Snippets From The Creative Pool
Small Tasters Of Our Poetry and Prose - Full Copyright
This is a small section from my upcoming book " Rhythms Of My Life"
I listened to OC Smith, whilst the Four Tops sang “Reach Out”, “I Can’t Help Myself” and “it’s The Same Old Song”. I kept on listening in the bars and shanty towns of Kowloon and the great main street of Hong Kong whilst Sam and Dave sang “Soul Man” "Hold On, I'm Comin'", "You Don't Know Like I Know", "When Something is Wrong with My Baby". I danced with the dancers and smoked the ganja that the American boys always seem to have in abundance as they wondered through the lives of the hookers and pimps of downtown Hong Kong. I took the mid-day Kowloon Ferry, just after my daily duties were over and went back on it last thing at night, just in time to get 6 hours sleep and stagger back onto my Submarine in the Naval dockyard in West Kowloon, to while away the morning, until the rum time came and it was time to skedaddle back over to the main city. And what a city it was.
Hong Kong was a place of very bright lights in a small city. There seemed to be only one main street with side streets leading off to different communities or even trades. The tailors seemed to be down one street, the jewellers down another and so it went on and on.
Every street had numerous bars and all the bars were playing soul music. Outside the bars were drunken sailors from the US Navy and marines and air force personnel from all over the western world. The island was covered by the military. Even the people dressed in civilian clothing had a certain stiffness which you knew instinctively came from marching up and down endless parade grounds for days at a time.
There was no sense of purpose in the eyes of the men just hanging around or out of their heads on coke, heroin or good old fashioned marijuana. Things would happen eventually, but tomorrow was a good time to do it.
The Military Police was all over the place, moving people on, arresting them, and shouting at them. Even some of the police seemed out of it as well.
And so we sat on main street, Hong Kong, listening to “Soul Man”, “Same Old Song” and “Sweet Soul Music” seeping out of all the bars and clubs, whilst America lost its war and Britain lost its empire.
Yes it was in Hong Kong that I began to realise that America was not going to win this war easily against the Vietcongs. Sure, they had superior weapons and the brutality and inhumanity to use those weapons, but their foot soldiers were not tough enough to win this war on the ground. They had not suffered enough. They had not seen their mothers torched by napalm, they had not watched their children dying from Agent Orange, or their entire family burnt alive by weapons not yet labelled and unknown outside of the laboratories controlled by the CIA and the Pentagon. They had been protected from the point of no return, from a point of desperation, where your own life no longer mattered. Where death is a release. The Americans were still too comfortable, too confident and because of those very points, too afraid to die. Too uninterested to win, they did not have enough to lose to make any impact on a people whose very existence depended on them winning. And so it came to pass.
The Vietcongs had been brutalised to a point, where death was no longer something to be afraid of. In many ways, it was a window, no a door to a less painful world.
And as the girls in the bars of Hong Kong danced and smiled with the Americans for a chance to get to America, or at worst, get some money to pay the rent for another night, the girls in Hanoi were making the Americans sleepless in their own way.
A Poem by Seymour A Merchant from his collection of poems soon to be published
Thoughts On A Clear Day
What I See
The Wind, Whispering Gently In the Night,
Touching My Brow with Intimate Delight.
Sifting Through Realities, Unreal,
Knowing My World, Only, I Feel.
Earthy Visions of Organic Rust
Turning Slowly Into Aeonic Dust.
Ancient Sages Prophesied
The Flow of Human Tide.
Tasting Sweet Odours of Success
Thinking Themselves Only, God blest.
Whistling Over Icy Mountain Pass
Craggy Faces Froze Searching For Grass.
Whilst Solar Breezes Warmed and Mothered
Idyllic Intention Uprooted and Smothered.
Enslaved By Economic Morality,
High Rise Profits, Immoral Economy.
Informer’s Technology Prying on Me,
Bits Of Fallout Will Betray The Felony.
A Poem from the Roy Merchant Collection "Relentless Realities", soon to be published.
My Words My Lines
I Am Trying To Be A Poet
I Am Trying To Write What I Think
I Want My Lines To Have Meaning
To Put A Little Smile On Your Mind
To Make You Say, Well I Didn’t See That Coming
Not All The Time, But Just Now And Then
I Don’t Want My Lines To Be Transparent
I Am Not Writing A Weather Report
I Am Not Thinking Of A Formal Document
I Want Some Of My Lines To Be Devious And Mischievous
Taking You On A Journey, You’ve Never Been On Before
I Want You To Wake Up In The Middle Of The Night Saying…
I Get It; I Get It…That’s What He Meant.
I Do Not Want To Spend All My Time
Writing Fluffy Fluffy Rhymes
And All That’s Left Is The Rhyme And No Other Sense Of Purpose.
Now And Again, God Knows, I Need A Little Prose
To Let The Words Dance And Sing In Universal Harmony
To Hear The Cadence Ring Out As One Word
Interact With The Next And As If By Magic
Synergy Manifesting And Magnifying Itself.
I do not always want to write complex quatrains
Where words can mean everything and nothing
Where history can be re written again and again
And the writer can never be wrong.
I Want My Words To Take You On A Journey
I Want Them To Meander About A Bit, Take You Here, Take You There
And When You Think That’s It
You Suddenly Find That The Lines Are Taking You
Backward And Forward At The Same Time
Up And Down, Left And Right, Creating Paintings In Your Mind.
You See My Words Creates The Vehicle
That Drives You Ever So Slowly To My Heart
And Finally My Soul.