WordSalad: The Poetry of Luke Prater

Hic sum; es ibi.

Si in medio occurremus,
demergam, quia

alas non habeo tui.

basic translation:

I am here; you are there.

If we meet in between,
I drown, because

I do not have your wings.

elaboration:

I am here; you are there.

If we touch in between,
I follow the fate of a
thousand seafaring wraiths:

I do not have your wings.

✩

Wanting to try two things out here – simplicity, and Latin. Which, it turns out, are not mutually exclusive.

Just for interest, the Latin for the more elaborate version looks something like this:

 
 
Hic sum; es ibi

si in medio tangèmus
fatum patiam idolorum
miliorum nautarum, quia

alas non habeo tui.
  
 
Much thanks to poet friend Francesco Vitellini for his help with the Latin.

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.

✩

(Illustration: Etching from Marcus Gheeraerts’ 1567 fable Pride Comes Before a Fall)

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✩
Heavy edit and repost of awful poetry I wrote circa 2008. I hope it has some of the right vitamins in this time.

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Enunciation rarely finds true flight -
attention ties my gaffing tongue in knots.
When thoughts are wanted: strangles, it garrottes,
and in the end, I render them contrite.
Shy throat attacked, staunch stomach twisted tight,
words stagger forth and lurch about in clots;
a true line, syntax, once, becomes mere dots -
expressionless, but for the self-indict.

Excepting only voice when used in song,
when setting music to an earnest thought.
It’s effortless and eloquent to me;
appears to be the purest sound, a gong
in Buddhist monast’ry; oh, how less fraught
I feel when reaching out in harmony.

✩

Italian Petrarchan Sonnet – abbaabba cdecde - first penned back at College/Uni in 2000 and recently rewritten.

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unbound

relearning rhythm

white-flagging on an easy exhale
to the viscera-pervading pulse

shutting down grinding gears; cognisance
pushing the canal lock

naked feet stamping the floor: timbre
timbales, tambourine

unwinding, unbinding

unbound

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Some sleep like fresh-fed pups, not
spending hours ruminating in unrest,

meeting the rise of the hill,
blinking into black

while the world turns its back,
thieving the duvet. Not

mouthing in existential exhortation
at a cruel, starless sky; the still-shackled spirit.

Fighting, resisting,
finally relenting: an outdone pugilist.

The less fortunate sleep like fresh-fed pups.

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Where did you go to Melanie Brown?
Did you ever return?
Did your hands get burned?
Nice to know you, Melanie Brown
nice to show you round.

Took your wanting wan nightgown
pills, and rock CDs
Ridgie, Ruth and me
friends you made that term in town
friends, they let you down?

Left on sullied mid-heeled ground
your looks, and college books.
Travestied; too many cooks.
That stinging, scuppered blue-eyed frown
shakysmileme down.

Do they still try it on, come round
gangle lank-haired boys
surreptitious ploys
to steal that sorry blue-eyed frown,
like they did that term in town?

Not a place of great renown -
fast-dance saloon -
cried, like Syd, for the moon
we tried not to let you drown
in pools of Melanie Brown.

Were you flipped like half-a-crown
hung up on highs and whys
fed up being fed mud pies?
Was there any joy that term in town
before you went on down?

Where did you go to Melanie Brown?
Did you ever return?
Did your tongue get burned?
Nice to know you, Melanie Brown
nice to show you round.

✩

A Modern Ballad about a girl I knew in my first term/semester at University (Autumn/Winter 1998). Written in 2004, originally blogged 2010, reposting as it’s had a thorough overhaul for meter and phrasing.

Also celebrating 100,000 visitors to my blog (unique visitors count that resets every 24 hrs). Seems like just the other day I decided to sully a pristine WordPress page with my iambic innards. Hard to believe it was in fact April 2010. Thank you all for the support… hugely appreciated.

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Totnes High Street

Deep into Autumn, where we found it,
soft-staring up from underneath;
entrap the change, swiftgiven round it.

The shift in short-shrift sang astounded
at hives away from spinneyed heath
deep into Autumn, where we found it.

Sum totals thus far have amounted
to writhe and half-thrive gritted teeth;
vow keep the change, swiftgiven round it.

Our paltry pennies, copper, counted,
purloined in pockets like a sheath
deep into Autumn, where we found it.

Perceive the seemly, be surmounted,
don aching ardour like a wreath;
swear keep the change, swiftgiven round it.

Rank difficulties were compounded
back in the green, by tree and leaf.
Deep into Autumn, where we found it,
we kept the change, swiftgiven round it.

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