THE LEGEND OF HOLLYWOOD IN VERSE
Dear Readers, I have tried to cover the salient features of this True Story in free flowing verse mainly with end rhymes. If you read it loud, you can hear the chimes! Due to the short attention span of my readers I had to cut short this long story, and conclude with the
Golden Era of Hollywood by stretching it up to the 1950's only. When TV began to challenge the Big Screen Cinema seriously! I have used only a part of my notes here. Kindly read the entire poem and don't hesitate to know many interesting facts - which I also did not know! I wish there was a provision for posting a few interesting photographs for you here. Best wishes, - Raj Nandy, New Delhi.  

                 THE LEGEND OF HOLLYWOOD :
                        THE AMERICAN  DREAM
                             BY RAJ NANDY

           A SHORT  HISTORICAL  BACKGROUND
Since the earliest days, optical toys, shadow shows, and ‘magic
lanterns’, had created the illusion of motion.
This concept was first described by Mark Roget in 1824 as  
the 'persistent of vision'.
Giving impetus to the development of big screen cinema with its
close-ups, capturing all controlled and subtle expressions!
The actors were no longer required to shout out their parts with
exaggerated actions as on the Elizabethan Stage.
Now even a single tear drop could get noticed easily by the entire
movie audience!
With the best scene being included and edited after a few retakes.
To Thomas Edison and his able assistant William Rogers we owe the invention of Kinetoscope, the first movie camera.
On the grounds of his West Orange, New Jersey laboratory, Edison
built his first movie studio called the ‘Black Maria’.   (1893)
He also purchased a string of patents related to motion picture
Camera; forming the Edison Trust, - a cartel that took control of
the Film Industry entire!

Fort Lee, New Jersey:
On a small borough on the opposite bank of the Hudson River lay
the deserted Fort Lee.
Here scores of film production crews descended armed with picture Cameras, on this isolated part of New Jersey!
In 1907 Edison’s company came there to shoot a short silent film –
‘Rescue From an Eagle’s Nest’,
Which featured for the first time the actor and director DW Griffith.
The independent Chaplin Film Company built the first permanent
movie studio in 1910 in Fort Lee.
While some of the biggest Hollywood studios like the Universal,
MGM, and 20th Century Fox, had their roots in Fort Lee.
Some of the famous stars of the silent movie era included ‘Fatty’
Arbuckle, Will Rogers, Mary Pickford, Dorothy and Lillian Gish,
Lionel Barrymore, Rudolph Valentine and Pearl White.
In those days there were no reflectors and electric arch lights.
So movies were made on rooftops to capture the bright sunlight!
During unpredictable bad weather days, filming had to be stopped
despite the revolving stage which was made, -
To rotate and capture the sunlight before the lights atarted to fade!

Shift from New Jersey to West Coast California:
Now Edison who held the patents for the bulb, phonograph, and the Camera, had exhibited a near monopoly;
On the production, distribution, and exhibition of the movies which made this budding industry to shift to California from
New Jersey!
California with its natural scenery, its open range, mountains, desert, and snow country, had the basic ingredients for the movie industry.
But most importantly, California had bright Sunshine for almost
365 days of the year!
While eight miles away from Hollywood lay the port city of Los Angeles with its cheap labour.

                        THE RISE  OF  HOLLYWOOD
It was a real estate tycoon Harvey Wilcox and his wife Daeida from
Kansas, who during the 1880s founded ‘Hollywood’ as a community for like-minded temperate followers.
It is generally said that Daeida gave the name Hollywood perhaps
due to the areas abundant red-berried shrubs also known as
California Holly.
Spring blossoms around and above the Hollywood Hills with its rich variety,  gave it a touch of paradise for all to see !
Hollywood was incorporated as a municipality in 1903, and during
1910 unified with the city of Los Angeles.
While a year later, the first film studio had moved in from New
Jersey, to escape Thomas Edison’s monopoly!    (1911)

In 1913 Cecil B. De Mille and Jesse Lasky, had leased a barn with
studio facilities.
And directed the first feature length film ‘Squaw Man’ in 1914.
Today this studio is home to Hollywood Heritage Museum as we get to see.
The timeless symbol of Hollywood film industry that famous sign on top of Mount Lee, was put up by a real estate developer in 1923.  
This sign had read as ‘’HOLLY WOOD LAND’’ initially.
Despite decades of run-ins with vandals and pranksters, it managed to hang on to its prime location near the summit of the Hollywood Hills.
The last restoration work was carried out in 1978 initiated by Hugh
Hefner of the ******* Magazine.
Those nine white letters 45 feet tall now read ‘HOLLYWOOD’, and has become a landmark and America’s cultural icon, and an evocative symbol for ambition, glamour, and dream.
Forever enticing aspiring actors to flock to Hollywood, hypnotised
by lure of the big screen!

                     GOLDEN AGE OF HOLLYWOOD
The Silent Movie Era which began in 1895, ended in 1935 with the
production of ‘Dance of Virgins’, filmed entirely in the island of Bali.
The first Sound film ‘The Jazz Singer’ by Warner Bros. was made with a Vitaphone sound-on-disc technology.  (October 1927)
Despite the Great Depression of the 1930s, this decade along with the 1940s have been regarded by some as Hollywood’s Golden Age.
However, I think that this Golden Age includes the decades of the
1940s and the 1950s instead.
When the advent of Television began to challenge the Film Industry
itself !

First Academy Award:
On 16th May 1929 in the Roosevelt Hotel on Hollywood Boulevard,
the First Academy Award presentation was held.
Around 270 people were in attendance, and tickets were priced at
$5 per head.
When the best films of 1927 & 1928 were honored by the Academy
of Motion Production and Sciences, or the AMPS.
Emil Jennings became the best actor, and Janet Gaynor the best actress.
Special Award went to Charlie Chaplin for his contribution to the
silent movie era and for his silent film ‘The Circus’.
While Warren Brothers was commended for making the first talking picture ‘The Jazz Singer’, - also receiving a Special Award!
Now, the origin of the term ‘OSCAR’ has remained disputed.
The Academy adopted this name from 1939 onwards it is stated.
OSCAR award has now become “the stuff dreams are made of”!
It is a gold-plated statuette of a knight 13.5 inches in height, weighing 8.5 pounds, was designed by MGM’s art director Cedric Gibbons.
Annually awarded for honouring and encouraging excellence in all
facets of motion picture production.

Movies During the Great Depression Era (1929-1941):
Musicals and dance movies starring Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers provided escapism and good entertainment during this age.
“Ginger Rogers did everything Fred Astaire did. She just did it
backwards and in high heels,” - the Critics had said.
This compatible pair entertained the viewers for almost one and
a half decade.
During the ‘30s, gangster movies were popular starring James Cagey, Humphrey Bogart, and Edward G. Robinson.
While family movies had their popular child artist Shirley Temple.
Swashbuckler films of the Golden Age saw the sword fighting scenes of Douglas Fairbanks and Errol Flynn.
Flynn got idolized playing ‘Robin Hood’, this film got released in
1938 on the big screen!
Story of the American Civil War got presented in the epic ‘Gone With The Wind’ (1939) with Clarke Gable and Vivian Leigh.
This movie received 8 Oscars including the award for the Best Film, - creating a landmark in motion picture’s history!
More serious movies like John Steinbeck’s ‘Grapes of Wrath’ and
John Ford’s  ‘How Green Was My Valley’, were released in 1940 and 1941 respectively.
While the viewers escaped that depressive age to the magical world
of  ‘Wizard of Oz’ with its actress Judy Garland most eagerly!
Let us not forget John Wayne the King of the Westerns, who began
his acting career in the 1930s with his movie ‘The Big Trail’;
He went on to complete 84 films before his career came to an end.
Beginning of the 40s also saw Bob Hope and the crooner Bing Crosby, who entertained the public and also the fighting troops.
For the Second World War (1939-45) had interrupted the Golden Age of Hollywood.
When actors like Henry Fonda, Clarke Gable, James Stewart and
Douglas Fairbanks joined the armed forces temporarily leaving
Hollywood.
Few propaganda movies supporting the war efforts were also made.
While landmark movies like ‘Philadelphia Story’, ‘Casablanca’, ‘Citizen Kane’,
‘The Best Years of Our Lives’, were some of the most successful movies of that decade.  (The 1940s)
Now I come towards the end of my Hollywood Story with the decade  of the 1950s, thereby extending the period of Hollywood’s Golden Age.
Since having past the Great Depression and the Second World War,  the Hollywood movie industry truly matured and came of age.

                        HOLLYWOOD  OF  THE  1950s

BACKGROU­ND:
The decade of the ‘50s was known for its post-war affluence and
choice of leisure time activities.
It was a decade of middle-class values, fast-food restaurants, and
drive-in- movies;
Of ‘baby-boom’, all-electric home, the first credit cards, and new fast moving cars like the Ford, Plymouth, Buick, Hudson, and Chevrolet.
But not forgetting the white racist terrorism in the Southern States!
This era saw the beginning of Cold War, with Eisenhower
succeeding Harry S. Truman as the American President.
But for the film industry, most importantly, what really mattered  
was the advent of the Domestic TV.
When the older viewers preferred to stay at home instead of going
out to the movies.
By 1950, 10.5 million US homes had a television set, and on the
30th December 1953, the first Color TV went on sale!
Film industries used techniques such as Cinemascope, Vista Vision,
and gimmicks like 3-D techniques,
To get back their former movie audience back on their seats!
However, the big scene spectacle films did retain its charm and
fantasy.
Since fantasy epics like ‘The Story of Robin Hood’, and Biblical epics like ‘The Robe’, ‘Quo Vadis’, ‘The Ten Commandments’ and ‘Ben-Hur’, did retain its big screen visual appeal.
‘The Robe’ released on 16th September 1953, was the first film shot
and projected in Cinema Scope;
In which special lenses were used to compress a wide image into a
standard frame and then expanded it again during projection;
Resulting in an image almost two and a half times as high and also as wide, - captivating the viewers imagination!

DEMAND FOR NEW THEMES DURING THE 1950s :
The idealized portrayal of men and women since the Second World War,
Now failed to satisfy the youth who sought exciting symbols for rebellion.
So Hollywood responded with anti-heroes with stars like James Dean, Marlon Brando, and Paul Newman.
They replaced conventional actors like Tyron Power, Van Johnson, and Robert Taylor to a great extent, to meet the requirement of the age.
Anti-heroines included Ava Gardner, Kim Novak, and Marilyn Monroe with her vibrant *** appeal;
She provided excitement for the new generation with a change of scene.
Themes of rebellion against established authority was present in many Rock and Roll songs,
Including the 1954 Bill Hailey and His Comets’ ‘Rock Around the Clock’.
The era also saw rise to stardom of Elvis Presley the teen heartthrob.
Meeting the youthful aspirations with his songs like ‘Jailhouse Rock’!
I recall the lyrics of this 1957 film ‘Jailhouse Rock’ of my school days, which had featured the youth icon Elvis:
   “The Warden threw a party in the county jail,
     The prison band was there and they began to wail.
     The band was jumping and the joint began to sing,
     You should’ve heard them knocked-out jail bird sing.
     Let’s rock, everybody in the whole cell block……………
     Spider Murphy played the tenor saxophone,
     Little Joe was blowing the slide trombone.
     The drummer boy from Illinois went crash, boom, bang!
     The whole rhythm section was the Purple Gang,
      Let's rock,.................... (Lyrics of the song.)

Rock and Roll music began to tear down color barriers, and Afro-
American musicians like Chuck Berry and Little Richard became
very popular!
Now I must caution my readers that thousands of feature films got  released during this eventful decade in Hollywood.
To cover them all within this limited space becomes an impossible
task, which may kindly be understood !
However, I shall try to do so in a summarized form as best as I could.

BOX OFFICE HITS YEAR-WISE FROM 1950 To 1959 :
Top Ten Year-Wise hit films chronologically are: Cinderella (1950),
Quo Vadis, The Greatest Show on Earth, Peter Pan, Rear Window,
Lady and the *****, Ten Commandments, Bridge on the River
Kwai, South Pacific, and Ben-Hur of 1959.

However Taking The Entire Decade Of 1950s Collectively,
The Top Films Get Rated As Follows Respectively:
The Ten Commandments, followed by Lady and the *****, Peter Pan, Sleeping Beauty, Bridge on the River Kwai, Around the World in Eighty Days, This is Cinerama, The Greatest Show on Earth, Rear Window, South Pacific, The Robe, Giant, Seven Wonders of the World, White Christmas, Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, Sayonara, Demetrius and the Gladiator, Peyton Place, Some Like It Hot, Quo Vadis, and Auntie Mame.

