—Poetry by Mike Hickman, York, England
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
SAURON, MY EYE
The thing with turning famous fantasy novels into blockbuster movie trilogies,
Is you run the risk of opening up your carefully crafted world to people who haven’t lived orcs and hobbits their whole lives,
People who’ve paid their money, bought their popcorn, maybe added a Rollover hot dog or two to the order, if they’re feeling flush, and have seen the running time.
People like the old lady behind me at the Odeon on opening night,
Who took one look at the mighty Eye of Sauron,
Torn by some gust of wind out of the world,
Manifesting itself within the swirling, mantling clouds,
Burning at the apex of Barad-dûr,
And wondered aloud,
In a beautifully timed and very rare moment of silence,
Precisely how rich you had to be if you had that thing on your gas bill.
(prev. pub. in the Daily Drunk: Lord of the Rings “One Anthology to Rule Them All” anthology)
The thing with turning famous fantasy novels into blockbuster movie trilogies,
Is you run the risk of opening up your carefully crafted world to people who haven’t lived orcs and hobbits their whole lives,
People who’ve paid their money, bought their popcorn, maybe added a Rollover hot dog or two to the order, if they’re feeling flush, and have seen the running time.
People like the old lady behind me at the Odeon on opening night,
Who took one look at the mighty Eye of Sauron,
Torn by some gust of wind out of the world,
Manifesting itself within the swirling, mantling clouds,
Burning at the apex of Barad-dûr,
And wondered aloud,
In a beautifully timed and very rare moment of silence,
Precisely how rich you had to be if you had that thing on your gas bill.
(prev. pub. in the Daily Drunk: Lord of the Rings “One Anthology to Rule Them All” anthology)
MOVIES AS SEEN BY HENRY
Ridiculous moments in movies that have never bothered Henry:
CGI Brad Pitt being hit not once but twice by speeding cars.
Henry’s okay with this—why wouldn’t the Grim Reaper flollop like a hooked fish when meeting his end?
Russell Crowe’s crotch-splat sound effect in Les Mis.
Who knows what Russell Crowe’s crotch sounds like?
Maybe not even Russell Crowe. Has anyone asked him?
That fight that goes on forever in They Live.
Because it’s a movie about excess, right?
Who’d want it any other way?
You’ve got to get through the popcorn, haven’t you?
James Bond’s invisible car in Die Another Day.
Henry would like to see you prove that there aren’t invisible cars.
Go on, point to one right now, why don’t you?
Nicholas Cage in a bear outfit.
Was there ever a better use for him?
If nothing else, it gives rise to the perfect gag:
Why put a bear in a cage when you can put a Cage in a bear?
What does bother Henry every single time he sees it, and should damn well bother you, too:
That thing people do with letters in movies.
Oh, you know the thing.
You’ve seen it, and you give them a pass every time?
Out comes the letter with the plot on it, and character A puts it down on the desk,
And it’s upside down.
So the camera can see it.
And he can’t read a word.
How, he says, are you supposed to believe a single thing after that?
(prev. pub. by the Daily Drunk)
HE’S THE GEEZER WHO SAYS “JURASSIC PARK!” WHEN HE’S ASKED ABOUT HIS TEAM WINNING AT THE WEEKEND. NO-ONE HAS EVER THOUGHT TO ASK WHY. OR OF ANY OF THE THINGS HE NEEDS TO BE ASKED, COME TO THAT.
So, we ask Bill what he thought of Saturday’s game and he says, “Jurassic Park!”
And tells us he’s over the moon.
Which we all know means, in Bill Language, that it was a good one,
And his team probably won.
We don’t ask him what team he follows, though.
One day he’ll wear a badge or a scarf, or he’ll let it slip in conversation,
Or we’ll remember that we’re interested in these things
As we get the pints in.
And when he’s asked about that appointment with the doctor
That he’d told us about, only because he’d had a face like a frog that day
And it had drawn comment, as it would (it was no Kermit, let me tell you,
Or, if it was, it was Kermit after being told Miss Piggy’s lawyers were onto him),
He tells us that he’s got one foot out of the grave,
Although he’s still not sure about the other one.
(This is, we think, a joke, and we laugh accordingly.)
He’s fit as a fiddle, now, though;
He’s as fresh as a daisy;
He’s had his wake-up call and he’s on the mend,
And, funnily enough, we’ve got the pints in before we know
The exact prescription.
