Absolutely Miles Away …too many clouds, too little time…

flounderstream

we do not always speak in ways which make waves,
the slightest lilting lick of brightlight tunnel embeds between bricks
a mortar morticelock creating caverns
where we slip away at evensong amidst
underfoot rivers
securing the looks which chide to locked chains
momentarily lost whilst gazing in other gulleys
same-weathered, waterforced, chipped and scored
scuppering similarities, somehow.

crests fall, and troughs rise.
day sleeps, and nights hide.

This is so beautiful and it really begs to be read aloud. I’ve always loved ‘evensong’ but this phrase, especially: ‘a mortar morticelock creating caverns’.

You should record this for us. :)

Yes, I quite agree. Not only a beautiful poem, but one that simply demands to be read. And recorded. And read and recorded. So we can listen. Yes.

amen.

Perhaps you should read your writings. I think that would add another aspect to them. :)

It would be cool. I can see it now, vol 2,3,and 5.

4 is the Lost Sessions.

all of you commenters! yes, you! even the ones who haven’t commented!

go and stand in the corner over there.

um…

your punishment is to read it, er, out loud, um, to yourself.

there.

*cackles*

Okay then! But do not be angry if I read it not according to how you felt it.

I think that is the right way to say it…

Argh.

Pah, I say! Pah!

As someone who has had their work read by others, I can tell you that they get all the phrasing and intonation incorrect, almost to annoying levels. So I would still like to hear the Absolutely Miles Away authored version, oh yes.

Fine. I have just read it aloud to myself. It was perfection, because I’m a genius (and have a sultry yet intellectual voice). Nevertheless…. I still want to hear you read it.

Andophiroxia: I would imagine, given everyone to their own devices, it would make sense thus for each person to intonate their words differently. Thus casting a meaning on such. But one person’s meaning will be different to another. As much as one intonation will be different to another.

Mr. Witness: Pah? I, er, do not have a microphone. Or a telephone. Or a trombone.

Bohémienne: Ah, see, your voice would be great for your own interpretation! would it not spoil your own meaning, or divert from it at all, to hear another?

Dear readers of Absolutely Miles Away,

As fellow fans of this here fine blog, I’m sure you would like to join me in donating to the new Buy Absolutely Miles Away A Microphone And Some Audio Software fund. I promise the proceeds of this will only be used to buy the aforementioned Absolutely Miles Away a microphone and some audio software in order to record her rather superb poems and place them here on her previously aforementioned and now mentioned again rather fine weblog, as we clearly all desire so much. The funds will not be used to pay for my annual holiday to Skegness.

Please visit www.buy-AMA-a-microphone.com to add your generous donation. I thank you.

Dear Mr An Unreliable Witness Sir Esquire,

I do not believe that website exists. Nor do i believe that the lure of the Skeggy scenery, its fragrant waters and ample opportunities for slot-machine gaming would ever be quelled.

you shall have to set up some sort of devious scheme for people to Send Skeggy Money. Like a special Paypal account. An-Unreliable-Witness-Needs-Moolah-For-Skeggy-Spending at, um, a less reliable witness than normal dot com.

Maybe if fifty (thousand) people agreed. Or, if each person who’s commented on this thread puts an audio post of them reading one of their posts on their humble website-abodes?

Ms. Away… I happen to know that Mr. Witness would be more than willing to lead us in the challenge you have issued. In fact, he might record for all of us, being the eager diva that he is. If he were to do so, and then you were to acquiesce to our requests to hear your dulcet tones here, I would be more than willing to donate my two cents (perhaps literally) to the “Unreliable Visit to Skegness” fund.

Sorry, Miles. Heh. I didn’t realise my little wishful thinking comment would cause such a ruckus. And when did Unreliable start gambling? Oh dear, oh dear.

[I bet you do have a microphone, though. Just saying. When you’re ready, we’ll be listening.]

Love the last two words of this poem and the image they invoke.

Bohémienne : heeheehee! well…

Ani : ah - sometimes snowballs fall down hills and turn into icicle-laden stampedes…sometimes not.

Sara : I have not really found a night as a place to be amidst shining lights. More, to hide amongst the shadow gift which night passes on…