Reviews

The PowerBook – Jeanette Winterson (review)

The PowerbookThe Powerbook by Jeanette Winterson
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

A modern day collage of memories, love, philosophy, history and the grit that lies underneath all of us.

That’s my attempt to sum up the novel in a single sentence. What’s it about? Well, the chapters are laid out with headings you will see on a Apple computer (e.g, SEARCH, NEW DOCUMENT, EMPTY TRASH). Even the title is “The PowerBook”, which has the same layout as a MacBook does (i.e. an Apple Mac laptop for the layman). The story line flickers between an entity online called Ali (or Alix) who writes stories for other people for a living, and a love triangle in Paris. A guy who falls in love with two different women on separate occasions.

I read this in spurts over 3 days. Most of the chapters are around 3-5 pages. If you’re prepared for a postmodern story line that hops back and forth leaving some questions unanswered, this may be for you. Perhaps I was too caught up in the swirling metaphors and visceral imagery which, in turn, propelled me to keep reading.

The PowerBook may not answer all your questions on love, and the inner cogs of lovers. However, it’s a beautiful and moving read. I reckon you should give it a go.

If you’re in-love with someone else while you’re reading it…even better!

 

PhilosopherPoet

View all my reviews

Standard
poetry

the girl with the golden bow

for Takae

she drifts like water
through the house
her hands are curious mice
they scurry from cellphone
dip into the soft throat
of her handbag

she sleeps
engaged in the ochre arms of the duvet
she sighs and moans as the slow waves
of memory wash through the events in her eyes
her whispers walk away from her
growing in gravity

she rests in the gentle
arms of my sweatshirt
the blue cotton calms her
caresses the narrow slope of her back

she lies against me – i can feel the
clock in her heart
her smile spills onto my neck
her fingers grow like roots
into the shadows of my chest

last night we spilled out of the taxi, like a
giddy glass of wine painting the pavement
under the eyes of street lights,
we gossiped like goblins, the
pulse of midnight pulling us home
like the slow notes of a song
that says “we can dance forever”

he bought her breakfast today
he juggled cups & coffee beans
and watched the silver arm of the
plunger seep down into the present

4 hours later she sleeps in his bed
he watches her and annotates an image
vibrating in his head
“she is my goddess today.”

this is only the first chapter – he thinks
stories empty out of every breath
he will remember…
the rhythm of her voice
the patterns she sketches
in a fluid finger

he folds her arms around him
like the lips of a newspaper
her heart continues to beat
and drums down into her dreams

 

 

PhilosopherPoet

Standard
poetry

two quarters

i think i’m growing up today
there are two quarters in my pocket
i rub them for good luck and
they smile back at me

i think i’m growing up today
ideas ignite inside my head
i’ve cleared away that teenage fog
she’s asleep and so are the voices

i think i’m growing up this way
when you bleed over the years
you leave behind whispers
your mother may have heard
but today I have
two quarters in my pocket
the silver men stare back
with a presence in their eyes

i know i’m growing up today
my laundry doesn’t argue with me
my bookshelf gleams like my parents
faces at the finish line
my mother wants me to win
my father hopes i grow
to see that soft sun
dance in the grass

i know i’m growing up today
there is a field out there
life is almost perfect
a woman walks with me
her hand skates above
the heads of archetypes
she listens to the music in the wind
and tells me it’s time

meet me there – she says
under the moist tree
it guards our food
our wine wafts in the goblets
holding the memories

i trundle down to that tree
two quarters lie in my pocket
i drink in the shade
she begins to sing a velvet song
with slow notes and few lyrics

Standard
poetry

drifting

two warm bodies pulse
into the black night
two brains
shimmer in between veins
of streetlamps

tonight he straddles
the fuel tank
underneath its engine
gurgles and mutters
like an actor
lost in monologue

they pour onto the freeway
four eyes pump and ignite
with ecstasy
the road stretches
like a careful corpuscle
headlights and cabins of steel
shuttle past them

her arms are woven into him
he feels stronger when he rides – she says
they share a heart
they share the air
crawling through the arteries of their egos
and slowly it will coagulate
into the depths of their minds

when it’s over the purr of a heart
continues through chapters
of slumber
two chests rise and fall to
the rhythm of dreams

By Kalen Bloodstone

By Kalen Bloodstone (Click on the image to go to Kalen’s DeviantArt profile!)

PhilosopherPoet

Standard
Articles, Prose

Monologue from Crave (written by Sarah Kane)

The following is a monologue I came across from (what is quickly becoming) my favorite playwright, Sarah Kane. How did I find her? Well, I was browsing a this link about the top playwrights.