But he’s never exact, is Bill,
Our beating-around-the-bush, idiom-steeped Bill,
And so that’s our excuse, isn’t it,
For not giving him the query he can’t bat away with
His dime-a-dozen sayings.
“How are you, mate?
And how about cutting to the chase this time, eh?”
(prev. pub. by the Daily Drunk)
So, we ask Bill what he thought of Saturday’s game and he says, “Jurassic Park!”
And tells us he’s over the moon.
Which we all know means, in Bill Language, that it was a good one,
And his team probably won.
We don’t ask him what team he follows, though.
One day he’ll wear a badge or a scarf, or he’ll let it slip in conversation,
Or we’ll remember that we’re interested in these things
As we get the pints in.
And when he’s asked about that appointment with the doctor
That he’d told us about, only because he’d had a face like a frog that day
And it had drawn comment, as it would (it was no Kermit, let me tell you,
Or, if it was, it was Kermit after being told Miss Piggy’s lawyers were onto him),
He tells us that he’s got one foot out of the grave,
Although he’s still not sure about the other one.
(This is, we think, a joke, and we laugh accordingly.)
He’s fit as a fiddle, now, though;
He’s as fresh as a daisy;
He’s had his wake-up call and he’s on the mend,
And, funnily enough, we’ve got the pints in before we know
The exact prescription.
But he’s never exact, is Bill,
Our beating-around-the-bush, idiom-steeped Bill,
And so that’s our excuse, isn’t it,
For not giving him the query he can’t bat away with
His dime-a-dozen sayings.
“How are you, mate?
And how about cutting to the chase this time, eh?”
(prev. pub. by the Daily Drunk)
UNDER THE GREEN LINO, THE ALWAYS-BOILING HEATING PIPES. AND JAWS. LET’S NOT BE FORGETTING JAWS.
I NEVER HAVE.
Between films, Jaws took up residence with us in Cranberry Court.
I forget the number of the flat. We didn’t live there long.
I suspect he moved out when Jaws 3 came along.
The floor was lino. PE-knicker green. Dark enough to write on in chalk (and I did) ‘cos there was a thing to pass the time.
Apart from at night, when the underfloor heating pipes rattled, and the sole scorching began.
I’d leap the distance to the cardboard bed (yes, this is a thing; look it up)
And it wasn’t just the dry, toe-torturing heat from the baking lino that made me jump,
It was the thought of what was Down There.
Because Jaws was Down There.
Because he was.
The story was that he’d have my feet, my legs, my torso—I’d seen it on the telly, I had—
The story was that he was more active at night,
‘Cos that’s when the body parts would come bobbing up to the surface,
When I’d be most at risk,
And needing to keep myself still and schtum,
No matter what had woken me this time.
In reality, though, I was reassured by his presence Down There.
I was certain that he would never hurt me,
Because I took care not to step on his crinkly, rubbery comedy nose,
And because he was never the worst thing about that flat.
So why wouldn’t I think fondly of him all these years later?
(prev. pub. by the Daily Drunk)
I NEVER HAVE.
Between films, Jaws took up residence with us in Cranberry Court.
I forget the number of the flat. We didn’t live there long.
I suspect he moved out when Jaws 3 came along.
The floor was lino. PE-knicker green. Dark enough to write on in chalk (and I did) ‘cos there was a thing to pass the time.
Apart from at night, when the underfloor heating pipes rattled, and the sole scorching began.
I’d leap the distance to the cardboard bed (yes, this is a thing; look it up)
And it wasn’t just the dry, toe-torturing heat from the baking lino that made me jump,
It was the thought of what was Down There.
Because Jaws was Down There.
Because he was.
The story was that he’d have my feet, my legs, my torso—I’d seen it on the telly, I had—
The story was that he was more active at night,
‘Cos that’s when the body parts would come bobbing up to the surface,
When I’d be most at risk,
And needing to keep myself still and schtum,
No matter what had woken me this time.
In reality, though, I was reassured by his presence Down There.
I was certain that he would never hurt me,
Because I took care not to step on his crinkly, rubbery comedy nose,
And because he was never the worst thing about that flat.
So why wouldn’t I think fondly of him all these years later?
(prev. pub. by the Daily Drunk)
ON SEEING THE NEW STARGAZER BRIDGE
You want to sit your Captain atop a wedding cake?
You want to surround him with sparkle and bling,
In a room so overchromed that looking into any surface
Is like entering a Funfair Hall of Mirrors
Wearing a Disco ball hat?
