drummondo

Anyone know who R.A.B is? I have theories It might be Amelia Bones. She might not use her first name (A bit like Tonks), and she was mentioned by Fudge in the first chapter. She's dead, killed personally by Voldemort. Then there's Sirius' brother, I think his name's Regalus. That would be Regalus Black (R. He was a former death eater, but saw the error of his ways. It gives him a reason to go after Voldemort's horcruxes, and would also be a mega reason for Voldemort to kill him. Any other ideas?

My dad was delivering in the centre of London this morning and was advised by police to leave the area; I dunno if that was before or after the incident, but I think they may have had warning of the attacks before they happened :\ Anyway, I'm safe. No-one would ever try to bomb Liverpool.

Do you know how it feels To waste away, unused? To idle in the wings While another steals the show? Do you know how it feels To be never made at all? To never be a child's toy Or sit upon the shelf? Do you know how it feels To lie cold and dry inside, To be just another girl To make his heart sigh in defeat? You know how it feels To be made, and used at all, To be called upon to act In place of others not-so-bold. You know how it feels To shed tears of pain and joy, To lay plain emotions, good and bad, And smile when needed most. To be a friend should not be scorned, And whether known or not, By putting on the bravest smile, You show your love for life.

I went to see Sage Francis performing at the Manchester Roadhouse last night (28th June). He was supported by Grand Buffet and Davinci from the Soliloquists of Sound. The venue itself was really small and dark, but by the artists' request, there was no smoking. A welcome change from the usual pub gig set up, because it meant I only came out stinking of sweat The poets themselves were available to talk to and interact with for most of the show, as they were all selling their own merchandise and what not at the merchandise stand. The first person up on stage was Davinci; in an effort to entertain the crowd before the main acts were introduced, he decided to get up and perform a few tracks on his MPCs. It was amazing stuff, he was punching out rap and hip-hop beats with his fingers, and then bringing on drum n' bass tracks, and he even started playing the stuff with his nose and feet :\ For me, he stole the show a bit, he was that good. I'd gone to the show because I'm a fan of Sage's lyrics, but the stuff Davinci pulled off with the little modules he had was incredible. Grand Buffet were the main supporting act for the night. They're a two-piece rap duo who have been touring with Sage for a couple of years. They had some sick rhymes and the songs were pretty catchy; my friend even thought one of them was Sage himself to begin with Halfway through their set, however, Grunge hit his head quite hard on a hook hanging from the ceiling. He did a few more tracks, but eventually had to be taken to hospital to have stitches. He left the little ginger dude to do a few solo tracks, including The History Of Lemonade. You ought to listen to The History Of Lemonade. It's pure genius. I think there's an Mp3 of it on their website. Go and listen. It's very good We went and had a chat with Davinci and the little ginger dude from Grand Buffet over at the merchandise table, shook hands, got a few autographs, and then we made our way to the front, for Sage was about to take the stage We ended up moving the little makeshift barrier at the front to the right of the stage, and standing pretty much on-stage. Seriously. We were like a foot away from being on-stage. Sage was backed up by Davinci and his guitarist guy. Davinci worked his way through the various beats, and the guitarist played whatever chords were necessary. Sage's set mixed his new material from A Healthy Distrust with some of his older stuff, mainly from Personal Journalist. It was a really energetic performance; during Dance Monkey, they all pulled off some sick dance moves on the speakers at the front of the stage They did some freestyle work over the beat to 99 Problems (By Jay-Z), and during the chorus Sage sang "I like 99 rappers, but Jay-Z ain't one". Burn, Jay-Z He also told a few jokes too... like, umm, what did 50 Cent say to his mom when he saw her making him some socks? ... ... Gee, you knit? For their encore, they performed one of Sage's most famous tracks, Makeshift Patriot. Davinci then went absolutely sick on his MPCs and performed the American national anthem, incorporating his weird finger thing and a wah pedal. Hendrix, eat your heart out This was the first hip-hop gig I've been to, and I hope I'm not disillusioned in thinking that live hip-hop is incredible. I'm going to get to more hip-hop shows in the future, but unfortunately it's difficult to find decent ones since the majority of hip-hop fans in Liverpool are into mainstream pop-rap. Wyv, you seriously need to see Sage live. If only on the off-chance that Davinci is with him

My Grandad My grandad forgets. He speaks of the old times, Like all grandads should. He weaves tattered clotheslines; Sepia-stained yarn to keep you Tied to his every word; Schoolyard days and nights at sea, All condensed in memory, Unravelled as he knits the pictures; Tension in his voice. These are the clothes he wears, The trend to which he fits. All he has is memory, But as days pass, his wits become less sharp; Blunt days make more pictures to collect, He finds it hard to manage memories. The compass points and sea breeze - They are set in stone. Our faces and our names - These remain in reach, The fact that we just arrived Still takes him by surprise Each time he sees us in his home.

