The Blindboy Podcast - Fellas Never dad

Episode Date: December 25, 2019

I read some of my favourite poems beside a digital ocean. Happy Christmas Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Merry Christmas you Yuletide cunts. Welcome to the Blind Boy Podcast. If you're listening to this live, you will be aware that today is Christmas Day. And I promised you I would put out a podcast, even if it was Christmas Day. but as I stated last week I don't necessarily want to put in a humongous amount of time into this Christmas Day podcast

because I would like to enjoy my Christmas it's kind of like do you know when someone comes into work like in a I don't know if you're in a shop or something and the person behind the counter is might have a uniform then

on Christmas Eve they're wearing their normal clothes and their child is with them this podcast is a bit like that do you know what I mean or you know the shop says it's closing at 6 but you arrive at five,

and it's closed, and part of you is thinking, fucking hell, the cunts, they're after closing the shop at five, even though it clearly says six, but then you think, but it's Christmas Eve, and they probably thought,

sure, fuck it, there's no one coming in, I think I'll have an extra hour, and when that happens, you use empathy, and you don't ring the manager. So that's what this week's podcast is. It's a Christmas Day podcast. What I want people to... I'll tell you what I was thinking about.

I was trying to dissect the nature of Christmas Day day the energy of it for for most people and it's it's kind of binary so most of your day you're around relatives do you know what I mean you have dinner you're talking talking chatting then after dinner other cunts who aren't really relatives they might be neighbors or whatever will drop in then you've more people and it's very intense all day and what most people do is they like they'll go for the christmas morning walk on their own where you fuck off out of the house and you walk on your own on christmas morning or the post dinner Christmas evening walk both very valid Christmas walks that I think most people kind of do privately on their own to escape the intensity of Christmas day and this podcast is I suppose it's for those people who are doing that today just leaving

their house on Christmas day and going for that little walk on your own because we all know that walk and it's it's nice because the streets are fucking empty but Christmas day empty which it's a different type of empty than any other empty because you know you can get up at fucking five in the morning and the streets are empty. But it's a different empty. If people are out on the streets, they're bringing a different energy

than they're bringing to Christmas Day. It's either people coming back from your sesh or people going to work with a kind of franticness about them. But on Christmas Day, when you go for that silent walk, it's a whole new energy there's not a lot of cars around and one thing I always enjoy about a Christmas day

walk is if you live in a city and you're used to walking down the road you don't give a fuck when a car goes past you don't even pay attention to it but on Christmas day you like ask questions about the car you say where's that person going on Christmas day I wonder I hope it's not an emergency I hope they're not going to the emergency room on Christmas day or you think maybe they have family on the other side of town and they're visiting them on Christmas day and then you look at your watch and it's like four o'clock and you're going fuck it I hope I hope they're they're not drink driving and sometimes I'd be just doing my Christmas Day walk looking looking at cars and kind of going which which one of these people is drunk do you know what I mean so this podcast

is for that walk today or it also works for when you're going for your christmas night sleep um what i'm going to do basically is through the magic of uh digital processes i'm going to generate the sound of the ocean and then i'm going to read some of my favorite poems and you don't you know you don't have to pay attention intently consider it like an ASMR podcast where I just read out some poems

okay without further ado I have actually one thing I meant to say if this is your first time listening to this podcast because someone said to you at the Christmas dinner, you should listen to Blind Boy, then maybe don't listen to this exact podcast, go back to an earlier one,

because this is not like the usual podcasts. Okay, God bless everybody. So, the first poem I'd like to read out to you, it's one by a class poet called Carol Ann Duffy. And she's of Irish descent, but she's from Glasgow in Scotland. And she's a fantastic poet. So I'm going to read Warming Her Pearls by Carol Ann Duffy. Next to my own skin, her pearls.