You want to replace the old blinky light aesthetic,
Which was bad enough from a Notifications-Gone-Nuts Point of View,
With the visual equivalent of staring into an open fridge
For twelve hours after some git has taped open your eyelids?
You want to give brave Captain and crew permanent sensory overload
Whilst they do their thing looking for the anomalies and such
that make up most Star Trek plots these days?
Have you any idea what it’s like to work with an overly reflective screen?
How hard it’s going to be to find a passing wibbly-wobbly space-time event
When infinity is shining back into your eyes at all times?
Have you checked how much ibuprofen Starfleet have in stock?
‘Cos, let me tell you, they’re going to be cracking out those buggers
In the thousands after a day working in that place.
Is this what you want for your Captain?
Is this what you’re after?
I’m sorry?
Yes, we’ve seen the stairs.
The Enterprise-D had a ramp.
Even the original bridge had no more than one step up to any station.
You’ve gone for four steps up to the Captain’s chair alone.
So that’s him with concussion the first time the cameras are tilted to one side.
That’s where I came in with the wedding cake analogy
(That’s analogy, not anomaly).
What’s your excuse for them, then?
What’s your reason?
Oh, I see.
Well, I suppose you’re right.
After the third or fourth time he’s scalded his genitals
He’s pretty certain to spend a great deal more time Captaining,
And a great deal less drinking fucking Earl Grey tea.
(prev. pub. by the Haven)
You want to sit your Captain atop a wedding cake?
You want to surround him with sparkle and bling,
In a room so overchromed that looking into any surface
Is like entering a Funfair Hall of Mirrors
Wearing a Disco ball hat?
You want to replace the old blinky light aesthetic,
Which was bad enough from a Notifications-Gone-Nuts Point of View,
With the visual equivalent of staring into an open fridge
For twelve hours after some git has taped open your eyelids?
You want to give brave Captain and crew permanent sensory overload
Whilst they do their thing looking for the anomalies and such
that make up most Star Trek plots these days?
Have you any idea what it’s like to work with an overly reflective screen?
How hard it’s going to be to find a passing wibbly-wobbly space-time event
When infinity is shining back into your eyes at all times?
Have you checked how much ibuprofen Starfleet have in stock?
‘Cos, let me tell you, they’re going to be cracking out those buggers
In the thousands after a day working in that place.
Is this what you want for your Captain?
Is this what you’re after?
I’m sorry?
Yes, we’ve seen the stairs.
The Enterprise-D had a ramp.
Even the original bridge had no more than one step up to any station.
You’ve gone for four steps up to the Captain’s chair alone.
So that’s him with concussion the first time the cameras are tilted to one side.
That’s where I came in with the wedding cake analogy
(That’s analogy, not anomaly).
What’s your excuse for them, then?
What’s your reason?
Oh, I see.
Well, I suppose you’re right.
After the third or fourth time he’s scalded his genitals
He’s pretty certain to spend a great deal more time Captaining,
And a great deal less drinking fucking Earl Grey tea.
(prev. pub. by the Haven)
WHAT HE’S SAYING
Timothy writes about the frontal lobes and their executive function.
His polysyllabic circumlocution speaks of his years of research.
His footnotes and his appendices, and his footnotes to his appendices,
Demonstrate that he has considered the questions and objections
His readers might raise.
He’s got ahead of them in specifying the precise area
(one third of the cortical surface of the brain)
Covered by both his paper and their lobes.
He has considered both gross and fine motor skills,
Alongside the sequenced and the automatic,
And he has read—oh dearie me, has he read—all the key literature.
And those footnotes—oh, those footnotes—are essays in themselves,
As if challenging the reader to find anything in there
That requires further elaboration.
As if wanting them to admit defeat
When he knows—yes, he knows—that while the scientific ‘We’
Know most about what goes on within the gyri of this particular
Piece of cranial real estate,
It is actually the least understood.
But, then, there is a reason for Timothy’s screeds,
For the paragraphs and the pages and the decades he has spent
On this one subject.
It is the one on which he can safely spend his prolixity.
As for anything else you might conceivably want to know,
About his past, what has brought him here,
And why he is so obsessed with attention and reasoning and judgement,
He is, in fact, no different from his lobular friend:
As secure behind countless words as frontal lobe is behind uncomprehending cranium,
In reality, if you pay attention to what he has written,
Timothy has nothing to say.
(prev. pub. by Winamop)
Timothy writes about the frontal lobes and their executive function.
His polysyllabic circumlocution speaks of his years of research.