She woke me up early one day. Without pausing for greetings or breakfast, We left. "I'm taking you for a walk," She said. She always chose the most Interesting paths, so I followed. As we stepped through the door, We entered her world. A long queue, it seemed, Made up mainly of men. They looked bored, As if their wait had been long And fruitless. We made our way down the line, To what appeared to be the back. Many of the guys avoided our glances, Like they'd rather not be there. As we advanced and approached The back of the queue, More and more of the guys Fought to catch her eye. The man at the end of the queue Went so far as to exclaim; "I thought you'd never come back!" But she ignored him, And whispered to me a story Of wishers and stalkers. I nodded knowingly, But I didn't understand. She stopped at the end and told me to wait; "I'll be back in a minute, I just need to say hello to someone." I waited. I couldn't say how long I'd waited, But eventually she reappeared, Walking the line In the arms of another man. I fought to catch her eye, and as she approached I called to her; "I thought you'd never come back!" She turned to her man And muttered a story of drunks and deceit; "I've never seen him before in my life... Wait here for a minute, will you?"

Printed and Pinned

I am troubled; I never could play roles. If you think this makes me any worse then step up here and say so. You'll see a lotta poets thinkin' they can flow it but this show itself is hopeless, Cos I own it from the opening; I joke and sing and soak in bling; a token ring. I go for broke with spoken things, sometimes I hope to choke on wind, if only so I float without your wings... You think I find it easy boasting here? I roast your ears and peer into the skies, Because I mostly fear your eyes, they sear, and leer, and jeer at lies, it's like they know my whole life... Please-tell-me-how-it-ends... Can we be friends? I thought not, friendship is a curse... I'm just a poet with a thirst for air, The only person spitting verse Who's not allowed to swear, 'cos curses Only serve to scare, and that's a first, Now if I don't get these emotions off, I'll burst, And what's worse, is that you'll all appreciate, Like you can rate my written traits, Like you relate to what you've seen, But you're too late, 'cos I'm already me... Already me... And no-one can pretend to be depressed; Don't second-guess my personal mess. I'm not the best at amusing rooms, I start abusing too soon, I jest at scars that never felt a wound, so let's assume I'm dressed to swoon, I'm playing roles to win, and not to lose, and if I had to choose, I'd pick my words with interviews, I need to know their news... I like opinions, I'm into views, I have several winter do's To keep my brain warm; I carry pens in case I have a brainstorm, I feign scorn at those who sit on fences, but I remain torn. I mainly mourn the passing of time; the late, great-grand-father-clock-chimes in time to my rhymes...

