Posts Tagged ‘Poetry’

All The Joy In The World

June 5, 2017

Falling down the hill
with a smile on your face
and all the joy in the world
in a brown paper bag.

Spare your pity, and some change
all the universe is solved.

I Get A Kick Out Of Being Kicked Around By You

April 19, 2017

Nobody pays, nobody minds
Everyone’s game every once in a while
You radium girls, that’s quite a smile
Nobody came, and nobody tried

I gave you my heart and you gave me the boot
I get a kick out of being kicked around by you
I get a kick out of being kicked around by you

What would you trade to taste it all?
We got a day to waste and a bottle of panadol
What would you pay for some piece of mind?
Nobody came, and nobody smiles

I gave you my heart and you gave me the boot
I get a kick out of being kicked around by you
I get a kick out of being kicked around by you

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Good morning,

I should be out surfing, being the holidays and all and given how much I complain, but it seems a bit on the cold side, so I’m going to wait just one more minute, just one more cup of tea. I’m gonna go, I swear.

While I’m in this holding pattern, now is as good a time as any to let you know we’ve got another new single out, and it’s short and sweet and doing about as well as most Royal Chant singles seem to do (read: not well enough).

Our bassist, Adam Murray, came up with a film clip for it using old Super-8 footage from his parents and violá: we have another small piece of noise to add to the monstrosity this is, has always been, and always will be the “music industry”.

 

As usual, you can grab it for free from Bandcamp

Or maybe SoundCloud is your thing….

Or, if you wanted to be a super trooper you could hop on over to our Triple-J Unearthed page and get it that way. If we thought it would work we could try and bribe you into leaving a review or rate it to help us keep up with the young whipper snappers (let’s face it: Royal Chant ain’t exactly a collection of Spring chickens anymore, if we ever were in the first place), because HOLY HELL HAVE YOU SEEN HOW MANY PLAYS AND LIKES AND REVIEWS AND SHARES THESE YOUNG BANDS HAVE?!?!?! I’m so happy for them I stand in awe, then shame, then quietly sneak out while everyone politely looks away.

https://www.triplejunearthed.com/embed/5860751

And that, as we say in the business (claps hands), is how it’s done.

We’ve got some more dates to keep us busy until the end of May, and then it’s time to rest, collect our marbles, and get the record ready so we can do it all again.

.:: Royal Chant Tour Dates ::..

Saturday, April 22 – Meatstock Melbourne
Saturday, April 22, Retreat Hotel, Melbourne
Sunday, April 23 – Meatstock Melbourne

Friday, May 5 – Vic On The Park (Sydney) w/Fingermae
Saturday, May 6 – Meatstock Sydney

Sunday, May 7 – Meatstock Sydney

Saturday, May 20 – Ric’s (Brisbane)

Friday, May 26 – Town Hall Hotel (Sydney) w/Wasters
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

That’s all the news from here. Remember: nobody pays, nobody minds

xoxo

-M

OMG! Are you on Facebook? coz we’re on Facebook, and we should, like, totally be friends.

With all the time in the world

November 14, 2016

With all the time in the world, and love
and an endless sea to gaze upon
when I was a temporary gentleman.

 

Land Sale

February 10, 2015

Pristine acres of mud
neatly sliced & cut
with promise and price-tags adorned.

A parade, a school band,
rambling speeches galore
with all the best clichés.

This new part of town:
a beautiful creation,
surgically envisioned.

Still, they eat & clap & eat
the sumptuous tasteless catering
accept a few brochures
and make nice with their new neighbors.

Later, they turn their heads
and in a stage whisper say
-it looks nice, but still rough.

Give it time.
Soon enough.

Taking its sweet time like the cracks
that appear for a brief glimpse,
not long before no single soul can recall
a state of affairs as anything but.

Give it time.
Soon enough.

A quiet street
for the wrong reasons
with rust and junk,
busted windows and faces,
and bored hungry dogs that know enough
to wait. It will come.

Give it time.
Soon enough.

A slight curve at the end of the street
she used to stand and wave
always in the sun, it seemed
her face as bright as the beams
that kissed her skin and laughing teeth.
Things change.

Give it time.
Soon enough.

Now she doesn’t wave,
but hangs her darkened eyes
and shivers despite being wrapped tight
in a cloak of the modern world’s making.

Give it time.
Soon enough.

It will come.

 

 

Gentle Confusion

September 28, 2014

More curious and less certain these days,
quieter and easily led.
History?
Is there such a thing?
Gentle confusion that paces
like a cat at midnight
wanting nothing but movement
motion
acknowledgement.

It’s pleasant enough
let us invent some meaning.

Happy Valentine’s Day, 2014

February 20, 2014

[Of course I forgot to post this in time…]

There’s been a lot I have wanted to write about recently, which of course means that I’m going to write about myself instead. That’s the way it goes sometimes. Laziness is not becoming nor conducive to being a writer, great or small.

Anyways, it has just struck Valentine’s here in Australia and that seems like the perfect time to release something new from the Royal Chant catalog, just to prove to the world that it’s not all about hearts & cupids & sappy poetry.  It’s about garage bands &  tour vans & sappy poetry.