Film Debuts By Rising Stars During The 1950s :
The decade of the ‘50s saw a number of famous film stars making
their first appearance.
There was Peter Sellers in ‘The Black Rose’, Marlon Brando in
‘The Men’, and actress Sophia Loren in ‘Toto Tarzan’.
Following year saw Charles Bronson in ‘You Are in the Navy Now’,
Audrey Hepburn in ‘Our Wild Oats’, and Grace Kelly, the future
Princess of Monaco, in her first film ‘Fourteen Hours’. (1951)
While **** Brigitte Bardot appeared in 1952 movie ‘Crazy for Love’; and 1953 saw Steve Mc Queen in ‘******* The Run’.
Jack Lemon, Paul Newman, and Omar Sharif featured in films
during 1954.
The following year saw Clint Eastwood, Shirley Mc Lean, Walter
Matthau, and Jane Mansfield, all of whom the audience adored.
The British actor Michael Cain appeared in 1956; also Elvis Presley
the youth icon in ‘Love Me Tender’ and as the future Rock and Roll
King!
In 1957 came Sean Connery, followed by Jack Nicholson, Christopher Plummer, and Vanessa Redgrave.
While the closing decade of the ‘50s saw James Coburn, along with
director, script writer, and producer Steven Spielberg, make their
debut appearance.

Deaths During The 1950s: This decade also saw the death of actors
like Humphrey Bogart, Tyron Power and Errol Flynn.
Including the death of producer and director of epic movies the
renowned Cecil B. De Mille!
Though I have conclude the Golden Age of Hollywood with the 50’s Decade,
The glitz and glamour of its Oscar Awards continue even to this day.
With its red carpet and lighted marquee appeal and fashion display!

CONTINUING THE HOLLYWOOD STORY WITH FEW TITBITS :
From Fort Lee of New Jersey we have travelled west to Hollywood,
California.
From the silent movie days to the first ‘talking picture’ with Warren
Bros’ film ‘The Jazz Singer’.  (06 Oct 1927)
On 31st July 1928 for the first time the audience heard the MGM’s
mascot Leo’s mighty roar!
While in July 1929 Warren Bros’ first all-talking and all- Technicolor
Film appeared titled - ‘On With The Show’.
Austrian born Hedy Lamarr shocked the audience appearing **** in a Czechoslovak film ‘Ecstasy’!  (1933)
She fled from her husband to join MGM, becoming a star of the
‘40s and the ‘50s.
The ‘Private Life of Henry VII’ became the first British film to win the  American Academy Award.  (1933)
On 11Dec 1934, FOX released ‘Bright Eyes’ with Shirley Temple,
who became the first Child artist to win this Award!
While in 1937 Walt Disney released the first full animated feature
film titled - ‘Snow White and the Seven Dwarf ‘.
The British film director Alfred Hitchcock who came to
Hollywood later;
Between 1940 and 1947, made great thrillers like 'Rebecca', ‘Notorious’, ‘Rear Window’, and ‘Dial M for ******’.
But he never won an Oscar as a Director!

THE GOLDEN GLOBE AWARD:
This award began in 1944 by the Foreign Correspondence Association at
the 20th Century Fox Studio.
To award critically acclaimed films and television shows, by awarding a
Scroll initially.
Later a Golden Globe was made on a pedestal, with a film strip around it.
In 1955 the Cecil B. De Mille Award was created, with De Mille as its first
recipient.

THE GRAMMY AWARD:
In 1959 The National Academy of Recording and Sciences sponsored the
First Grammy Award for music recorded during 1958.
When Frank Sinatra won for his album cover ‘Only The Lonely’, but he
did not sing.
Among the 28 other categories there was Ella Fitzgerald, and Count Basie
for his musical Dance Band Performance.
There was Kingston Trio’s song ‘Tom Dooly’, and the ‘Chipmunk Song’,
which brings back nostalgic memories of my school days!

CONCLUDING HOLLYWOOD STORY  WITH STUDIOS OF THE 1950s

Challenge Faced by the Movie Industry:
Now the challenge before the Movie Industry was how to adjust to the
rapidly changing conditions created by the growing TV Industry.
Resulting in loss of revenue, with viewers getting addicted to
their Domestic TV screen most conveniently!

The late 1950s saw two studios REPUBLIC and the RKO go out of business!
REPUBLIC from 1935- ‘59 based in Los Angeles, developed the careers of
John Wayne and Roy Rogers, and specializing in the Westerns.
RKO was one of the Big Five Studios of Hollywood along with Paramount,
MGM, 20th Century Fox, and Warner Brothers in those days.

RKO Studio which begun with Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers in the ‘30s,
included actress Katherine Hepburn who holds the record for four Oscars
even to this day;
And later had Robert Mitchum and Carry Grant under an agreement.
But in 1948, RKO Studio came under the control Howard Hughes the
temperamental Industrialist.
Soon the scandal drive and litigation prone RKO Studio closed, while
other Big Four Studios had managed to remain afloat!


PARAMOUNT STUDIO:
Paramount Studio split into two separate companies in 1950.
Its Theatre chain later merged with ABC Radio & Television Network;
And they created an independent Production/Distribution Network.
Bing Crosby and Bob Hope had been Paramount’s two biggest stars.
Followed by actors like Alan Ladd, William Holden, Jerry Lewis, Dean
Martin, Charlton Heston, and Dorothy Lamour.
They also had the producer/director Cecil B. De Mille producing high-
grossing Epics like ‘Samson & Delilah’ and ‘The Ten Commandments’.
Also the movie maker Hal Wallis, who discovered Burt Lancaster and
Elvis Presley - two great talents!

20th CENTURY FOX:
Cinema Scope became FOX’s most successful technological innovation
with its hit film ‘The Robe’. (1953)
Its Darryl Zanuck had observed during the early ‘50s, that audience  
were more interested in escapist entertainments mainly.
So he turned to FOX to musicals, comedies, and adventure stories.
Biggest stars of FOX were Gregory Peck & Susan Hayward; also
stars like Victor Mature, Anne Baxter, and Richard Wind Mark.
Not forgetting Marilyn Monroe in her Cinema Scope Box Office hit
movie - ‘How to Marry a Millionaire’, which was also shown on
prime time TV, as a romantic comedy film of 1953.

WARREN BROTHERS:
During 1950 the studio was mainly a family managed company with
three brothers Harry, Albert, and Jack Warren.
To meet the challenges of that period, Warren Bros. released most of
its actors like James Cagney, Humphrey Bogart, Oliver de Havilland, -
Along with few others from their long-term contractual commitments;
Retaining only Errol Flynn, and Ronald Regan who went on to become
the future President.
Like 20th Century Fox, Warren Bros switched to musicals, comedies,
and adventure movies, with Doris Day as its biggest musical star.
The studio also entered into short term agreements with Gary Copper,
John Wayne, Gregory Peck, Patricia Neal, and Random Scott.
Warren Bros also became the first major studio to invest in 3-D
production of films, scoring a big hit with its 3-D  suspense thriller
‘House of Wax’ in 1953.

MINOR STUDIOS were mainly three, - United Artists, Columbia, and
The Universal.
They did not own any theatre chain, and specialized in low-budgeted
‘B’ Movies those days.
Now to cut a long story short it must be said, that Hollywood finally
did participate in the evolution of Television industry, which led to
their integration eventually.
Though strategies involving hardware development and ownership of
broadcast outlets remained unsuccessful unfortunately.
However, Hollywood did succeed through program supply like prime-
time series, and made-for-TV films for the growing TV market making
things more colorful!
Thus it could be said that the TV industry provided the film industry
with new opportunities,  laying the groundwork for its diversification
and concentration;
That characterized the entertainment industry during the latter half  
of our previous century.
I must now confess that I have not visited the movie theatre over the last
two decades!
I watch movies on my big screen TV and my Computer screen these days.
Old classical movies are all available on ‘You Tube’ for me, and I can watch
them any time whenever I am free!
Thanks for reading patiently, - Raj Nandy.
**ALL COPYRIGHTS ARE WITH THE AUTHOR RAJ NANDY OF NEW DELHI

She sent it to me as a text message, that is an image of a quote in situ, a piece of interpretation in a gallery. Saturday morning and I was driving home from a week in a remote cottage on a mountain. I had stopped to take one last look at the sea, where I usually take one last look, and the phone bleeped. A text message, but no text.  Just a photo of some words. It made me smile, the impossibility of it. Epic poems and tapestry weaving. Of course there are connections, in that for centuries the epic subject has so often been the stuff of the tapestry weaver’s art. I say this glibly, but cannot name a particular tapestry where this might be so. Those vast Arthurian pieces by William Morris to pictures by Burne-Jones have an epic quality both in scale and in subject, but, to my shame, I can’t put a name to one.

These days the tapestry can be epic once more - in size and intention - thanks to the successful, moneyed contemporary artist and those communities of weavers at West Dean and at Edinburgh’s Dovecot. Think of Grayson Perry’s The Walthamstowe Tapestry, a vast 3 x 15 metres executed by Ghentian weavers, a veritable apocalyptic vision where ‘Everyman, spat out at birth in a pool of blood, is doomed and predestined to spend his life navigating a chaotic yet banal landscape of brands and consumerism’.  Gosh! Doesn’t that sound epic!

I was at the Dovecot a little while ago, but the public gallery was closed. The weavers were too busy finishing Victoria Crowe’s Large Tree Group to cope with visitors. You see, I do know a little about this world even though my tapestry weaving is the sum total of three weekends tuition, even though I have a very large loom once owned by Marta Rogoyska. It languishes next door in the room that was going to be where I was to weave, where I was going to become someone other than I am. This is what I feel - just sometimes - when I’m at my floor loom, if only for those brief spells when life languishes sufficiently for me be slow and calm enough to pick up the shuttles and find the right coloured yarns. But I digress. In fact putting together tapestry and epic poetry is a digression from the intention of the quote on the image from that text - (it was from a letter to Janey written in Iceland). Her husband, William Morris, reckoned one could (indeed should) be able to compose an epic poem and weave a tapestry.  

This notion, this idea that such a thing as being actively poetic and throwing a pick or two should go hand in hand, and, in Morris’ words, be a required skill (or ‘he’d better shut up’), seemed (and still does a day later) an absurdity. Would such a man (must be a man I suppose) ‘never do any good at all’ because he can’t weave and compose epic poetry simultaneously?  Clearly so.  But then Morris wove his tapestries very early in the morning - often on a loom in his bedroom. Janey, I imagine, as with ladies of her day - she wasn’t one, being a stableman’s daughter, but she became one reading fluently in French and Italian and playing Beethoven on the piano- she had her own bedroom.

Do you know there are nights when I wish for my own room, even when sleeping with the one I love, as so often I wake in the night, and I lie there afraid (because I love her dearly and care for her precious rest) to disturb her sleep with reading or making notes, both of which I do when I’m alone.
Yet how very seductive is the idea of joining my loved one in her own space, amongst her fallen clothes, her books and treasures, her archives and precious things, those many letters folded into her bedside bookcase, and the little black books full of tender poems and attempts at sketches her admirer has bequeathed her when distant and apart. Equally seductive is the possibility of the knock on the bedroom / workroom door, and there she’ll be there like the woman in Michael Donaghy’s poem, a poem I find every time I search for it in his Collected Works one of the most arousing and ravishing pieces of verse I know: it makes me smile and imagine.  . .  Her personal vanishing point, she said, came when she leant against his study door all warm and wet and whispered 'Paolo’. Only she’ll say something in a barely audible voice like ‘Can I disturb you?’ and with her sparkling smile come in, and bring with her two cats and the hint of a naked breast nestling in the gap of the fold of her yellow Chinese gown she holds close to herself - so when she kneels on my single bed this gown opens and her beauty falls before her, and I am wholly, utterly lost that such loveliness is and can be so . . .

When I see a beautiful house, as I did last Thursday, far in the distance by an estuary-side, sheltering beneath wooded hills, and moor and rock-coloured mountains, with its long veranda, painted white, I imagine. I imagine our imaginary home where, when our many children are not staying in the summer months and work is impossible, we will live our ‘together yet apart’ lives. And there will be the joy of work. I will be like Ben Nicholson in that Italian villa his father-in-law bought, and have my workroom / bedroom facing a stark hillside with nothing but a carpenter’s table to lay out my scores. Whilst she, like Winifred, will work at a tidy table in her bedroom, a vase of spring flowers against the window with the estuary and the mountains beyond. Yes, her bedroom, not his, though their bed, their wonderful wooden 19C Swiss bed of oak, occupies this room and yes, in his room there is just a single affair, but robust, that he would sleep on when lunch had been late and friends had called, or they had been out calling and he wanted to give her the premise of having to go back to work – to be alone - when in fact he was going to sleep and dream, but she? She would work into the warm afternoons with the barest breeze tickling her bare feet, her body moving with the remembrance of his caresses as she woke him that morning from his deep, dark slumber. ‘Your brown eyes’, he would whisper, ‘your dear brown eyes the colour of an autumn leaf damp with dew’. And she would surround him with kisses and touch of her firm, long body and (before she cut her plaits) let her course long hair flow back and forward across his chest. And she did this because she knew he would later need the loneliness of his own space, need to put her aside, whereas she loved the scent of him in the room in which she worked, with his discarded clothes, the neck-tie on the door hanger he only reluctantly wore.

