Manijeh and I, and Manijeh wrote this piece out on some handmade paper in her impeccable handwriting and we gave it to our friend for her birthday. How soppy are we!

Among the shadows of the hills
In soft and luscious green valleys
Stands a gentle and solemn figure
She tenderly strokes her hands together
As she gazes longingly and with great focus
Upon the striking panorama that is the world she sees
Though her composure gives away little
It seems she is patiently awaiting some delightfully simple event
No concern does she have for her immediate surroundings
Apparently they bear minute importance
The warble of a morning bird does not distract her glance
But is enough to enlighten her countenance with a smile of content
It is very early and the air is cool and crisp
The dew has settled and given lustre to the verdure
The black curtains of the night sky are slowly drawing away
Dissolved by the blue canvas of day
But this spectacle of colour that would trance many others
Has failed to grip the serene figure amidst the landscape
She yearns for something mightier, something far more astounding
A shimmer of near white light glimmers in the distance
Peering through the space between two peaks
At first it is not the light, but a tingle of warmth upon the skin
That stirs the heart of the quiet observer
Gradually more and more rays shoot out from over the horizon
Spotlighting the previously unnoticed nature, flora and fauna alike
The origin of this dawn, this life giving radiance rises steadily
Revealing with each minute that passes still more splendour
The expression of the graceful onlooker is now one of unyielding upliftment
The yellow beams sparkle in her eyes like shooting stars
That light the path to her inmost spirit, her very soul
Her tanned complexion appears ever fairer
As though the sun has penetrated her exterior
And is being reflected from within
She raises her arms aloft like falcon wings
Her feet remain firmly on the ground
But as she closes her eyes keeping the image of the sunrise
Mother nature’s very own lights show, clear in her mind
You know she is soaring among the clouds and mountains
That her imagination paints so vivdly around her.