Legitimised plagiarism

19 Feb

Ok so at the start of Friday’s session we had 3 poems: ‘We Real Cool’ by Gwendolyn Brooks, ‘A Jar of Honey’ by Jacob Polley, and ‘Piano’ by Nottz rudeboy D.H. Lawrence. In a fit of PrittStick-fueled callous disregard for the original authors, we cut each poem up and then glued them all back together – merged – so that the lines and words were in a totally different order and formed one big (or small) ‘new’ poem.

It was interesting to see that even though we all had the same source material our results were incredibly varied. If someone from each of the other groups could put theirs up on the blog too then that would be cool. For now, here is the piece which my group (Anne, Anne’s young lad, Panya and myself) created. Arrogantly, I have altered the layout and spacing of the poem in order to best portray what I believe is the essence of the new piece.

 

“Lurk late. Strike straight.

Jazz June. Die soon.

 

In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song betrays me back.

It’s the sun, all flesh and no bones.

We real cool. We left school. We, attesting to the nature of the struggle.

 

Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;

Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see a pound of light,

and swivel the stunned glow around the fat glass sides:

But for the floating knuckle of honeycomb.

 

You hold it like a lit bulb,

till the heart of me weeps to belong to the small, poised feet of a mother

Who smiles as she sings.

 

Sing sin. We thin gin. We,

to the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside.

A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings

and hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide.

 

And pressing down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.

A  jar of honey, of childish days.

Now it is vain for the singer, and for the pool players.

But we real cool.”

 

– Ste.

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One Response to “Legitimised plagiarism”

  1. Matt M February 19, 2012 at 5:48 pm #

    We left school. We,
    Softly in the dusk of Jazz June,
    Attesting to the nature of the
    Lit bulb honeycomb.
    We die soon.

    But for myself,
    The pool players manhood is cast
    Down. With winter outside
    In spite of the floating knuckle.
    All flesh, no bones.

    Possibly one of the shorter contributions I think.

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