Back to epic poetry and its possibility. Even on its own, as a single, focused activity it seems to me, unadventurous poet that I am, an impossibility. But then, had I lived in the 1860s, it would probably not have seemed so difficult. There was no Radio 4 blathering on, no bleeb of arriving texts on the mobile. There were servants to see to supper, a nanny to keep the children at bay. At Kelmscott there was glorious Gloucestershire silence - only the roll and squeak of the wagon in the road and the rooks roosting. So, in the early mornings Morris could kneel at his vertical loom and, with a Burne-Jones cartoon to follow set behind the warp. With his yarns ready to hand, it would be like a modern child’s painting by numbers, his mind would be free to explore the fairy domain, the Icelandic sagas, the Welsh Mabinogion, the Kalevara from Finland, and write (in his head) an epic poem. These were often elaborations and retellings in his epic verse style of Norse and Icelandic sagas with titles like Sigurd the Volsung. Paul Thompson once said of Morris  ‘his method was to think out a poem in his head while he was busy at some other work.  He would sit at an easel, charcoal or brush in hand, working away at a design while he muttered to himself, 'bumble-beeing' as his family called it; then, when he thought he had got the lines, he would get up from the easel, prowl round the room still muttering, returning occasionally to add a touch to the design; then suddenly he would dash to the table and write out twenty or so lines.  As his pen slowed down, he would be looking around, and in a moment would be at work on another design.  Later, Morris would look at what he had written, and if he did not like it he would put it aside and try again.  But this way of working meant that he never submitted a draft to the painful evaluation which poetry requires’.

Let’s try a little of Sigurd

There was a dwelling of Kings ere the world was waxen old;
Dukes were the door-wards there, and the roofs were thatched with gold;
Earls were the wrights that wrought it, and silver nailed its doors;
Earls' wives were the weaving-women, queens' daughters strewed its floors,

And the masters of its song-craft were the mightiest men that cast
The sails of the storm of battle down the bickering blast.
There dwelt men merry-hearted, and in hope exceeding great
Met the good days and the evil as they went the way of fate:
There the Gods were unforgotten, yea whiles they walked with men,

Though e'en in that world's beginning rose a murmur now and again
Of the midward time and the fading and the last of the latter days,
And the entering in of the terror, and the death of the People's Praise.

Oh dear. And to think he sustained such poetry for another 340 lines, and that’s just book 1 of 4. So what dear reader, dear sender of that text image encouraging me to weave and write, just what would epic poetry be now? Where must one go for inspiration? Somewhere in the realms of sci-fi, something after Star-Wars or Ninja Warriors. It could be post-apocalyptic, a tale of mutants and a world damaged by chemicals or economic melt-down. Maybe a rich adventure of travel on a distant planet (with Sigourney Weaver of course), featuring brave deeds and the selfless heroism of saving companions from deadly encounters with amazing animals, monsters even. Or is ‘epic’ something else, something altogether beyond the Pixar Studios or James Cameron’s imagination? Is the  ‘epic’ now the province of AI boldly generating the computer game in 4D?  

And the epic poem? People once bought and read such published romances as they now buy and engage with on-line games. This is where the epic now belongs. On the tablet, PlayStation3, the X-Box. But, but . . . Poetry is so alive and well as a performance phenomenon, and with that oh so vigorous and relentless beat. Hell, look who won the T.S.Eliot prize this year! Story-telling lives and there are tales to be told, even if they are set in housing estates and not the ice caves of the frozen planet Golp. Just think of children’s literature, so rich and often so wild. This is word invention that revisits unashamedly those myths and sagas Morris loved, but in a different guise, with different names, in worlds that still bring together the incredible geographies of mountains and deserts and wilderness places, with fortresses and walled cities, and the startling, still unknown, yet to be discovered ocean depths.

                                    And so let my tale begin . . . My epic poem.

                                                 THE SEAGASP OF ENNLI.
       A TALE IN VERSE OF EARTHQUAKE, ISLAND FASTNESS, MALEVOLENT SPIRITS,
                                                AND REDEMPTIVE LOVE.

He said I’m the wrong shape. I could do with putting on a few pounds and, almost as an after thought he said, you’ll have to cut your hair – yourself.  I know she was an artist, and a mother, and a gardener. I had to admit to him I didn’t know any painters. My cousin Julie’s a sculptor – same thing he said – but I had to tell him I hadn’t yet looked at her painting, only what he showed us in his presentation.  He then told me exactly where in the National Museum of Wales I could see one of her paintings – Gallery 14 – and its from this period, a Parisiene picture. He suggested I might go to Cambridge and spend a day at a place called Kettles Yard. There are more Winifreds there than anywhere else in the UK, and many pictures by her close friend Christopher Wood.
 
Oh dear. This is difficult. The only thing going for me seems I’m about the right age and I’ve have children, though mine are older than hers in the production. I was so surprised to get this part, but as Michael said over the phone, your profile fits. Except for the weight and the hair, and I know nothing about painting. Why should I? Jeff told me, the composer Morton Feldman once said if you haven’t got a friend whose a painter, you’re in trouble. I’m in trouble. But he has very kind eyes and when he touched me gently on the shoulder after Lizzie and I sung that shells duet I had to look away.
 
Reaching down arm-deep into bright water
I gathered on white sand under waves
Shells, drifted up on beaches where I alone
Inhabit a finite world of years and days.
I reached my arm down a myriad years
To gather treasure from the yester-millennial sea-floor,
Held in my fingers forms shaped on the day of creation….
 
They sleep on the ocean floor like humming-tops
Whose music is the mother-of-pearl octave of the rainbow,
Harmonious shells that whisper for ever in our ears,
‘The world that you inhabit has not yet been created’
 
Mind you, I don’t envy Lizzie being Kathleen Raine. Now that is a difficult part, even though she’s only in Act 2. Raine was definitely odd. He says I have to understand their friendship, because there was something about it that made them both more than they were. I don’t understand that.
 
Jane and the children are amazing already. Martin (my ‘other’ half Ben Nicholson) said they’d been rehearsing with Robert because his wife (Robert’s wife Debbie) is at WNO and they were scared about this one. I’ll say this for him he knows exactly how children interrupt, constantly. It’s clever the way he uses the interruptions to change direction of the dialogue. Conversations are often left unfinished. The bit when that ***** Barbara visits the apartment unexpectedly is brilliant. She’s completely demolished by these kids of her lover.
 
But those letters . . . he said, can you imagine your husband writing to you over a period of 40 years? Quite a thought that. David wrote to me a few times when I was in Madrid for Cosi just after we’d met, but it was all telephone calls after that. Why waste paper, time and a stamp. But I take his point – their letters are so beautiful – and they were separated for God’s sake. He’d gone off with another woman, and even brought her to Paris. And you could not have two totally different women – she ,slight, chain-smoking, work-a-holic, sharp-tongued with that Yorkshire edge, and me with ‘a quiet voice, trying always to be gentle and kind ‘– W would be called an earth-mother these days. She was a kind of hippie, only she had money – mind you most of those hippies of the 60s had money otherwise they couldn’t have done drugs (heard that on Radio 4 last week in a programme about Richard Brautigan). But they wrote to each other almost every day.
 
Dear Ben,.
            Do you know there are several kinds of happiness, and there is one sort which I have found. It is the sort that is within oneself, enjoying fresh promise, and taking all the experiences of life that one has been through, so-called sad ones and so-called happy ones, to make up understanding that is further on than joy or sorrow. I have been extremely lucky – I have had ten years of companionship with an ‘all-time’ painter, working in the medium of classic eternity and that has been better than a lifetime with any second-class person – isn’t it - I have found it so…
 
Best love Winifred
 
What’s clever about the letter sequences is the way the two-way correspondence is handled as a duet and right in the middle of it you’ll get a flashback – like Winifred suddenly remembering her first meeting with Ben.
 
I heard this voice
In the room next door
I couldn’t breath, I couldn’t move
I knew, I knew for certain
This was the man I would marry.
And when we were introduced
He seemed to know this too.
 
We gaily call this an opera, but it’s not. It’s something else. It simply doesn’t do what you think it’s going to do. Even when you do something for a second time the accompaniment doesn’t do what you expect and remembered. It’s this open-form business. Something else I know nothing about. He mentioned Umberto Eco – now I’ve read Name of the Rose. When Braque or Mondrian or Jan Eps visit unannounced I have no idea which one it’s going to be – these guys just used to turn up. Sometimes two at once. W didn’t invite them. They came for her English hospitality (home baking I think) and her beautiful apartment come studio – beautiful, because she made it so. Her French was appalling, and this is difficult because I speak quite well, and now I have to speak like an idiot. Bridget  (playing Cissy the Cumbrian nanny) having her French lesson is a hoot, and with the children correcting her all the time, it’s lovely.
 
He was very sweet when we broke for lunch. Sara, he said, as I collapsed into an auditorium seat to find my bag and mobile, Sara, we’ve got to find you a painter to spend a day with . . . so you’ll know how to stand in front of an easel.  I phoned Sarah Jane Brown who has a studio in Cardiff and she’d love to meet you. Here’s her number. She paints flowers and landscapes – as well as the abstract stuff - just like Winifred. Her tutor at the RCA actually knew Winifred. And with that he disappeared to a dark corner of the theatre and unwrapped his sandwiches. You can tell he’s not into break discussions with Julian or Michael. I think he’s terribly shy. He’s interested in the cast and so he picks them off one by one. Julian I know doesn’t like this. I think everything needs to go through me, he said at the end of yesterday’s rehearsal. Who does he think he is?! Lizzie reminded Julian he was the composer and what he doesn’t know about this whole period and its characters isn’t knowledge. Liz thinks he’s a sweetie – and she’s sung his Raine settings at Branwyn Hall last year – with Robert who was his MD with BBCNOW. Liz knows Julian hasn’t done his usual homework because he’s got this production in Birmingham on the boil. Unknown Colour is a distraction he can do without.
 
This afternoon it’s back to the mayhem of those ensemble scenes in Act 1. They’re quite crazy, but I’m already beginning to feel I can start to be someone other than me. Did you know I have this lovely song? It’s quite Sondheim . . .
 
*I like to have a picture in my room.
Without one, my room feels bare
however much furniture is there;
Pictures play so many roles.
My room has too much going on in it
for something extravagant.
In the morning it is a sanctuary,
in the daytime a factory,
in the evening a place of festivity,
and through the night a place of rest.
 
I want a window in it,  
And a focal point, something alive and silent.
A bunch of flowers on the window sill?
Yes, but they will wither.
A cat curled up on the hearth?
Yes, but it will go away and prowl upon the rooftops.
 
A picture will always be there.
It will make no sound. It will wait.
If it is true I shall never grow tired of it.
I shall see something fresh in it
when I glance at it tomorrow.
It will always be my friend.

Dear Readers, I have tried to cover the salient features of this True Story in free flowing verse mainly with end rhymes. If you read it loud, you can hear the chimes! Due to the short attention span of my readers I had to cut short this long story, and conclude with the
Golden Era of Hollywood by stretching it up to the 1950s only. When TV began to challenge the Big Screen Cinema seriously! I have used only a part of my notes here. Kindly read the
entire composition during your Spare Time dear Readers. I wish there was a provision for posting a few interesting photographs for you here. Best wishes, - Raj Nandy, New Delhi.  

                THE LEGEND OF HOLLYWOOD :
                      THE AMERICAN  DREAM
                              BY RAJ NANDY

               A SHORT  HISTORICAL  BACKGROUND
Since the earliest days, optical toys, shadow shows, and ‘magic
lanterns’, had created the illusion of motion.
This concept was first described by Mark Roget in 1824 as  
the persistent of vision.
Giving impetus to the development of big screen cinema with its
close-ups, capturing all controlled and subtle expressions!
The actors were no longer required to shout out their parts with
exaggerated actions as on the Elizabethan Stage.
Now even a single tear drop could get noticed easily by the entire
movie audience!
With the best scene being included and edited after a few retakes.
To Thomas Edison and his able assistant William Rogers we owe the invention of Kinetoscope, the first movie camera.
On the grounds of his West Orange, New Jersey laboratory, Edison
built his first movie studio called the ‘Black Maria’.   (1893)
He also purchased a string of patents related to motion picture
Camera;
Forming the Edison Trust, - a cartel that took control of the Film
Industry entire!