My mistress bids me wear them, warm them, until evening when I'll brush her hair. At six, I place them around her cool white throat. All day I think of her, resting in the yellow room contemplating silk or taffeta. Which gown tonight? She fans herself while I work willingly, my slow heat entering each peril. Slack on my neck, her rope. She's beautiful. I dream about her in my attic bed. Picture her dancing with tall men, puzzled by my faint persistent scent. Beneath her French perfume, her milky stones. I dust her shoulders with a rabbit's foot watch the soft blush seep through her skin

like an indolent sigh in her looking glass my red lips part as though I don't want to speak full moon her carriage brings her home I see her every movement in my head undressing,

taking off her jewels, her slim hand reaching for the case, slipping naked in the bed, the way she always does, and I lie here awake, knowing the pearls are cooling even now, in the room where my mistress sleeps, all night I feel their absence and I burn.

So that was Warming Her Pearls by Carol Ann Duffy. I hope you're having a delicious Christmas so far you absolute shower of pricks. I hope you've had. Pudding with brandy. Although we don't do that in Ireland. Do we? Well no. That's not an Irish tradition.

Like. I don't think. It's one of these things. Like what the fuck is pudding? That's what the Brits call dessert. So Christmas pudding. Plum pudding. I don't think that's what the brits call dessert so christmas pudding plum pudding i i don't think that's an irish thing i don't think irish people did it it's one of these things that happened when when like tesco became a thing so now we all eat pudding give it 10 years and we'll be doing the

same with yorkshire puddings okay the next poem i want to read out, well, it's not really a poem, it's the lyrics to a song. A song by the artist Tom Waits, who's one of my favourite musicians, singers, lyricists, whatever I thoroughly enjoy the work of Tom Waits he's from the I think California, Los Angeles would have come to prominence around the 1970s mixed Be careful, Margaret. It's the girl. Witness the birth. Bad things will start to happen. Evil things of evil. It's all for you. No, no, don't.

The first O-Men. I believe the girl is to be the mother. Mother of what? Is the most terrifying. Six, six, six. It's the mark of the devil. Hey! Movie of the year.

It's not real. It's not real. It's not real. Who said that? The first O-Men. Only in theaters April 5th. Rock City, you're the best fans in the league, bar none. Tickets are on sale now for Fan Appreciation Night on Saturday, April 13th when the Toronto Rock host the Rochester Nighthawks at First Ontario Centre

in Hamilton at 7.30pm. You can also lock in your playoff pack right now to guarantee the same seats for every postseason game and you'll only pay as we play come along for the ride and punch your ticket to rock city at torontorock.com kind of a jazz jazzy sound with a lyricism that'd be inspired by the beat poets or Charles Bukowski who was a Los Angeles poet and I suppose Tom Waits was a

he would have been a hipster in the 70s and that's when he started releasing his stuff in 1971 when he came out his music was quite different because he was fetishized

in the 50s Tom Waits in 1971 was trying to sound like When he came out, his music was quite different because he was fetishised in the 50s. Tom Waits in 1971 was trying to sound like, not Elvis, nothing mainstream. He was trying to sound like hobos and bums that would have been hanging around in piano bars, reciting kind of their mad poetry in these clubs in Los Angeles he was trying to he was hipsterizing the beatnik scene of the 50s I suppose and so I'm going to read you a Tom Waits song but I'm going to read it as a poem because it works as a poem most of his work works as a poem and it's from an album of his called Blue Valentines, if you're thinking of getting

into Tom Waits, that album is a fantastic start, if I could get a if I had a wish a Christmas wish it would be to hear the album Blue Valentines for the first time that would be a Christmas fucking wish so here is

Christmas card from a hooker in Minneapolis hey Charlie I'm pregnant I'm living on 9th street right above a dirty bookstore off Euclid Avenue

I've stopped taking dope and I quit drinking whiskey and my old man plays the trombone and he works down out the track. He says that he loves me even though it's not his baby. He says that he'll raise him up like he would his own son. He gave me a ring that was worn by his mother and he takes me out dancing every Saturday night. Hey Charlie, I think about you every time I pass a filling station on account of all the grease you used to wear in your hair. I still have that record of little Anthony and the Imperials, but someone stole my record player. How do you like that? Hey Charlie, I almost went crazy after Mario got busted. I went back to Omaha to live with my folks. Everyone I used to know was either dead or in prison. So I came back to Minneapolis.