So here is “Shake, Shake”, our new single, complete with our own DIY film clip.

Of course it’s free.  We know everyone is broke these days, so it’s all good.  We’re all just trucking along and thankful for the moments of happiness that we experience, which are actually far more abundant than we’ve led ourselves to believe.  That doesn’t mean that we should be pushovers, and yeah, the world is still seriously screwed up in a lot of ways, but we can sing & shake and forget, and what seems like nonsense is really just an inability to explain.

Image

“America” (much delayed…this is what happens when things get lost)

July 27, 2013

[NOTE: I meant to send this out on the 4th of July. Obviously I didn’t. Not sure what happened there. The only reason I am posting this at all is because I was reading this poem yet again last night, and was struck once again at how absolutely funny Allen Ginsberg was. His delivery does much to shade my interpretation, and now I can’t read the words without that same colouring. Whatever, it’s doesn’t matter, it’s good and always worth giving it a listen and a read every now and again. Brilliant.]

Dear America,

Happy 4th of July old girl. Here’s the man saying it better than anyone, and his words are more true today than ever.

For the rest of you, go ahead, listen to the whole thing. It’s not like you’ve got to write an essay on it when it’s over. Listen to the crowd grow warmer and more riotous as he spools his lines out like a comedic perfectionist.

My favourite line?

-When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I need with my good looks?

-M

Jazz

October 30, 2012

Some cats are always hanging around
Some cats are always talking, perhaps too much
Some cats are hungry, while others sit quietly and stare
Some cats sleep all day, and most of the night as well.
Some cats are friendly
Some cats are mean
Some cats are viscous

Some cats slink around the corner, off to God knows where.

Some cats you wish would stay
Some cats, not so much
Some cats hang with hungry eyes, bleeding lips, and limbs awry

Some cats are gone

Some cats get lost
Some cats go far
Some cats never go home
Some cats howl for no good reason at all .

Untitled

October 22, 2012

It’s always 8 AM
always running late
the tea is always cold
always 2nd place
we are a field of poppies
proud but bent.

A study in the way
we hang our heads in shame
and the sorrows we clutch
tight against our chest
picking up the tempo
in this dance of death.

Waiting once again
night rolls into the next
for real or for pretend
alive or dead
standing like a statue
chipped and cracked.

We lost a few along the way
but what did you expect?
We lost something along the way,
it’s best we just forget.

Not working

September 13, 2012

Agh, it’s too late and I’m too grumpy to make apologies, but lately I have been ready to pull my hair out from lack of writing…anything at all.  No songs, no scribbles, no bad poetry.  Nothing.  ‘Aye, all our time is both precious and a-wasting, and at long last I am burned out and pissed off.  Just teaching and teaching and teaching and my hands ache and my mind is starting to recede.  Is my hair as well?  I surely hope not.  I am so vain that I’m not sure which one I would barter in order to keep the other.  I like the odds on my vanity.

I few weeks ago I finished Amis & Son: Two Literary Generations, by Neil Powell, which was somewhat of a dual literary biography of Kingsley and Martin.  It was decent enough, in it’s own way, although I must say I was a tad surprised by how hard Powell was in judging the shortcomings of Martin’s work.  There was almost a fatherly tone in his scolding, and given the affinity & affection I detected in Powell towards Kingsley I guess it somewhat makes sense.  He was quite fair and objective in his appraisal of Kingsley’s work, which must have been hard to do given how familiar he was with the man and his work.

I meant to write at greater length of Kingsley’s time at Oxford and the impression it made on me, but for now I wanted to share this poem that I have been continuously reading and returning to over the past few weeks.  Although Kingsley was a published poet in his own right it is not what he is most, or even second or third most usually remembered for. (I’d have to give those distinctions to Lucky Jim, drink, and….being a typical aging Anglo male in the face of a changing England?)  He composed this poem as he was getting on in years, most likely in the 1970s as he was approaching 60, but it wasn’t uncovered until 2004.  It is officially untitled, but it is often known by its first line, “Things tell less and less”.

Untitled

Things tell less and less:
The news impersonal
And from afar; no book
Worth wrenching off the shelf.
Liquor brings dizziness
And food discomfort; all
Music sounds thin and tired,
And what picture could earn a look?
The self drowses in the self
Beyond hope of a visitor.
Desire and those desired
Fade, and no matter:
Memories in decay
Annihilate the day.
There once was an answer:
Up at the stroke of seven,
A turn round the garden
(Breathing deep and slow),
Then work, never mind what,
How small, provided that
It serves another’s good
But once is long ago
And, tell me, how could
Such an answer be less than wrong,
Be right all along?
Vain echoes, desist

-Kingsley Amis
++++++++++++

That is a good one, in my estimation.  Or maybe it was merely the right poem for the right person at the right time.

Write back if it’s been a while.  I’ve got a few more days of teaching and then I am off with the band for a run of shows down the East Coast of the USA.  It should be fun, and if you’re anywhere on the Eastern seaboard give me a holler and perhaps we’ll be playing in your town or near enough.

More to come, and not so many moons between the next post.  Promise.

-M