Fort Lee, New Jersey:
On a small borough on the opposite bank of the Hudson River lay
the deserted Fort Lee.
Here scores of film production crews descended armed with picture Cameras, on this isolated part of New Jersey!
In 1907 Edison’s company came there to shoot a short silent film –
‘Rescue From an Eagle’s Nest’,
Which featured for the first time the actor and director DW Griffith.
The independent Chaplin Film Company built the first permanent
movie studio in 1910 in Fort Lee.
While some of the biggest Hollywood studios like the Universal,
MGM, and 20th Century Fox, had their roots in Fort Lee.
Some of the famous stars of the silent movie era included ‘Fatty’
Arbuckle, Will Rogers, Mary Pickford, Dorothy and Lillian Gish,
Lionel Barrymore, Rudolph Valentine and Pearl White.
In those days there were no reflectors and electric arch lights.
So movies were made on rooftops to capture the bright Sunlight!
During unpredictable bad weather days, filming had to be stopped
despite the revolving stage which was made, -
To rotate and capture the sunlight before the lights started to fade!

Shift from New Jersey to West Coast California:
Now Edison who held the patents for the bulb, phonograph, and the Camera, had exhibited a near monopoly;
On the production, distribution, and exhibition of the movies which made this budding industry to shift to California from New Jersey!
California with its natural scenery, its open range, mountains, desert, and snow country, had the basic ingredients for the movie industry.
But most importantly, California had bright Sunshine for almost 365 days of the year.
While eight miles away from Hollywood lay the port city of Los Angeles with its cheap labor.

                        THE  RISE  OF  HOLLYWOOD
It was a real estate tycoon Harvey Wilcox and his wife Daeida from
Kansas, who during the 1880s founded ‘Hollywood’ as a community for like-minded temperate followers.
It is generally said that Daeida gave the name Hollywood perhaps
due to the area's abundant red-berried shrubs - known as
California Holly!
Spring blossoms around and above the Hollywood Hills with its rich variety,  gave it a touch of paradise for all to see!
Hollywood was incorporated as a municipality in 1903, and during
1910 had unified with the city of Los Angeles.
While a year later, the first film studio had moved in from New
Jersey, to escape Thomas Edison’s monopoly!    (1911)

In 1913 Cecil B. De Mille and Jesse Lasky, had leased a barn with
studio facilities.
And directed the first feature length film ‘Squaw Man’ in 1914.
Today this studio is home to Hollywood Heritage Museum as we get to see.
The timeless symbol of Hollywood film industry that famous sign on top of Mount Lee, was put up by a real estate developer in 1923.  
This sign had read as ‘’HOLLY WOOD LAND’’ initially.
Despite decades of run-ins with vandals and pranksters, it managed to hang on to its prime location near the summit of the Hollywood Hills.
The last restoration work was carried out in 1978 initiated by Hugh
Hefner of the ******* Magazine.
Those nine white letters 45 feet tall now read ‘HOLLYWOOD’,  has become a landmark and America’s cultural icon,
And an evocative symbol for ambition, glamour, and dreams!
Forever enticing aspiring actors to flock to Hollywood, hypnotized by lure of the Big Screen!

                     GOLDEN AGE OF HOLLYWOOD
The Silent Movie Era which began in 1895, ended in 1935 with the
production of ‘Dance of Virgins’, filmed entirely in the island of Bali.
The first Sound film ‘The Jazz Singer’ by Warner Bros. was made with a Vitaphone sound-on-disc technology.  (October 1927)
Despite the Great Depression of the 1930s, this decade along with the 1940s have been regarded by some as Hollywood’s Golden Age.
However, I think that this Golden Age includes the decades of the
1940s and the 1950s instead.
When the advent of Television began to challenge the Film Industry
itself !

First Academy Award:
On 16th May 1929 in the Roosevelt Hotel on Hollywood Boulevard,
the First Academy Award presentation was held.
Around 270 people were in attendance, and tickets were priced at
$5 per head.
When the best films of 1927 & 1928 were honored by the Academy
of Motion Production and Sciences, or the AMPS.
Emil Jennings became the best actor, and Janet Gaynor the best actress.
Special Award went to Charlie Chaplin for his contribution to the
silent movie era and for his silent film ‘The Circus’.
While Warren Brothers was commended for making the first talking picture ‘The Jazz Singer’, - also receiving a Special Award!
Now, the origin of the term ‘OSCAR’ has remained disputed.
The Academy adopted this name from 1939 onwards it is stated.
OSCAR award has now become “the stuff dreams are made of”!
It is a gold-plated statuette of a knight 13.5 inches in height, weighing 8.5 pounds, was designed by MGM’s art director Cedric Gibbons.
Annually awarded for honoring and encouraging excellence in all
facets of motion picture productions.

Movies During the Great Depression Era (1929-1941):
Musicals and dance movies starring Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers provided escapism and good entertainment during this age.
“Ginger Rogers did everything Fred Astaire did. She just did it
backwards and in high heels,” - the critics had said.
This compatible pair entertained the viewers for almost one and
a half decade.
During the ‘30s, gangster movies were popular starring James Cagey, Humphrey Bogart, and Edward G. Robinson.
While family movies had their popular child artist Shirley Temple.
Swashbuckler films of the Golden Age saw the sword fighting scenes of Douglas Fairbank and Errol Flynn.
Flynn got idolized playing ‘Robin Hood’, this film was released in 1938 on the Big Screen.
Story of the American Civil War got presented in the epic ‘Gone With The Wind’ (1939) with Clarke Gable and Vivian Leigh.
This movie received 8 Oscars including the award for the Best Film, - creating a landmark in motion picture’s history!
More serious movies like John Steinbeck’s ‘Grapes of Wrath’ and John Ford’s  ‘How Green Was My Valley’, were released in 1940 and 1941 respectively.
While the viewers escaped that depressive age to the magical world
of  ‘Wizard of Oz’ with its actress Judy Garland most eagerly!
Let us not forget John Wayne the King of the Westerns, who began
his acting career in the 1930s with his movie ‘The Big Trail’;
He went on to complete 84 films before his career came to an end.
Beginning of the 40s also saw Bob Hope and the crooner Bing Crosby, who entertained the public and also the fighting troops.
For the Second World War (1939-45) had interrupted the Golden Age of Hollywood!
When actors like Henry Fonda, Clarke Gable, James Stewart and
Douglas Fairbanks joined the armed forces temporarily leaving
Hollywood.
Few propaganda movies supporting the war efforts were also made.
While landmark movies like ‘Philadelphia Story’, ‘Casablanca’, ‘Citizen Kane’, ‘The Best Years of Our Lives’, were some of the most successful movies of that decade.  (The 1940s)
Now I come towards the end of my Hollywood Story with the decade  of the 1950s, thereby extending the period of Hollywood’s Golden Age.
Since having past the Great Depression and the Second World War,  
The Hollywood movie industry truly matured and came of age.

                        HOLLYWOOD  OF  THE  1950s
Backgroun­d:
The decade of the ‘50s was known for its post-war affluence and
choice of leisure time activities.
It was a decade of middle-class values, fast-food restaurants, and
drive-in- movies;
Of ‘baby-boom’, all-electric home, the first credit cards, and new fast moving cars like the Ford, Plymouth, Buick, Hudson, and Chevrolet.
But not forgetting the white racist terrorism in the Southern States!
This era saw the beginning of Cold War, with Dwight D. Eisenhower succeeding Harry S. Truman as the American President.
But for the film industry, most importantly, what really mattered  
was the advent of the Domestic TV.
When the older viewers preferred to stay at home instead of going
out to the movies.
By 1950, 10.5 million US homes had a television set, and on the
30th December 1953, the first Color TV went on sale!
Film industries used techniques such as Cinemascope, Vista Vision,
and gimmicks like 3-D techniques,
To get back their former movie audience back on their seats!
However, the big scene spectacle films did retain its charm and
fantasy.
Since fantasy epics like ‘The Story of Robin Hood’, and Biblical epics like ‘The Robe’, ‘Quo Vadis’, ‘The Ten Commandments’ and ‘Ben-Hur’, did retain its big screen visual appeal.
‘The Robe’ released on 16th September 1953, was the first film shot
and projected in Cinema Scope;
In which special lenses were used to compress a wide image into a
standard frame and then expanded it again during projection;
Resulting in an image almost two and a half times as high and also as wide, - captivating the viewers imagination!

Demand For New Themes During The 1950s :
The idealized portrayal of men and women since the Second World War,
Now failed to satisfy the youth who sought exciting symbols for rebellion.
So Hollywood responded with anti-heroes with stars like James Dean, Marlon Brando, and Paul Newman.
They replaced conventional actors like Tyron Power, Van Johnson, and Robert Taylor to a great extent, to meet the requirement of the age.
Anti-heroines included Ava Gardner, Kim Novak, and Marilyn Monroe with her vibrant *** appeal;
They provided excitement for the new generation with a change of scene.
Themes of rebellion against established authority was present in many Rock and Roll songs,
Including the 1954 Bill Hailey and His Comets’ ‘Rock Around the Clock’.
The era also saw rise to stardom of Elvis Presley the teen heartthrob!
Meeting the youthful aspirations with his songs like ‘Jailhouse Rock’!
I recall the lyrics of this 1957 film ‘Jailhouse Rock’ of my school days, which had featured the youth icon Elvis:
   “The Warden threw a party in the county jail,
     The prison band was there and they began to wail.
     The band was jumping and the joint began to sing,
     You should’ve heard them knocked-out jail bird sing.
     Let’s rock, everybody in the whole cell block……………
     Spider Murphy played the tenor saxophone,
     Little Joe was blowing the slide trombone.
     The drummer boy from Illinois went crash, boom, bang!
     The whole rhythm section was the Purple Gang, Let's rock...

Rock and Roll music began to tear down color barriers, and Afro-
American musicians like Chuck Berry and Little Richard became
very popular!
Now I must caution my readers that thousands of feature films got  released during this eventful decade in Hollywood.
To cover them all within this limited space becomes an impossible
task, which may kindly be understood !
However, I shall try to do so in a summarized form as best as I could.

Box Office Hits Year-Wise From 1950 To 1959 :
Top Ten Year-Wise hit films chronologically are: Cinderella (1950),
Quo Vadis, The Greatest Show on Earth, Peter Pan, Rear Window,
Lady and the *****, Ten Commandments, Bridge on the River
Kwai, South Pacific, and Ben-Hur of 1959.

However Taking The Entire Decade Of 1950s Collectively,
The Top Films Get Rated As Follows Respectively:
The Ten Commandments, followed by Lady and the *****, Peter Pan, Sleeping Beauty, Bridge on the River Kwai, Around the World in Eighty Days, This is Cinerama, The Greatest Show on Earth, Rear Window, South Pacific, The Robe, Giant, Seven Wonders of the World, White Christmas, Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, Sayonara, Demetrius and the Gladiator, Peyton Place, Some Like It Hot, Quo Vadis, and Auntie Mame.

Film Debuts By Rising Stars During The 1950s :
The decade of the ‘50s saw a number of famous film stars making
their first appearance.
There was Peter Sellers in ‘The Black Rose’, Marlon Brando in
‘The Men’, and actress Sophia Loren in ‘Toto Tarzan’.
Following year saw Charles Bronson in ‘You Are in the Navy Now’,
Audrey Hepburn in ‘Our Wild Oats’, and Grace Kelly, the future
Princess of Monaco, in her first film ‘Fourteen Hours’. (1951)
While **** Brigitte Bardot appeared in 1952 movie ‘Crazy for Love’; and 1953 saw Steve Mc Queen in ‘******* The Run’.
Jack Lemon, Paul Newman, and Omar Sharif featured in films
during 1954.
The following year saw Clint Eastwood, Shirley Mc Lean, Walter
Matthau, and Jane Mansfield, all of whom the audience adored.
The British actor Michael Cain appeared in 1956; also Elvis Presley
the youth icon in ‘Love Me Tender’ and as the future Rock and Roll
King!
In 1957 came Sean Connery, followed by Jack Nicholson, Christopher Plummer, and Vanessa Redgrave.
While the closing decade of the ‘50s saw James Coburn, along with
director, script writer, and producer Steven Spielberg, make their
debut appearance.