Drummondo sat at a small round table in a smoky corner of the hall, watching the proceedings with an air of skepticism; "Slam Poetry?" he thought, "you people don't know the half of it." As Zariah struggled on the microphone, he stood and jumped into the fray. Spinning as he reached the stage, and with a smile to Zariah's Performance Face, he coughed quietly and waited for the audience members to notice the new activity. No-one cared. "People, for the love of poetry, please, pay attention to my life!" he shouted. A couple of old guys by the bar mumbled something along the lines of "Who does this guy think he is?" Drummondo, now getting impatient, fished a pen from his jeans pocket and threw it forcefully at the sign-up book. It made the faintest of dots on the open page before clattering to the floor. Immediately everyone was watching. It's interesting how people only watch When they've been told to. When they're supposed to. When a kid's hit by a souped-up ride, And it's labelled an "accident", they throw the charge at him, It misses. No witnesses. When a girl eats herself away inside, Until all that's left is a loaded gun, And it misses. No witnesses. When all is said and done, Nobody cares unless they're paid. She'll cut herself again some day, And no-one will take the blame. People only watch when they've been told to, When they're supposed to, I'm just a ghost who Can't get close to Anyone. The most I do is talk. Do I have your attention yet? How about some observational humour? We are only as late as our bus rides. Audio Insert. Section 4. "On Life" It starts at the stop. The guy who strolls arrogantly up behind And waits two minutes After your twenty, Before getting the same lift. Hop on, Pay an unfair amount, Fare enough To those in control, But who don't care. Head up, Find your place amongst Returning shoppers And the lads On the way to John's night out. Pick your spot in the corner, As far back as the people will allow. From here, Begin once again To view them. The kids in suits, tracked And monitored By only the finest Metal bracelets. Notice the old man Fighting back sleep, Head lolling like a car ornament; He's at that point where Consciousness, unconsciousness And his conscience Scare him. The elderly couple; They've made it pretty far, But they get off here. There's that girl you always want to talk to. What's stopping you? Her eyes, Or the fact that You'd have to explain Meeting her in such a place? Some fat guy blocks the gangway, And half the stairs. How dare he Half block the way up. How can one big entity control our ascent? Another girl you thought was eyeing you Leaves. You're disappointed she didn't look back, But face it; You didn't once look at her When you had the chance. End of the line, You're the only one on the bus. Step from your red, velvet-style chair, And make your way to the front. It's your time. Turn to thank the driver. Realise there's no-one there. Walk away into the night. He paused on the final line, as if suddenly finding new meaning from his own work. Before stepping off the stage, he pulled out a piece of torn paper and a pencil, and quickly wrote down a thought. Then he sat down to watch the remaining poetry, patiently awaiting the Slam.

1) Sweetcherrie 2) Kitty 3) Giggling 4) Cryptomancer 5) Sly 6) Half a pair of trousers 7) A large piece of wood atop several rolling-pins Ouagadougou 9) The local pub 10) Ticklish 11) Headache tablets 12) Grinding 13) Guitar 14) Lemonade 15) Brittany Murphy (mmm... flicked out hair) 16) A disgruntled shoe 17) Drum stool 18) Green 19) Elbow 20) Window pane

As I said earlier, it's wonderfully lyrical... -22:30:35- [@drummondo]: cos they're great lyrics -22:30:42- [@drummondo]: niiiice rhymes See? I'd love to hear it recorded some time, because it looks like it would make a great song. My favourite line is "And closes our door." because of the startling finality involved. Nice writing

I'll do the open mic thing with a piece I've already posted here if that's alright, cos I have an audio version and everything ready. And yeah, sign me up for the slam, but prepare for some sick rhymes

So there's not actually going to be any audio recording involved? :<

Dearest poet, By your quiet ramblings I am amused. Do not apologise or be afraid. It seems you are a little bit confused; I haven't left, I'm merely left unused, For you can write as well without my aid. I need not say goodbye, for I'll be here To watch each word you write, each worn-out rhyme, And offer kind advice whene'er you fear You've failed to make that last emotion clear, And so produce a poem every time. You are not lost, you're simply blind with thought, A poet's curse, which binds thee to your pen. You cannot view the world, for you are wrought With ideas and couplets of the sort That, given time, will help you see again. Understand, the reason that you write Is not to make me proud, or for the praise. It is a simple outlet for your plight - A poet you are, be it wrong or right, A poet you shall be till th'end of days.

Hold your own pen high, And lace each word with a laugh; Writing's the best cure. Be modest, yet true, And give praise where praise is due, And you will come through.

The light of dawn's first blush Peeks crimson over trees, And one melodious thrush Sends songs upon the breeze. As music sways emotion And branches, both together, Dawn marvels at the motion Of a new day's happy weather.

I think the point rev is trying to make is that the repetition of the first line would make the poem seem rounder, and give it some kind of resolution. I do like it as it is, it's quaint, almost cute, but I do agree that the little touch of repetition might make it seem... I'm not sure... maybe a little more professional, certainly more smile-inducing. Fun stuff though

Interesting you should say that. This, and other recent pieces of mine, have been written with the intention - nay, the influence of the possibility - of speaking them, rather than reading them. You'll find various devices employed to aid this, such as loads of subtle, internal half-rhymes and not so much a meter, but a flow. Thanks for noticing

