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The Gorilla and the Three Bells


The Gorilla and the Three Bells is a serendipitous fusion of the lyric of Brother Gorilla by Jake Thackray and the original French melody Les Trois Cloches. (Les Trois Cloches is the song that was very loosely translated to become The Three Bells or Little Jimmy Brown). Of course, just because it is possible to fit Jake's lyric to that tune doesn't make it a good idea, but I had to get it out of my system.

Defence intoned

Defence intoned, 'If we convict
this man today, we do a great
disservice to the cause. We play
into the hands of those who race
like lemmings out of season
to self-destruction!' Then, with softer voice,

he said, 'Better that we should voice
distrust of those who would convict
even their mothers in a season
of madness nurtured by the great
and good among the race
of self-styled orchestrators of the play.

'Have you not seen the games they play?
They talk to you with silvery voice
of purity of caste and race-
seductive lies- yet they convict
only themselves. The great
heresy must not live another season.

'Rather, let this be the season
of reconciliation. Play
a nobler part. We can do great
deeds, by speaking with one voice.
And let us not convict
the fellow who has stumbled in the race.

'Imagine you were asked to race
before the tide, the changing season,
manacled like a common convict.
Would you show readiness to play
or would you raise your voice
to rail against the injustice of the great?

'I think we know the answer. Great
performances demand the race
be fairly run. Then lend your voice
to serve the people for a season!
Bring justice into play!
Show courage, jurors all. Do not convict!'

Who would be great before their season
let them but race to join the play.
Give voice to truth. Do not convict!

New Regime

We are the resurrection of the dead
forgotten ways. We cultivate despair
in veiled anathema of womankind.

We are the ancient writings reassessed
by gunlight in the aftermath of war.
Ours is the only truth you need to know.

Ode to Consciousness

There is a meeting place of mind and eyes
where images compete for conscious view
and where perception banishes surprise
at what is beaten down, and what wins through.
With or without our influence or ken
it's here our individual selves begin;
for some are dulled and others walk in sleep
never to wake again,
though quiet voices whisper in the din
of time for laughter and a time to weep.

That part of us that is no rushing thing
awaits our quietness, or our fatigue
if nothing less can calm the eddying
onrush of our futilities. Intrigue,
infatuation, habit and despair
crowd to the fore, impatient - yet it waits
forever and beyond. Is it so weak
that it cannot declare
an interest in our battle with the fates,
or does it hide because we fail to seek?

What flows below the words may yet awake
remembrance of an earlier array
of promises fulfilled. Each new mistake
derails the latent urge, with each new day,
to change before the changeless. We can hear
the choral syntheses of soil and soul
proclaim the unity of earth and mind
in answer to the fear
of gradual dissolution of the whole
of consciousness, as molecules unbind.

The Weft

For less than the price of a pint, and free if you are a Kindle Unlimited subscriber, The Weft is a selection from my poetry files. For those not familiar with my material, I am a New Formalist, meaning that I use classical verse forms but modern standard English, not 'poetic diction'. This collection contains sonnets, roundels, sestinas, terzanelles, ballades and more, with plenty light verse interspersed with the more serious offerings. Please take a look.

kindle version
paperback version


 

Feet, breet & Matthew Gloag

Paraplexed trundles along happily, netting typically 150 page views per day and making no waves. Except for February 12th when, for no obvious reason we clocked up more than 10,000 views. These were fairly equally distributed over only three posts, one very old one about washing feet in the old Sofitel Club, one about the noise made by track pants worn outside-in (breet-breet) and one about railway platform signage in the (English) West Midlands (This Station is a No Smoking Station). Equally strange was that all 10,000 views were apparently from Israel. I have no idea why they happened. No comments were left. Possibly no human was involved, except indirectly, in programming a robot to behave totally irrationally. One of life's small mysteries, I suppose.

While My Renaissance Lute Gently Weeps


While My Renaissance Lute Gently Weeps. The title is shamelessly stolen from George Harrison and the lyrics are cobbled together by borrowing from no fewer than eight Renaisance songs, by Dowland and his peers. But the melody and lute accompaniment are my own. The lute is an unforgiving beast to play, not least because it keeps trying to escape when you're playing it.

paraplexed.com

It had to be done. For a long time now, the Paranormal Hotel blog (formerly Helga's Chickens) has been renamed to PARAPLEXED while being accessible only as paranormal-hotel.blogspot.com.  But today I have finally treated the blog to its own domain. We are now paraplexed.com (though the blogspot address will continue to work).

All that remains is a sense of purpose. And a feeling '21 is going to be a good year... 

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