Death During The 1950s: This decade also saw the death of actors
like Humphrey Bogart, Tyron Power and Errol Flynn.
Including the death of producer and director of epic movies the
renowned Cecil B. De Mille!
Though I have conclude the Golden Age of Hollywood with the 50’s Decade,
The glitz and glamour of its Oscar Awards continue even to this day.
With its red carpet and lighted marquee appeal and fashion display!

CONTINUING THE HOLLYWOOD STORY  WITH  FEW TITBITS
From Fort Lee of New Jersey we have traveled west to Hollywood,
California.
From the silent movie days to the first ‘talking picture’ with Warren
Bros’ film ‘The Jazz Singer’.  (06 Oct 1927)
On 31st July 1928 for the first time the audience heard the MGM’s
mascot Leo’s mighty roar!
While in July 1929 Warren Bros’ first all-talking and all- Technicolor
Film appeared titled - ‘On With The Show’.
Austrian born Hedy Lamarr shocked the audience appearing **** in a Czechoslovak film ‘Ecstasy’!  (1933)
She fled from her husband to join MGM, becoming a star of the
‘40s and the ‘50s.
The ‘Private Life of Henry VII’ became the first British film to win the American Academy Award.  (1933)
On 11Dec 1934, FOX released ‘Bright Eyes’ with Shirley Temple, who  became the first Child artist to win this Award!
While in 1937 Walt Disney released the first full animated feature film titled - ‘Snow White and the Seven Dwarf ‘.
The British film director Alfred Hitchcock who came to Hollywood later;
Between 1940 and 1947, made great thrillers like ‘Rebecca’, ‘Notorious’,‘Rear Window’, and ‘Dial M for ******’.
But he never won an Academy Award as a Director!

THE GOLDEN GLOBE AWARD:
This award began in 1944 by the Foreign Correspondence Association at

1
 
Here’s a sunny card to cheer up your hospital room.
Kate’s Flowers c. 1936 by Winifred Nicholson
So glad you’ve got your own room
And can therefore do a bit more of what you want to.
Take it easy though!
 
This painting is not what it seems.
Taking the long long look
that Jeanette Winterson recommends
there’s this abundance of orange
and its close friend yellow:
plenty and laughter
joining hands with
wisdom and calm.
Sometimes known as Kate’s Bunch
It’s an oil on plywood,
painted in Paris.
Two vases, daffodils and lilies,
the latter’s petals fallen on
a polished table, mahogany possibly,
and spread about by a gust of wind,
or perhaps a passing child. Kate
her first born, her miracle child
just seven when this painting was made.
 
2
 
There, sitting in front of us
in the stalls in the Town Hall,
was Stockhausen himself,
resplendent in the orange jumper
he always seemed to wear
in the last years of his life.
Because he invariably wore
white shirts and white jeans
an orange jumper, scarf
and jacket seemed sensible
garb for an angel from Sirius,
particularly when working in his garden.
At a concert he’d been known
to sport a purple scarf.
Orange and purple:
two colours that defy rhyme
but clearly not the reason
of this genius from another planet.
  
3
 
This Orange is Ecstatic.
Its theme of six quick notes,
almost never leaves the music.
Composer Michael Torke
slows it down, smooths it out,
it’s so quick and catchy
momentum builds up quickly;
it simply sounds (almost) unstoppable.
It sure is! Such fun,
and so good to listen to
because you never loose the thread.
Ok, the tune cycles round your head
but the instruments change
and there’s lots of extra tunes
playing away like good buddies.
This is music you can’t help smiling to.
It’s Ecstatic and Orange.

4
 
Did you know there’s a Music of Colour?
It is so new that few people,
except those who are creating it,
are aware that it exists.
At all.
 
Colour has seven degrees
of depth intensity.
With Orange it's
Alabaster
Apricot
Fire
Fox
Copper
Tobacco
Black coffee
 
Colour has seven degrees
between the shade of its hue
to its neutralization.
With orange it's
flame
sand
ochre
bistre
fawn
dun
mud
 
Oh Winifred, have you any idea
of the song your colours sing?
How orange and yellow
and blue and white
and almost purple
with a little green
make music become a picture.
 
5
 
I bought some orange tights! X
Oh Gosh! X
I’m not wearing them though . . . X
There’s a time and place for orange tights . . .
wait for (poetic) instructions please . . . X
Curiouser and curiouser . . . X
 
You see I bought this frock
in a charity shop.
Folly green and Pointing white
it was pleasantly patterned,
though a small fourteen,
and knowing he’d like it
I put it on one night
before we went to bed.
And he said:
‘You know it would be just right
with a pair of orange tights.’
And so it is.
Just right.

6

Dearest,
don’t let me touch you
yet, above the knee
where this warm colour
flows towards that centre
of your movements’ grace,
where lower limbs join
to kiss and stroke each inner thigh,
those quiet smooth planes of softest skin
that inviting so the caress of a hand,
daring so the intimate touch of a cheek.
Let orange keep you close to the possibility of passion
to the glow of your beauty’s length and line
where the firmness of your standing self
will shine out and speak of purpose
and of love’s sweet gift.

‘This is a pleasure. A composer in our midst, and you’re seeing Plas Brondanw at its June best.’ Amabel strides across the lawn from house to the table Sally has laid for tea. Tea for three in the almost shade of the vast plain tree, and nearly the height of the house. Look up into its branches. It is convalescing after major surgery, ropes and bindings still in place.
 
Yes, I am certainly seeing this Welsh manor house, the home of the William-Ellis family for four hundred years, on a day of days. The mountains that ring this estate seem to take the sky blue into themselves. They look almost fragile in the heat.
 
‘Nigel, you’re here?’ Clough appears next. He sounds surprised, as though the journey across Snowdonia was trepidatious adventure. ‘Of course you are, and on this glorious day. Glorious, glorious. You’ve walked up from below perhaps? Of course, of course. Did you detour to the ruin? You must. We’ll walk down after tea.’
 
And he flicks the tails of his russet brown frock coat behind him and sits on the marble bench beside Amabel. She is a little frail at 85, but the twinkling eyes hardly leave my face. Clough is checking the garden for birds. A yellowhammer swoops up from the lower garden and is gone. He gestures as though miming its flight. There are curious bird-like calls from the house. Amabel turns house-ward.
 
‘Our parrots,’ she says with a girlish smile.
 
‘Your letter was so sweet you know.’ She continues. ‘Fancy composing a piece about our village. We’ve had a film, that TV series, so many books, and now music. So exciting. And when do we hear this?’
 
I explain that the BBC will be filming and recording next month, but tomorrow David will appear with his double bass, a cameraman and a sound recordist to ‘do’ the cadenzas in some of the more intriguing locations. And he will come here to see how it sounds in the ‘vale’.
 
‘Are we doing luncheon for the BBC men? They are all men I suppose? When we were on Gardeners’ World it was all gals with clipboards and dark glasses, and it was raining for heaven’s sake. They had no idea about the right shoes, except that Alys person who interviewed me and was so lovely about the topiary and the fireman’s room. Now she wore a sensible skirt and the kind of sandals I wear in the garden. Of course we had to go to Mary’s house to see the thing as you know Clough won’t have a television in the house.’
 
‘I loath the sound of it from a distance. There’s nothing worse that hearing disembodied voices and music. Why do they have to put music with everything? I won’t go near a shop if there’s that canned music about.’
 
‘But surely it was TV’s The Prisoner that put the place on the map,’ I venture to suggest.
 
‘Oh yes, yes, but the mess, and all those Japanese descending on us with questions we simply couldn’t answer. I have to this day no i------de-------a-------‘, he stretches this word like a piece of elastic as far as it might go before breaking in two, ‘ simply no I------de------a------ what the whole thing was about.’ He pauses to take a tea cup freshly poured by Amabel. ‘Patrick was a dear though, and stayed with us of course. He loved the light of the place and would get up before dawn to watch the sun rise over the mountains at the back of us.’
 
‘But I digress. Music, music, yes music . . . ‘ Amabel takes his lead
 
‘We’ve had concerts before at P. outside in the formal gardens by AJ’s studio.’ She has placed her hands on her green velvet skirt and leans forward purposefully. ‘He had musicians about all the time and used to play the piano himself vigorously in the early hours of the morning. Showing off to those models that used to appear. I remember walking past his studio early one morning and there he was asleep on the floor with two of them . . .’
 
Clough smiles and laughs, laughs and smiles at a memory from the late 1920s.
 
‘Everyone thought we were completely mad to do the village.’ He leans back against the gentle curve of the balustrade, and closes his eyes for a moment. ‘Completely mad.’
 
It’s cool under the tree, but where the sunlight strays through my hand seems to gather freckles by the minute. I am enjoying the second slice of Mary’s Bara Brith. ‘It’s the marmalade,’ says Amabel, realising my delight in the texture and taste, ‘Clough brought the recipe back from Ceylon and I’ve taught all my cooks to make it. Of course, Mary isn’t a cook, she’s everything. A wonder, but you’ll discover this later at dinner. You are staying? And you’re going to play too?’
 
I’m certainly going to play in the drawing room studio on the third floor. It’s distractingly full of paintings by ‘friends’ – Duncan Grant, Mondrian, Augustus John, Patrick Heron, Winifred Nicholson (she so loved the garden but would bring that awful Raine woman with her). There’s  Clough’s architectural watercolours (now collectors want these things I used to wiz off for clients – stupid prices – just wish I’d kept more behind before giving them to the AA – (The Architectural Association ed.) And so many books, first editions everywhere. Photographs of Amabel’s flying saucer investigations occupy a shelf along with her many books on fairy tales and four novels, a batch of biographies and pictures of the two girls Susan and Charlotte as teenagers. Susan’s pottery features prominently. There’s a Panda skin from Luchan under the piano.
 
These two eighty somethings have been working since 8.0am. ‘We don’t bother with lunch.’ Amabel is reviewing the latest Ursula le Guin. ‘I stayed with her in Oregon last May. A lovely little house by the sea. Such a darling, and what a gardener! She creates all the ideas for her books in her garden. I so wish I could, but there’s just too much to distract me. Gardening is a serious business because although Jane comes over from Corrieg and says no to this and no to that and I have to stand my corner,  I have to concentrate and go to my books. Did you know the RHS voted this one of the ten most significant gardens in the UK? But look, there’s no one here today except you!’
 
No one but me. And tea is over. ‘A little rest before your endeavours perhaps,’ says Clough, probably anxious to get back to letter to Kenzo Piano.
 
‘Now let’s go and say hello to the fireman,’ says Amabel who takes my arm. And so we walk through the topiary to her favourite ‘room’,  a water feature with the fireman on his column (mid pond). ‘In memory of the great fire, ‘ she says. ‘He keeps a keen eye on the building now.’ He is a two-foot cherub with a hose and wearing a fireman’s helmet.
 
The pond reflects the column and the fireman looks down on us as we gaze into the pool. ‘Health, ‘ she says, ‘We keep a keen eye on it.’
 
The parrots are singing wildly. I didn’t realise they sang. I thought they squawked.
 
‘Will they sing when I play?’ I ask.
 
‘Undoubtedly,’ Amabel says with her girlish smile and squeezes my arm.

THE LIGHT OF LIBERTY
Matloob Bokhari


Peace be upon you, O daughter of the Chief of prophets.
Peace be upon you, O daughter of God's friend.
Peace be upon you, O daughter of the lady of Jannah.
Peace be upon you, who inherited bravery, fluency from Ali.
Peace be upon you, who became a symbol of liberty.
Peace be upon you, who is the lady of knowledge, patience.
Peace be upon you, who practiced what she taught.
Peace be upon you, who spoke against despotic institutions.
Peace be upon you, who challenged miseries with a message.
Peace be upon you, who remained entangled in tribulations.
Peace be upon you, who was paraded from place to place.
Peace be upon you, who  completed  mission when  all were dead.
Peace be upon you, who un-masked Godless regime.
Peace be upon you, who sowed seeds of awareness.
Peace be upon you, who delivered sermons on freedom.
Peace be upon you, who rescued the spirit of Islam.
Peace be upon you, who criticized terror in courts.
Peace be upon you, who prayed;" Lord! Accept sacrifice."
Peace be upon you, who in the  sad night remained in   prayers.
Peace be upon you, whose speeches silenced crafty intriguers.
Peace be upon you, whose name will remain eternal in history
Peace be upon you, whose lifestyle inspires   generations.
Peace be upon you, who said "God's curse on tyrants"
Peace be upon you, who forced tyranny to take refuge.
Peace be upon you, who said, "Our memory will never die."
Peace be upon you, who won battle of human rights.
Peace be upon you, who is a sun in history of humanity.