One Of A Kind The forced smoke carried ash and conversation - It was thick enough to support both - And the talk was heavy with hoarse throats And coarse jokes. Of course, most Had been heard before, but still the Wafting, ghostly grey lines shivered in the air As they were moved to laughter. Several silenced moments passed, and after Bad advice, and a surplus check, The stakes were raised twice, And shifted eyes scanned the surface Of each individual mind, worthlessly Hoping to find a nervous twitch of the eye Probing and wondering, but never Giving too much away. Gambling blind, With one eye on the rewards, and the other on the door. Two became viewers, and left behind a pair in competition. Moving quickly, one threw too much in, Experience counted for nothing, and a loose touch Through such a heated game lost all the bets. He was bluffing, and they knew as much as they needed To call, and leave him dead like all the rest. A sigh - He was so used to being paid on demand - And one last weary look at the amounted contributions, And, smiling slightly, with a nonchalant wave of the hand; "I got nothing."

When time comes and touches your life, And leaves in an instant, you'll know In the blink of her eye, And the softness of skin As your hands move apart; It was worth it.

It was written on the wall That he was here. A solitary ode to A modern artist. Painted scrawls on Walls of saints. Tainted calls of Former greats, Stated for The greater good; Recognition. We all Wish for our names To be known. I know he was here. To me he is Celebrity. Famous, His name is a pillar That holds up the Rebellion. More importantly, I know he was here. An influential writer, One who captures A single moment in Few dripping words. You will remember That he was here. I know he was here.

Mira, you're the reason I'm here Have a good one. #19 A smile And seven blinks Before He notes The lack of cards. A stretch, Step out of bed, And stumble blindly To the window. Draw back The heavy curtains; See the world As your surprise.

The way I wrote it, I tried to add a new dimension to the poem with each new line. I gave you chocolates This is a positive line; it involves the giving of a present. Chocolates are a common present for birthdays, Valentines day, and romantic occasions. There's a hint of romance, and the poem immediately takes on a positive tone. But they melted Contrast to the aforementioned positivity; we now have a negative image of the chocolates melting. It involves neglect (due to not keeping them refrigerated or something) and a hint of "not caring". Also denotes the fact that they were left long enough without being eaten; did the girl not want the chocolates? In the sticky heat An additional line now adds a certain twist to the poem; perhaps it wasn't due to neglect at all, and it was just the summer weather that got to them. Of conversation. An addendum to the previous line which now gives us the notion of conversation being heated and altogether tedious and bad. This mainly works due to the play of "heat", as in a heated row. This then links with the title, "Sh.", which is the sound you make when you wish someone to be quiet. It's like saying "Shut up and eat your chocolate", and in doing so, get on with the relationship. Overall, the poem describes a relationship in which the giver of chocolates is making the effort to be romantic and what not, but the relationship itself doesn't support this romance, and it's not exactly a mutual love. At least, that's what I thought

I normally despise short poems, but I think these lines are perfect as they are, and any attempt to add to them detracts from the message. Sh. I gave you chocolates But they melted In the sticky heat Of conversation.

Ha, can you make anything of this? Reduce one day to words, And life is but another Poetry collection. One of those you spend Time choosing a title for, Only to gloss over it (In hardback, at least), And get straight to the Point. Get straight to the point With life, and There would be no use For poetry. Catch 22 winks, More than usual, And as you stare at the Same ceiling, spare no thought For lost romance; you did not Click. Walk home, as the monotone Of the everyday soundtrack Skips, and for one brief moment, All you hear are Weary shouts of discord. Ignorance is bliss, Unless you know exactly how To handle this kind of Adventure. Steps and breaths. We are nothing but steps and breaths. Directions change, but less than best Is recklessness. Second-guess Your next unrest. Let's undress. Small steps. Shallow breaths. Take It Slowly. Enter hair and eyes, And that first glimpse of Personality, as she smiles. Muted conversation, until You remove the music. Now she is your soundtrack; Listen. Comment. Realise. Watch her eyes unfold Like so many wings from trees As a gunshot rings, And she shatters the silence In the blink of an eye. Passion is best left To those in its embrace. For more information, Consult your local Thought-thief. Although now with Less apprehension, And a little more Attention to detail, It ends as abruptly As it began. Note the click Of time upon the wall. Point out to her; This is the beginning of an Adventure. Overcome by the slow realisation that She steals your thoughts with ease, And an idea for a title.