It was about the top 10 famous – or terrifying, to be article specific – playwrights. Many of them were the ‘classics’ like Arthur Miller and Samuel Beckett, Jean Paul Sartre. Something that would cause (anyone with an iota of culture in them) to raise an eyebrow, or at the very least leave a footnote in the conversation.

Yes, conversations have footnotes. It’s those fragments that leave with you into the night when you’re having that last cigarette before bed, or you’re lying comatose steadily watching the spiral of the ceiling fan. So good these bits are, you hesitate when reaching for the toilet roll, after you’ve taken a meaningful shit.

This is what Sarah Kane leaves buried in the best (and sometimes the more troubled) of us.

PhilosopherPoet

“And I want to play hide-and-seek and give you my clothes and tell you I like your shoes and sit on the steps while you take a bath and massage your neck and kiss your feet and hold your hand and go for a meal and not mind when you eat my food and meet you at Rudy’s and talk about the day and type your letters and carry your boxes and laugh at your paranoia and give you tapes you don’t listen to and watch great films and watch terrible films and complain about the radio and take pictures of you when you’re sleeping and get up to fetch you coffee and bagels and Danish and go to Florent and drink coffee at midnight and have you steal my cigarettes and never be able to find a match and tell you about the the programme I saw the night before and take you to the eye hospital and not laugh at your jokes and want you in the morning but let you sleep for a while and kiss your back and stroke your skin and tell you how much I love your hair your eyes your lips your neck your breasts your arse your
and sit on the steps smoking till your neighbour comes home and sit on the steps smoking till you come home and worry when you’re late and be amazed when you’re early and give you sunflowers and go to your party and dance till I’m black and be sorry when I’m wrong and happy when you forgive me and look at your photos and wish I’d known you forever and hear your voice in my ear and feel your skin on my skin and get scared when you’re angry and your eye has gone red and the other eye blue and your hair to the left and your face oriental and tell you you’re gorgeous and hug you when you’re anxious and hold you when you hurt and want you when I smell you and offend you when I touch you and whimper when I’m next to you and whimper when I’m not and dribble on your breast and smother you in the night and get cold when you take the blanket and hot when you don’t and melt when you smile and dissolve when you laugh and not understand why you think I’m rejecting you when I’m not rejecting you and wonder how you could think I’d ever reject you and wonder who you are but accept you anyway and tell you about the tree angel enchanted forest boy who flew across the ocean because he loved you and write poems for you and wonder why you don’t believe me and have a feeling so deep I can’t find words for it and want to buy you a kitten I’d get jealous of because it would get more attention than me and keep you in bed when you have to go and cry like a baby when you finally do and get rid of the roaches and buy you presents you don’t want and take them away again and ask you to marry me and you say no again but keep on asking because though you think I don’t mean it I do always have from the first time I asked you and wander the city thinking it’s empty without you and want want you want and think I’m losing myself but know I’m safe with you and tell you the worst of me and try to give you the best of me because you don’t deserve any less and answer your questions when I’d rather not and tell you the truth when I really don’t want to and try to be honest because I know you prefer it and think it’s all over but hang on in for just ten more minutes before you throw me out of your life and forget who I am and try to get closer to you because it’s a beautiful learning to know you and well worth the effort and speak German to you badly and Hebrew to you worse and make love with you at three in the morning and somehow somehow somehow communicate some of the overwhelming undying overpowering unconditional all-encompassing heart-enriching mind-expanding on-going never-ending love I have for you.”

20130524-162828.jpg

Standard
poetry

whirling

he wishes for feelings of ecstasy
and the sigh of morbid bones
in the morning

today he jogs like a piston
down the road
into the sun
into the wind
that chuckles between
the folds in his face

sweat stick to his spine
like the crease of a fresh book
and he hurtles on through
the crinkle of leaves
beneath his shoes

he saw two girls
stranded stressed straddled
on a scooter the driver gazed
at the speedometer as if peering
through the portal of a sinking ship
the one at the back
with a precisely stamped uniform
looked around with a scared expression

he wishes for feelings of anxiety
a tight electric snap
the firing-on of neurons
collecting handbags of fear
in the gaps in your head

watching plain sketched events
ripple and collide at dusk
changes your old self
that lay behind the dusty books
and dreamt only of the trickle of words

 

PhilosopherPoet

Standard
poetry

song

your hair
dapple pressed on the
desk
spills on me

every lover loves the Song
-your tender finger could
be wrong
you remember the words

your clipped lips,
suck puffing out a
grey breath
a nod, a wink

your eyes, like a cat
the mouth fondles the
cigarette
tickled tip

your lamplight lingerie
falls stark awkward
over curled commas

i found the song
your voice tinsel
in the air

forgot the lyrics

Standard