Michele Vizzotti-White: Hazrat Zainab challenged miseries with a message, if only more people had this gift eh there is always tomorrow :She  is a sun in history of humanity, yea def.
God bless the smart, beautiful and brave spirits in the world. ( na na three cheers to Hazrat Zainab :)




Kevin M. Hibshman : You are a light, Matloob!

Isabelle Black Smith: I have read parts of Quran. I need to read more. The Quran is indeed a holy text, filled with much wisdom. Thank you for telling about Hazrat Zainab . It is most interesting. I love the study of
history. The story of where we have been as people is fascinating to me. I do feel that in order for us to be successful in our future and avoid
  repeating the mistakes of our past we must truly have an understanding of where it is that we have been. Such a courageous woman this Hazrat Zainab was to speak out so boldly against tyranny in her time. Truly inspiring! You've given me some more reading to find out more about this remarkable woman, I think. Thank you for the introduction of this lady .  And such a wonderful meditation in your poem. A fitting tribute to this holy and inspiring woman of justice and peace.




Neil Perry:  I'd never heard of Hazrat Zainab  before, but she seemed an interesting person who was against injustice.



Em Meilė : This is a beautiful story plucked from history...and you have paid great honor and homage to our brave predecessor Hazrat Zainab, with your wise and beautiful words.  I stand beside you, Matloob, as we plant the seeds together.




Satyender ParkashAas: Peace be upon you, who prayed, mindful,idealistic,inspiring the human fully. I love this too.


Tina Farnworth : I am an atheist but Hazrat Zainab  sounds like an interesting lady! A strong woman indeed!

Tod McNeal: Beautiful Matloob! Had a guy friend me and begin posting all kind of hateful spew against Muslims on my page. That sort of thing is divisive and not in Unity. There are Muslims who can't stand Christians and Christians who can't stand Muslims. Both are not living in the light of LOVE that both religions place at the highest order of importance. Sadly both Holy books associated with the respective religions have plenty of quotable fodder (and even more sadly actionable fodder) for those whom wish to be divisive and hateful to others. ONE LOVE is not just Christian to Christian or Muslim to Muslim...it is UNITY with all. That is how I feel.


Ann Carruth Donoghue: Very powerful write, bravo x
John Castellenas : I like your thoughts and the purpose of this poem.




Kristine Nicholson: Yes, it is the people with goodness in their hearts who make Spirit shine through the words & institutions of religion! Your Ode to Hazrat  Zainab is glorious! :) Ken


Flora Vasconcelos : Peace be upon the suffering flesh , the suffocated souls , the barbed-wired hearts , the walled eyes , the forbidden breath!





Kriston Scott:I didn't know this lady. It is enlightening. Thank you so much for telling  the story of Hazrat Zainab, Peace be upon her ~   inspiring and beautiful.


Sandra Delussu: Where are those bold people gone dwell?

Vacation mission love 4 passion or to vacate is another reason six sense vision
  One season two mansions three reactions four smiles we try way too hard imperfection it takes  _ the _long way to get to perfection look at me when I am talking no communication pleasure me Tiki bar C- initial please me or only the lonely to vacate. What's all the C- rumors my stomach has tumors it's spreading my eyes like spinners. Whats love got to do with this vacation C- Clovers?What do we C in lovers fate shinning Jack Nicholson the writer redrum ******?

But time is
everything, nothing, something, everlasting never ending
God sending, C- Car fender ******, Yes we will be loved like the pretender. Now do U C?

So terrific like a light-bulb
goes off tic tock the
chick a dee
Super honey bee
met General Lee
And we will C?

*       *        *          
Blinded by Stars

Bombastic

Becomes
Nomadic
All sacred
Vacation of two
So scared
Him from Mars
I will C--
He and she
The Alcove
Let them be
Smells of  
C-cloves
Not one familiar
place all different
loves

"Her face"
Didn't U C?
Delights the night
We will C-them
Vacation C- cave
Right over there to
be saved
Be brave nails bright

Neon march in like the
Lion
Guitar named Dion
Amazon the buying
trip perfect 2-C
What-lips
She lights the beacon

Electricity C
Presidential
C-Conventional
Abraham Lincoln
Like the Saints of
Strings
C-Clemintine
Sultry but soothing 
R- U- ready
Hold them
steady
 Plantronics
After the love
Before the Manic
or both platonic

Audio C
Reaction
C-communication

Like Robots
With no recognition
Move on stipulation
Better be smarter
to master the C
The Viking
C-conundrum
vacation

Needing a paramedic
b- negative blood type
Ripe me C cool
and collected
C-Climate vacation
I don't think so?
C-City to be charmed
Strutting her stuff
Soho so who

Out of time__ C
It ain't so Bee
Oh! No, I-C
Being alone 
With chicken
 Colonel Lee
Too vacate left with nothing
Being kind to the homeless
To vacate what is
truly fate

How did the rich people
become the best
hostess C- Caviar

With the most list
Filling her C- mug
On a snag
Oh! Christ (C)

The Dog pug
Big Bounty tug
Such a small world
country
Bigfoot little things
dainty
The tight "Bearhug
" C
Cozy
The tear diamond drop
Waiting for words @
the bus-stop lazy

World of belief the cops
went C-Crazy
I will be brief have no fear
Fire me up my Collection
got better I am feeling
save with my Fire(C)Cheif

I don't remember which class it was when I first encountered Randy. Might have been Sixteenth Century British Lit course (mostly Milton). Randy loved Milton's blindness. He once said to me that Milton thought his poetry was improved after his blindness set in. Something about the cadence and word thought process. It sounded plausable. Randy was a bright fellow. Had a lot on the artistic side about him. His music, poetry, passion for older women.
But Randy did a terrible thing. Horrendous by any standard that include psychosis on the ruler.
I'm guessing about the diagnosis. Could have been anything I'd read in those University Psych texts.
Any doctor of any worth would agree Randy was not well, but he was a high functioning not well.
The Honors English Degree was not a walk in the park. So, by the time fourth year arrives, the herd's been well-culled, and classes got smaller, and those attending more intimate. I'd shared classes with these people for three years, by now we had long finished feeling each other out, and time outside class, and campus with one, two or three others for a beer in the pub, or someone's digs, was happening more often. We were serious students, so our party time was limited to one night a weekend.
It was really never planned. A few beers at the Grad House, and so on.

Randy was somewhat of a hanger on. On the fringe of our conversation, and interjecting just off the bubble of reason. And he didn't handle alcohol well. This one time, the girls were talking about wanting to **** an uncircumcised guy. Well, as it happens, being born at home in Ireland, on the farm, with a midwife attending, the brothers and I are in the hood. I mentioned this, and the lasses started with the teasing, but Randy missed the tease. I could see in his eyes the strain as he held back from I don't know what. But he was on hold.  We left the Grad and I went one way across an open field of one foot snow,
to grab a bus. Randy and Nicole left on a divergent path in the same field. Randy didn't hold back.
A few minutes after parting, I heard a scream. I did. I looked back and saw Randy, Nicole pinned down as a kid would be pinned by a bully sitting straddle on the victim's stomach to flick his nose. It took me  a minute to run back through the snow, and by the time I got there, Randy was past her outer coat, and digging deeper. I pulled him off. Sent him on his way, and walked Nicole home. She was ok. Shaken, but it was a different time. She knew they had talked that way purposefully in front of Randy. Randy had, in one of his interjections, admitted his skinning.

Anyway, this isn't the worst of it. Besides walking in on my girlfriend when she was on the toilet, washing his hands and having a conversation with her while she was, yep, speechless. This girlfriend was as pure as the driven snow. We met when we were fifteen, and planned on marriage at the end of my Degree. She was the original model. I was the only driver. Continued with that model for forty years too. And never drove another. So, she tells me what happened. Here we are. I've got all my old buddies from my home town at my apartment. I invited Randy. I admit it. Thought he could use a little time with some reasonable friends. They weren't university students. Just my old high school buddies. Plumbers, electricians, sheet metal workers, construction workers.  I was the only one of the lot that went on to school. They met Randy. Some asked me what's his problem. Now I must tell Randy he has to leave. My girlfriend is embarrassed; worse, she's mortified. She really was. So Randy says he understands and leaves, but insisting he meant nothing by it. I let him know I believed him, but it's time he call it a night at my place. A few days later, when I'm at the library, researching, Randy drops by my place and gives my mates a bottle of wine and a joint to apologize for his inconsiderateness. In retrospect, I'm lucky to be alive today.

No one knew how volatile Randy could be.

We had finished our Honors Essays and our comprehensives, and we were ready for a party. We knew that our times together had come to an end. Each of us would be going to our respective hometowns, and after the summer, we would pursue courses in Grad School, Teacher's College or Law. A few of us had marriage plans on the table, and would be saying goodbye to our University years and loves. Rhonda offered her place for our last hurrah. We numbered eight, including Randy. The beer, scotch, wine and **** were abundant. At one point, sitting around listening to Phoebe Snow's rendition of “The Poetry Man,” and winding down, I suggested we heighten the fun with a bathtub party. I didn't know what that was, in fact I'd never heard of one before, but  the group began *******, and one of us went to turn on the taps. In a flash, all were naked, standing in ankle deep water. Randy was ecstatic and frantic. It was harmless fun, and some nice skin. Everything came to an end, a drunken ****** end, around one a.m. Randy said he had some scotch back at his place, and I, with early onset alcoholism, walked back to his ground floor apartment for more.

Randy had two guitars, headphones and an amplifier. We drank and played live. I still had to get to my place, and left Randy on the guitar, with headphones plugged in, between two and three in the morning.
That was the last I ever saw of Randy, but not the last I heard.

Two weeks passed since I left my University digs. I was at my parents' home, in the massive garage my brothers and I built with our father, re-finishing an antique sideboard as my wedding gift to my girlfriend. You know how it is when you feel someone before seeing them. I looked up, and heading towards me on the drive was my life-long friend and roomie at school, Jim. Jim knew Randy from association. And he had quite a story for me.

“Did you hear about Randy?”
“No.”
“He murdered his landlady.”

I heard the remainder of his story, and was able to deduce he murdered her soon after I left him playing his guitar, wearing his headphones. I'm lead to believe that the landlady, who lived upstairs from Randy, came down to complain about the noise and the hour. Randy followed her upstairs, and with a plain kitchen spoon, took out her eyes, dug too deep, and managed to scoop out parts of her brain. The police followed the trail of blood back to Randy's downstairs apartment. They woke him from a sound sleep, covered in blood and gray matter. I understand Randy was found incapable of being tried, and was subsequently incarcerated in Penetanguishene, a facility for the criminally insane.

Fast forward twenty-five years. I'm at a house party. Present was a police officer from my University town. After some social conversation, I ask him if he was on the force when Randy did his deed.
“On the force? I was the lead investigator. Horrible story.”
He filled in many of the details, some mentioned above, the rest I will leave out.
“Is the case closed?”
“Long since,” he said.

I asked him a few detailed questions about the night, which grabbed his attention. He had already told me about the students at the party Randy was with that evening, and the many interviews he conducted with them.
“You never interviewed me.”
“You weren't there!”
“I was there. I was at Randy's apartment too... that night.”
At first he was incredulous, but I told him about the homemade peanut butter and the emptied bottle of Johnny Walker's Red Label sitting on the kitchen table. I also mentioned the guitars, amps and headphones centered in the living room. He believed he'd interviewed everyone at the party. Why my name was never mentioned by the others, I don't know.

“I know why he did it,” I suggested to the cop. “John Milton. If the landlady was blind she'd have a greater appreciation of Randy's early morning music.”

It's been fifteen years since I had that conversation with the cop. To this day, I still expect a knock on my door, or a rap on a nighttime window, and there, looking in, like Jack Nicholson,

"Here's Randy..."

Jamming jellyfish
Top-Me 
((Giddy App Seahorse))
The horseradish on
my lap_

The jolly Jelly
Gefilte Fish
Little help from  my friends
How we click the laptop
One dent to Deceive me
The Rock and Rolling

Stomach his smoke went
Like (*** Cheese)
he leaves me
The spicy tongue map
Z-Top Zany Chilli Pepper
your # tap dance tap
Italian top of
the cheese designer skirt
The outskirts of Naples
Her sweet dimples, please
The Islands of Sicily
So many Cheese forms
Terms of Endearment

Mama Mia Murano-Positano
Her lips of Romano Cheese
(To Top Me) Challenge me
Cheese doesn't mix
with cappuccino,
she's the Capri
Ala Denti
Cheese Wiz chair
Mediterranean Wines
Bear men doing low
sips of time
the grisly(Z) pour

The car smelled like
Flight (Top Me) Swiss air
Meet Dominique

How it went La Cirque
Anti Christ Devil Red-bed
cheese mystique
SOS to their notes
PS the junk car in
Midas the makeover
Make-up artist counter
Clinique
I could paint over your hood
Creamy mind put at ease
He's so displeased

New castle disease
Mingling social disease
She's so infectious
ZZ- Top me rock me
Eyes bloodshot you got me

And nevertheless
With twelve and V
V- Vamps tramps
and 14 karats
The French Lieutenant
Mistress Brie with heavy
bite teeth like garnets

Cher turning back time
The burlesque striptease
Come back little Sheba
Z Top Queen of Sheba

I know it's coming soon?