This time I think I'm going to stay. Hey Charlie, I think I'm happy. For the first time since my accident. I wish I had all the money that we used to spend on dope. I'd buy me a used car lot and I wouldn't sell any of them. I'd just drive a different car every day depending on how I feel Hey Charlie for Christ's sake

do you want to know the truth of it? I don't have a husband he don't play the trombone I need to borrow money to pay this liar Charlie Hey I'll be eligible for parole,

come Valentine's Day, that was Christmas car, from a hooker in Minneapolis, by Tom Waits, from the album, Blue Valentine's, 1974 I believe, are you having a beautiful Christmas,

you nullug fuckers, I hope you're having, a beautiful Christmas, you nullug fuckers? I hope you're having a really relaxing and tremendous and spiritually festive experience. Subscribe to my Patreon, patreon.com forward slash theblindboypodcast. This is what allows me to work on Christmas Day okay I'm gonna read a poem called You're by

the great Sylvia Plath one of the best poets of the 20th century you are clown-like, happiest on your hands, feet to the stars and moon-skulled, gilled like a fish, a common sense, thumbs down on the dodo's mode, wrapped up in yourself like a spool, trawling your dark as owls do, mute as a turnip from the fourth of July to all fools' day.

Oh, high-riser, my little loaf, vague as a fog, and looked for like mail, farther off than Australia, bent-back Atlaslas our travelled prawn. Snug as a bug and at home. Like a sprat in a pickle jug. A creel of eels. All ripples.

Jumpy as a Mexican bean. Right like a well done sum. A clean slate. With your face on your by Sylvia Plath Christmas can be a bit of a weird one for you if you've lost a family member or if you've lost a parent

I, my father died If you've lost a family member. Or if you've lost a parent. I. My father died. Around Christmas time. Over a decade ago. And. It just fucked up Christmas. To be honest.

And Christmas has never been the same since. So I want to read you two poems by the fantastic bogger poet patrick kavanagh from monaghan a poet who wrote in vernacular he wrote he fucking he wrote in in not only the act in his accent not only in his Hiberno-English words and his Monaghan accent, but he wrote from the heart of just being a fucking human being. If you want Irish poetry that has no airs and graces,

Patrick Cavanaugh is the source. It's what I go to anyway so he's got two poems in memory of my father and in memory of my mother I'm going to read you memory of my father every old man I see

reminds me of my father when he had fallen in love with death. One time when sheaves were gathered, that man I saw in Gardiner Street stumble on the curb was one. He stared at me half-eyed. I might have been his son. And I remember the musician faltering over his fiddle in Bayswater London he too set me the riddle

every old man I see in October coloured weather seems to say to me I was once your father so that's Paddy Kavanagh lads Seems to say to me. I was once your father. So that's Paddy Cavanaugh lads. The sheer unbridled beauty of his words. And now I'm going to read his poem.

Memory of my mother. I do not think of you lying in the wet clay. Of a monaghan graveyard. I see you walking down a lane among the poplars on your way to the station or happily going to see Second Mass on a summer Sunday. You meet me and you say, don't forget to see about the cattle among your artiest words the angels stray and I think of you walking along a headland of green oats in June

so full of repose so rich with life and I see us meeting at the end of town on a fair day by accident after the bargains are all made and we can talk, together through the shops and stalls and markets, free in the oriental streets of thought. Oh, you are not lying in the wet clay, for it is a harvest evening now and we are piling up the ricks against the moonlight

and you smile up at us eternally I'm going to move on now to Wales I want to read a poem by the Welsh poet Dylan Thomas who it's where Bob Dylan Bob Dylan took his name poet Dylan Thomas, who, it's where Bob Dylan, Bob Dylan took his name from Dylan Thomas, Bob Dylan's real name is Robert Zimmerman, and the Dylan comes from the Dylan

Thomas, so like I said, a Welsh poet, and for me, Dylan Thomas is quite different to we'll say Kavanaugh there like Paddy Kavanaugh's words it's just sheer unbridled honesty and not a huge amount of metaphor not a huge amount of visual imagery not even necessarily uh playfulness with words or imagery it's it's much more pure what Paddy Kevin is doing Dylan Thomas it's just a beautiful use of words beautiful use of imagery and words and it's just a pleasure to read Dylan Thomas so I'm going to read you

Light Breaks Where No Sun Shines by Dylan Thomas Light breaks where no sun shines by Dylan Thomas light breaks where no sun shines where no sea runs the waters of the heart push in their tides

and broken ghosts with glow worms in their heads the things of light file through the flesh where no flesh decks the bones a candle in the ties. Warms youth and seed and burns the seeds of age. Where no seed stirs.