His footnotes and his appendices, and his footnotes to his appendices,
Demonstrate that he has considered the questions and objections
His readers might raise.
He’s got ahead of them in specifying the precise area
(one third of the cortical surface of the brain)
Covered by both his paper and their lobes.
He has considered both gross and fine motor skills,
Alongside the sequenced and the automatic,
And he has read—oh dearie me, has he read—all the key literature.
And those footnotes—oh, those footnotes—are essays in themselves,
As if challenging the reader to find anything in there
That requires further elaboration.
As if wanting them to admit defeat
When he knows—yes, he knows—that while the scientific ‘We’
Know most about what goes on within the gyri of this particular
Piece of cranial real estate,
It is actually the least understood.
But, then, there is a reason for Timothy’s screeds,
For the paragraphs and the pages and the decades he has spent
On this one subject.
It is the one on which he can safely spend his prolixity.
As for anything else you might conceivably want to know,
About his past, what has brought him here,
And why he is so obsessed with attention and reasoning and judgement,
He is, in fact, no different from his lobular friend:
As secure behind countless words as frontal lobe is behind uncomprehending cranium,
In reality, if you pay attention to what he has written,
Timothy has nothing to say.
(prev. pub. by Winamop)
MANAGEMENT
We manage your need to feel like you are managing by talking about how things are managed.
By me.
The things that have already been managed.
By me.
The things that, for me, don't need the talking about because they have— and I cannot stress this enough—already been managed.
I’ll let you guess who did that, shall I?
I expect you might have noticed somewhere along the line.
But we still need to talk about them.
To help you feel like a manager.
And that would be fine and dandy,
I suppose, if you ever once asked me how,
with all these meetings you so clearly need,
several times a day,
I am really managing myself
Being managed by you.
(prev. pub. by Little Old Lady Comedy)
We manage your need to feel like you are managing by talking about how things are managed.
By me.
The things that have already been managed.
By me.
The things that, for me, don't need the talking about because they have— and I cannot stress this enough—already been managed.
I’ll let you guess who did that, shall I?
I expect you might have noticed somewhere along the line.
But we still need to talk about them.
To help you feel like a manager.
And that would be fine and dandy,
I suppose, if you ever once asked me how,
with all these meetings you so clearly need,
several times a day,
I am really managing myself
Being managed by you.
(prev. pub. by Little Old Lady Comedy)
YES, WE HAVE SEEN THE EMAIL
Where once we had Good Morning or How Do? or Wotcha,
Where once we had Good Morning or How Do? or Wotcha,
With smiles and questions about the weekend,
We are now met with Have you seen the email from…?
Sometimes before we’ve even sat down.
Sometimes before we’re even through the door.
Have you seen the email from…?
Have you seen the email from…?
And of course we haven’t,
We’re just firing up our computers,
And telling them where they can stick
The updates they’ve been proposing for the last fortnight.
Have you seen the email from…?
Have you seen the email from…?
Is such a clever way of telling us what we ought to be doing,
Without telling us what we ought to be doing,
Even though, if you think about it,
If we really ought to be doing it,
We’d be doing it.
Each Have you seen the email from…?
Each Have you seen the email from…?
Infantilises us, because that means it has been read before we’ve read it,
And we’re now invited to play the game
Guess what my reaction to it was…
And all in the first five minutes of Monday morning.
So, each Have you seen the email from…?
So, each Have you seen the email from…?
Really should be met with the only other one-liner
Indicating precisely how important the message is
And where it ought to come in any sane scheme of things.
Each Have you seen the email from…?
Each Have you seen the email from…?
Ought to be responded to with,
“Yes, and it’s already been deleted.”
(prev. pub. by Doctor Funny)
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
The whole of life is just like watching a film. Only it's as though you always get in ten minutes after the big picture has started, and no-one will tell you the plot, so you have to work it out all yourself from the clues.
—Terry Pratchett, Moving Pictures
______________________
Mike Hickman is back with us today, taking us to the movies and elsewhere. Glad to have you visit from over the sea, Mike!
______________________
—Medusa
The whole of life is just like watching a film. Only it's as though you always get in ten minutes after the big picture has started, and no-one will tell you the plot, so you have to work it out all yourself from the clues.
—Terry Pratchett, Moving Pictures
______________________
Mike Hickman is back with us today, taking us to the movies and elsewhere. Glad to have you visit from over the sea, Mike!
______________________
—Medusa
For upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
in the links at the top of this page.
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
in the links at the top of this page.
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