All Tight claustrophobic
The tight squeeze
Him speaking
Mandarin Oranges
The British Colony

Unique Chinese languages
Her hills, San Francisco
Jack Nicholson
Comedy of China town
The American Women
Smile cheese at the Disco
The food Cantonese
style
Z muscles Hercules
Joan Rivers
Fashion Police
The Cheese of Portuguese
Its the meat market
With his nifty thrifty Neice

All Socrates
(Gromet and Cheese)
Those Brooklyn
workers
The Falcon Matese_*
More cheese Z-Top
Who could ever top
The string cheese
Silken strings became
to rest, I rest my cheese
What cheese fascinates you
Tell me?

I’m pretty sure there is no more alcohol in this house, I drank it dry, but I got plans to refill the coffers of the estate in a distant land some call the future when I am old, too old to do much but write checks, sign forms, ride on spaceships of my own design, my making, a phsy phi movie, with the masters, with Nash and Sendak, with Moratta and the Spells, with Shug Knight and his dynamite, with Tu Pac the moment that last bullet struck gold ...

The boundaries of who you are, how you act, start slipping away ever so slowly.  At first you just think you are in a better mood, and maybe that’s all you are.

Did I know I was in a manic episode?  How could I not know?  How could I not look for help instead of whatever insanity I let myself travel towards? How how how .... do I sound like an Indian? Does that question offend you?

Just me in the car. It had been just me for days.  Reaching out to social media occasionally to wave my crazy flag.

My stomach felt like water was boiling inside it.  Angry butterflies that would not stop their painful flutter.  The fear, the agitation, anxiety I usually call it, but its more like being perpetually ...

Sometimes I realize that my personality is basically the jail house ***** of perpetual introspection

Self involvement is probably more accurate. Introspection is the dumb self grasping at explanations of evolving memories as they pile up always too fast, always out of reach, always always always then you just ******* die one day.

And that's it isn't it. Whatever else happens that will be my story.

We can never understand what it is because it keeps changing them we all eventually die and that's it.

It's pretty ******* terrifying.


It will make you hide things.

Wishing for a better past is futile
self-torture
a form of the ultimate folly:
feeling sorry for yourself.
It makes you feel pathetic.
Especially if you actually are pathetic.
If your life is a failure of your own making
In cooperation with a mental illness
Which is making me feel so sad and pathetic
I can think of little else but how pathetic I am

But my present seems futile.
There is not much in my reality that is hopeful even when I’m in a better mood.
In short, my life seems hopeless.
I don’t have a job, or a mate, and I’m not likely to find either one any time soon.
I have barely any work experience
I’m 36 years old.  
I live with my parents.
I have a bad case of bipolar disorder and a bad case of ADHD and I know that makes it unlikely I will ever be able to succeed at anything.  Of course one of the illnesses might be right now telling me things are worse than they seem.

I am suicidal but afraid to **** myself.  I wonder if I’ll ever find the desperation or the courage.  As I get older my situation seems worse and worse.  I cant seem to get myself to act to change it.  I can’t ACT.  I can’t DO.  How is this possible?  how am I like this?  How? How? How?

Writing something seems like some kind of action.
Something productive, in theory.
This is what I come up with.
Bad poetry.
Worse than usual.

Just try to write something anything
feel the keys bounce
remember what its like to say something
taste it
let it flow
let it go
what?
what can’t I let go?
what blocks?
just bounce bounce bounce
no one will read this but I need to find that hidden somber knowing inner voice
no matter how fake it is
etch it out
send it out
to the world
let it fly

There has to be something to say hasn’t there?
Write about a manic episode … how to begin? What moment to draw out?

Gotta try not o ******* all day tomorrow
Gotta try
can’t promise anything
this is who I am
I hate myself, of course
how could I not

And on and on and on
Just writing anything
writing “writing”
like Jack Nicholson in The Shining
Jack is a dull boy
Jack is a dull boy
Jack is a dull boy
God help me
but he won’t
of course not
this is a warm fuzzy version of hell
not that bad
except the self-loathing
oh God why me the self-pity
typing typing typing
It would not surprise me
if I never really wrote anything
just a total loser
jerking off all day
not working
living with my parents
watching teenagers **** on the internet
why am I like this?
How can I change myself?
I want to change myself
I really do
God help me
but he won’t
just on and on
nothing gets done
I am nothing
I want to **** myself
but I don’t have the guts
I want to die
I want to die
I say it all the time its mostly about the shame of who I am I can’t stand it it goes on and on

everything bad starts out innocently enough
rock before the roll
this is not writing I can’t write
am I just too ******?
would I write anything sober?
I live my life in a hell not quite of my making
I want to die I want to die I want to die
I want to live I want to live I want to live
type type type
****!!!!!!!
this can’t be my life
I say that over and over to myself
because it is in a way hard to believe
but here it is
at least I’m typing typing typing
simple thoughts like
I don’t like my ******* life
maybe If I could just accept it the pain would dwindle
the loathing would subside
but how can I accept this ****
at least I’m typing typing
too ******
****** dumb
too dumb to think of anything worth writing
just a self hat clusterfuck
of a brain
I want to finally die of shame
mercy please

LINES WRITTEN WITH TEARS
Gp Capt Matloob Bokhari



In the midst of corpses without arms,
In the midst of corpses without heads,
In the midst of corpses, drenched in blood,
In the midst of corpses, without coffins,
In the midst of corpses, stood the pride of Islam.
On a corpse pierced with arrows, Zainab  screamed:
“I cannot identify, are  you  my brother Hussain?”
My friends, Have you read a tragedy  darker than this?
A sister unable to recognize her brother, so ruthlessly slain!


COMMENTS  :  LINES WRITTEN WITH TEARS

Farzana Altaf: Very touching indeed, a poet who can feel, taste, weep, laugh his poetry in his reader's heart and soul has accomplished much...
Kristine Nicholson: This is a poignant expression of sorrow, Matloob. War is always ugly. Sincerely,  Truth survives, although human life is ephemeral. Ken
Arkay Evans:This is truly beautiful; it reads as a river of tears begins - flowing and healing to the sea...I pray you are well, lifted and comforted on your journey. Blessings
Xpuaa : Indeed lines written with tears. Moving! and congrats this poem needs courage and sincerity to be written!!!!
Iulia Gherghei :very touching!!!!..that is the measure of humanity!!!
Kristen Scott: Zainab suffered and bore it with strength and dignity . it's amazing and heartfelt Matloob ~  K.
Sandra Delussu:  Matloob. you go on touching my heart..
Michael Edward Clearman: May the message of this poem water the earth with its truth.
Sandra Delussu: a knife in the heart! and it is but a drop in the ocean of suffering what we try to feel...  dear Matloob the figure of such a great woman comes shining in the souls of those who didn't know her! go on telling us! Enmity starts in frustration. frustration starts in ignorance! taking along pretending serving God's will!!!!...such blindness only can speak to blindness...but we're not blind!
Shareef Abdur-Rasheed: REEEEEAAALLLL!!!!This is no joke,WORLD!! This bloodshed, carnage got to stop!!How can the world turn their back and shut their eyes?? akhi This piece and others addressed to this critical issue are vital to raising awareness in a preoccupied world who are "Numb, deaf, dumb, blind to genocide until it knocks on their door! Jazak Allah Khair for raising consciousness!!
Alma Delacruz Gossman: We are not blind! We just simply refuse to really see! Excellent  your compassion and dignity are unshakable...and I so admire your conviction and belief in the greater good...we mustn't ever give up...and the messages of those who truly see, like you, must continue and we ALL need to hold that torch up high, as many remain in the dark by choice, often swayed in the wrong direction by those led by their ego, rather than their hearts and souls. Thank you for shedding your loving light and make so many aware that just refuse to see or who are shut off from the truth! Bravo! Thank you for writing the harsh reality, that many a man had truly blown it for far too many!  You create an awareness that truly needs to resonate in each of us! If only more would take their blinders off and really see!
Sophia Brownie :I CANT EVEN BEGIN TO IMAGINE SEEING THIS.
Shahzia Batool : though i always think that the best comment on any poem is "SPEECHLESS" ,but as i am the student and  teacher of poetry  so i always try to use words of appreciation and the just words...i read the poem twice and read the comments as well . it's a very consoling  and comforting thing that you have a strong voice ,and people listen to your voice...symbols  and allegory are your tools and you know how to weave images. You are loyal to the promise of existence...matloob sb  it is divinely ordained to expose the evil forces...by any substantial effort ! May you be blessed and heard !
Isabelle Black Smith:  Cannot even begin to imagine the depth of sorrow, loss and helplessness. You make us stop and think.
Maurin Alessandro :Good words my dear friend. So sad, but is a true history .. I am from Brazil and has a  musical group.  Can I sing this  awesome poem?
Gail Wolper :terribly sorrowful. I am sad.
Gary Leikas:  sounds like you were with Krishna and Arjuna at Kurukshetra .
Carole Semeniuk : NO.. I cannot imagine not being able to recognize my brother in life, or death............. very searing poem to the heart my friend . Your words cut through the heart... and make one appreciate the pain and agony of this moment................................... well done . Such a tender compassionate Soul you are!
Karyn Walker: Beautiful lines, Matloob  'Why good suffers and evil prospers?' It does for a reason Matloob. But you and I both have seen them fall. Sad part is that sometimes it takes so long. Evil provokes Evil that's a paradox in itself. That's why we pray so much because that is what it ends up taking: Prayer.
Jennifer Long: oh my..... So powerful the imagery and the punch of the rhythm, and the words. this is a great piece of writing!
Satyender ParkashAas:  Progressive, fine personification of darkness, cloud.  Matchless!
Lone-elisabeth Berg Jakobsen: I read it twice, and I love it so much I had tears in my eyes, I am very sensitive and it is very strong and beautiful.
Jeannette Mendoza Dalling : no words to describe the sadness this cause's me , that so many live like this .
Leo Riccio :sad. beyond words



Blessed-Heart - Hi my friend, may your day be filled with joy, peace, and much harmony. And your heart filled with love and kindness. Enjoy your rest of your day. Moved to read these moving lines!!!! Nancy

Hello morning, I have anticipated you since
I awoke to the small barking dog's tailored speak for food.

I want that Eddie should start preparing her own meals. I know that while I smoke this morning's cigarette, that French Bulldog inside contemplates the fifty dollar bag of high-grade kibble she has pushed me to buy her or instead enjoying her own ****. And all of my wives friends call her a lady.

I want to ride alone in our FJ Cruiser through Yellowstone at dawn, before the predators have gone to bed and the tourists make their queues, I want to beat morning until I have found the wolves, and the sun rise mocks me as I sit four hours in traffic for a cup of coffee as I round the shivering peaks of our Rocky Mountain backyard landscape, and the Tetons swell with last nights snow-fall and the warm autumn air sends plumes of frigid mist above the valley floor and into the skies above Jackson.

And I wish I could stand once more on the balcony of the 777 building and smoke the finest sativas with my friend Turtle while our significant others drink coffees and watch reruns of American Gladiators on a $14,000 couch waiting for us to come back inside.

I wish I could wait on the benches outside baggage claim at San Francisco International Airport smoking inside the white lines, waiting for a girl in a red sports car to pick me up and my friend Guy's absurd faces there to greet me amidst the fog and the out of place palm trees Inevwr expected to see so far North.

And it would be great to hear my grandfather play the ukulele once more while I excitedly fished off of my grandparents dock somewhere in New Jersey where my mother's accent insists she grew up. And my grandfather sings horrifically demeaning songs written in 1924 that offer little respect to women, but much adventure to young men.

I want to play tag with the neighborhood children again in the Summer of 1995. Even though I had come to find all of those playing tag had absconded to a game entitled The 'A' Game, which its only rules were to exclude me from joining. I want to throw scalding hot water once more into Simon Berman's face. Though I do not wish for him to block the water with a basketball and turn my face into Jack Nicholson's Joker.

In Chicago as an eighteen year old, I could count the chalk outlines of bodies as I drove down Fullerton Avenue through the Logan Square neighborhood. I wish I could remember those sounds the boricua made. I wish I could forget the burning runs I received from Lazo's burritos at some time 'o clock in the morning.

I've never been one for finding edible late-night eats. I only want the memory of being able to do so. I do wish that my wife's ex-best friend's boyfriend realizes that he's less the great Emeril of his kitchen and more or less is just an unemployed sous chef with a laundry list of felonies, rather than a wish list of awful entrees. At least in that memory, he's neither a chef nor my wife's ex-friend's boyfriend and instead he's just another hideous orcish ****** ringing the doorbells in some suburb of Seattle, announcing to each and every one of his neighbors that he's obligated to notify the community of his ****** offenses.

I just wish I was there to witness his humiliation, and enjoy the total collapse of ego amidst the long list of those decent people he has surely offended.

Perhaps in some future life I can enjoy watching as jungle rot solves my hatred, disposing of his evilness in small skin ***** of flesh that dot the sidewalk while his disease evolves.

I want more vegan eating options across the food desert we call America. I want to arrive home one evening and find my wife ancy to share a new study that American Journal of Medixibe has found on the benefits of providing non-reciprocated ******* to your partners. And I want to be the first to enjoy the benefits of such a study, that I'm encouraged by her to publish my findings while I attend a prestigious university I once wasn't allowed to attend because of my religious background.

I want to live in a world where violence is no longer a viable solution to resolving the in differences we as humans confuse each other trying to make sense of between ourselves.

I want to visit our local grocery store and find that my favorite $8 a pint vegan ice cream has been marked down to a more reasonable number and that there is still an abundance of flavors left for me to choose from.

I don't wish for much: to not have people ask me to speak louder, full-frontal ****** in made for television movies, and a decent blonde IPA for under $10 in glass bottles. Where in this world can a poet go and still receive the respect that was once given by the royal monarchy of The British Empire.

Now it seems those with the fine knowledge of words are cast into a class with less regard than street-drifters and the homeless.

When did our world lose major respect for the artisans of fine art, or the ability to render an opus?

28-integer news memos and 15-second clips of our cute dog eating its own **** attract more attention than a fine explanation of the human condition or the sultry and sophisticated sounds of my Argentinian friend Anna recite Garcia Lorca in her native Spanish tongue.

I just want to be gone before there is a consequence for finding joy in the human condition, and honesty and integrity are known as the recividism that takes down our nation.

We were once the leaders of a great country. We were compelled by our history to create and indoctrinate one another to achieve, conceive, and amend ourselves to thrive amidst the uncertainty of a mischievous and disgraceful society. Now I just wish to be in bed with my wife when this storm of stupidity comes. I wish I never had to be on the receiving end of a sermon set forth by business leaders instead of political achievers.

I want Eddie to make herself some breakfast so I can lay here in bed a few more moments. I want pancakes and fresh fruit juice for breakfast, a quiet room and a hard-covered notebook. I want to believe a great pen and a good friend could lead me through the exciting and anxiety-writhing times in this life, but I to know too sadly that we live in a world where we don't view it as a weakness as those around us may not be able to read or may not be able to write.

Virginia Nicholson

How To Build A House In N-Dimensions

1. Begin with lines, pencil to paper (if they could exist) drawing graphite arrangements, N-space reduced to one, a structure viewed in slices. Imagine the bathroom off the foyer, the den off the dining room, viewable only as inked lines, dit-dit-dah, a contractor’s Morse Code.

2. Progress to carpet squares, linoleum tiles, the coral paint pairs well with the eggshell trim.  Dit-dah-dit becomes something useful to the non-contractor, “door” or “Master Bedroom” or “x hundred feet of pipe.” Envision the imagined patterns hidden in the bathroom floor, the kitchen hardwood.

3. Move to volumes, solids, conic sections, height. One story, two stories, a basement, an attic?, take advantage of the introduction of 3D. Upgrade the closet to walk-in, needs more carpet squares. A snapshot of a family barbeque, Charlie’s height 1D penciled in to the 3D door, marring 2D eggshell paint.

4. Adding time, the house is built, ages, gets sold to new families with little Charlies of their own, new markings on the cupboard door, 3-foot-2, 3-foot-5, 4-foot-9. Grass fades from Kelly to sand to Kelly, saturation a cosine function with respect to time. The Zoysia starts in one, breaking ground in two, growing in three, a well-manicured 4D experience.

5-11.    Include the things invisible to us, objects on the order of 1 meter, orders of 10E-2 to 10E9 seconds. Five to eleven drip through leaky pipes, seep through porous flooring, get lost in iron-rich soil and oxygenated exhalations. Five to eleven stay hidden, wrapped up in Calabi-Yao manifolds smaller than graphite hills and valleys marking little Charlie’s height, stronger than the 2-by-4s and stone foundation keeping strong in 4D. Five to eleven circulate undetected, seven dimensions shrunk to sub-pinpoint size, keeping seven dimensions of unexplainables covered until their traces are seen in the blades of Zoysia.

Chapter 30: This Ain’t No Country Club

He stared longingly out the back window of his Dad’s

car. He was headed off to the country club again, missing

the nightly ‘Wiffle-Ball’ game with the guys.

The playground was not a country club. There was no price of admission, or exclusive standards necessary to be admitted. You could be black, white, red or yellow. It didn’t matter. What did matter was how you played, and how you fit into the group. You may have been a social outcast or juvenile delinquent outside the playground, and yes we had a few, but what really mattered was how you acted inside the fence.

In 1958 my parents joined the local country club. Being a young, upwardly mobile couple, and enjoying the success of my father's growing business, my parents decided that this was one way in which they could celebrate. I hated it! Not because I didn’t like the people there or didn’t want to learn to play golf. It was because it took time away from my favorite place — the playground.

After dinner in the summers, my parents would hurry up and clear the table and then head to the ‘club’ with us kids in tow to get in nine holes. This of course meant that I had to miss the nightly ‘Wiffle-Ball’ game in the street. I would then have to suffer through the entire next day hearing who hit twelve home runs and who threw who out trying to make it home. It just wasn’t fair. How could a country club ever compare to a ‘Wiffle-Ball’ game or the playground? It couldn’t. Not then, and not now. The country club was stuffy to a ten-year old, and the country club had strange rules. Most of them seemed to be about what you couldn’t do.

A Direct Opposite From The Playground

How we go from the inclusive nature of our nation's playgrounds to the exclusive practices of our golf, tennis and yacht clubs is probably the subject for another book and another writer. I am just so grateful that my earliest experiences were on a grass field surrounded by a chain link fence. It was inside that fence that I felt the playground wrap its four-acre arms around me and, through its spirit of free-play, teach me the greatest lessons I would ever learn.

How we develop the later prejudices of black/white, democrat/republican, or any choice at the exclusion of another is not something we learned there. At the playground, in the absence of parents and adults, we had to fit in and find a way to adapt to one another. The weather and the big guys called all the shots. That’s the way it was, and that was A-OK with us. It worked, because at different ages, and at different times, we all got to be squirts, then decent players, and finally the big guys.

It Was Fair Even When It Was Unfair

If that doesn’t make sense to you, then you probably didn’t grow up on a playground, where the whole truly was greater than the sum of its parts. There were no polo ponies or alligators on our shirts symbolizing our dreams. We lived them every day, and we lived them together!


Chapter 31: Violent But Not With You

The stare-down was over. Joe took the first punch but

delivered the second, then five more. To his credit,

Bobby was still on his feet, but the fight was over.

The playground’s resident tough guy could be violent, but he almost never directed that towards you. Not unless you were dumb enough to challenge his honor by publicly embarrassing him or making him look like a fool in front of the other guys. Then, the punishment was swift, like being shown the door after making your company look bad because of a dumb comment you made at the quarterly board-meeting. Nothing was more fundamental or learned earlier than the recognition of power.

The young neighborhood girls sensed this more than anyone, and it harkened back to Robert Bly’s ‘Iron John’. “Men are attractive because of their fierceness”. The Playground took on an aura proportional to its ‘tough guy status, not unlike many corporations. The tough guy’s roles were limited but invaluable when called upon. He was the playground’s last line of defense, even though his role was mostly one of deterrence. Similar to many companies, the tough guy’s role was usually passed down from the resident champion to his heir apparent, sometimes willingly, and sometimes not.

The mechanics of this process were mostly known only to the tough guys, but it gave the playground the stability and the security it needed. In the movie ‘A Few Good Men’, Jack Nicholson, while under interrogation from Tom Cruise says: “Somewhere in places you don’t admit, you want me on that wall, where four thousand Cubans try to **** me before breakfast”. He then finishes it with the immortal line: “You want the truth, you can’t handle the truth”. In our playground, the truth was governed by principles based on natural selection and the Law of the Jungle. Bobby Gross was our resident Tarzan.

Bobby was from the poor side of our town and was almost sixteen in the eighth grade. He had been ruling our four-acre domain for as long as anyone could remember. Bobby always seemed so much bigger and older than we were. It wasn’t only his age that made him the resident tough guy. Bobby earned and retained this title due to the several times when he had successfully defended his crown. These events though seldom, were major occurrences in the playground and were attended like a championship bout. They almost never happened by accident and were full of anticipation and bravado. The challenge usually came from another playground, and we were all extremely proud of Bobby when he successfully defended our honor.

Bobby almost retired undefeated. At sixteen, just about everyone leaves the playground for the world of cars and girls. I say almost because of Joe Church. Joe was a Navy brat whose Dad was an Admiral at the Philadelphia Navy Yard. They had just moved up from Norfolk Virginia, and one gray Thursday afternoon Joe showed up on the Playground for the first time. No words had to be exchanged, or threats made, it was just something you knew. Bobby and Joe knew it better than anyone. There could only be one playground number one, and today there would be a changing of the guard.

Like Bobby, but even more so, Joe was advanced physically for his age. He was very athletic and muscular. He had an air of quiet defiance, bred by years of moving from one Navy town to the next having to defend his honor at every stop. No one quite remembers exactly how the fight started. Someone heard the word ‘punk’ shouted and it began. It was over almost as quickly as it began. After taking Bobby's best shot, Joe pinned Bobby up against the chain link backstop and beat him to a pulp with less than six punches. This kid could really fight. It’s funny though; with Joe there was no bravado or posturing, just a raging controlled fury that you hoped would never be directed toward you. Joe was later highly decorated in Vietnam, and all of us who shared our waning years on the playground with him were very proud— including Bobby Gross.

Another Playground Legend Was Made!

Most corporations have their resident tough guy, or gal. You can only hope that they got their training, and cut their teeth, on the grass and asphalt of a distant playground. That way you can be sure that their lessons were true. If not, you may have to suffer the rants and tirades of some William Agee or Jack Welch wannabee. The real tough guys pass their strength along in the form of confidence and security to those working under them, just like Bobby and Joe did for us. This creates an atmosphere of stability and confidence that allows everyone to thrive and prosper and comes from lessons truly learned and paid for. The god’s of the playground instilled this in all. They entered your soul on the fields and courts of adolescence ...

And Never Left.

Welcome to the living room,
the bizarre state of all things comes to ******.
Psychic hurricanes and barbarian therapy;
Stab me in the back, stab me in the heart,
but in the end isn't it all the same bleeding?
And you swore they'd never figure out,
and you swore they'd never figure out
and you swore they never figure out.
Welcome to the living room,
the bizarre state of ALL things comes to ******.
Stab me in the back, stab me in the heart,
it's the same bleeding,
and you swore they'd never figure out
and you swore they'd never figure out
and you swore that they would never figure out
and you swore,
they would never figure out.

many nights,
it takes every molecule in my body
to not scream myself to sleep.

You see,
i have nightmares about the future.
i'm afraid upon awakening one morning,
i’ll discover i'm some grotesque & fat
pizza fried chicken bread bowl American
as massive layers of fat
fold around my body making it almost impossible to breathe
and lost all interest in everything
except cheap fast food & money to spend on the various brethren of the dollar menu.

I'm afraid that on the one night i sleep
with my back to the bedroom door
is the night a group of burglers,
possibly in union with supernatural shadows
from the darkest corner of my room
team up to beat me to death
like Jack Nicholson's character from Easy Rider.

I’m afraid the nightmares about my teeth falling out
will actually happen,
causing me to never find a job
to pay off all the debts i owe.  

Some nightmares are more fantastical;
like the one where i'm leading human civilization
in an Alamo last stand against a hostile alien race
only to find myself fighting alone
as the rest of the surviving nations argue
over who gets most of the credit.

My nightmares make me afraid
to step on the floor until morning—
for my anxiety tells me during this darkness
the floor is spewing with cockroaches and spiders.

As I type this,
i realize this is only delaying the inevitable
until my eyes can no longer function,
until my body forces my brain into a state of drowsiness—
then i can begin my nightmare lullabies
that always begin with an internal scream.