The fruit of man unwrinkles in the stars. Bright as a fig. Where no wax is. The candle shows its hairs. Dawn breaks behind the eyes. From poles of skull and toe the windy blood slides like a sea. Nor fenced, nor staked, the gushers of the sky

sprout to the rod, divining in a smile the isle of tears. Night in the socket rounds, like some pitch moon, the limit of the globes. Day lights the bone, where no cold is, the skinning gales unpin the winter's robes. The film of spring is hanging from the lids. Light breaks on secret laths and tips of thought where thoughts smell in the rain. When logic dies, the secret of the soil grows through the eye and blood jumps in the sun. Above the waste allotments. The dawn halts.

Fucking fantastic stuff. I haven't a clue what he's talking about. I honestly haven't a fucking clue what that's about. But I don't think it matters. The. Imagery. The fucking chaos. The way the words

bounce off each other it's just very enjoyable and I don't think I don't think I care what it's about it can be whatever the fuck you want it to be you know

whatever vision kind of arrives into your head and it's a nice little contrast with Kavana there and they're just two different forms it's a nice little contrast with Cavanagh there and they're just two different forms it's like playing your country music and disco

do you know what I mean so I told you last week I was going to try and keep this podcast short I mean most podcasts are fucking half an hour, 40 minutes long some of them are 15, 20 I usually go for like an hour 40 minutes long some of them are 15 20 i usually go for like an

hour more if necessary but i think yeah i'm gonna keep it short this week because it's christmas day so i'm gonna finish with again it's not a poem it's a song but the lyrics work as spoken word and it's it's bob dylan and dylan what dylan does is almost like a mix of kavanagh and dylan thomas because with Kavana the shit about his ma and the shit about his da the unbridled honesty of it just captivates you

but then Dylan Thomas don't really know what he's talking about it's almost like a good guitar solo nearly except with words you have this wonderful visceral imagery that causes your brain

to think of all these things but it lacks the straight to the heart honesty of kavanagh well what bob dylan does for some of his work his best work he can mix both those worlds he will have the straight to your heart honesty of kavanagh but with the prose and playfulness and floweriness and darkness of Dylan Thomas so this one is it's a Bob Dylan song called Simple Twist of Fate F-A-T-E Fate and it's from his album blood on the tracks which is an album he wrote while going through a divorce with his wife so it's a very visceral and honest most people call it his best album is his best piece of work a visceral honest album about love and heartbreak and breaking up and all that carry on and this song in particular the lyrics

of it they're absolutely beautiful and it works as a poem so i'm going to read this for you simple twist of fate by bob dylan 1975 i believe they sat together in the park as the evening sky grew dark. She looked at him and he felt a spark tingle to his bones. It was then he felt alone and wished that he'd gone straight and watched out for a simple twist of fate. They walked along by the old canal, a little confused, I remember well, and stopped into a strange hotel, with a neon, burning bright, he felt the heat of the night, it hit him like a freight train, moving with a simple twist of fate, a saxophone, some place far off played, as she was walking on by the arcade, as the light burst through a beat up shade, where he was waking up, she dropped a coin into the cup of a blind man at the gate, and forgot about a simple twist of fate, he woke up, the room was bare, he didn't see her anywhere. He told himself he didn't care.

And pushed the window open wide. And felt an emptiness inside. To which he just could not relate. Brought on by a simple twist of fate. He hears the ticking of the clocks. And walks along with a parrot that talks. The hunts are down by the waterfront docks. Where the sailors all come in.

Maybe she'll pick him out again. How long must he wait? One more time for a simple twist of faith. People tell me it's a sin. To know and feel too much within. I still believe she was my twin. But I lost the ring. She was born in spring

but I was born too late blame it on a simple twist of fate alright that was a half an hour's worth of a Christmas Day podcast for ye I hope you enjoyed it I'll be back next week with a hot take that was also one that you can play

for the family I suppose alright yart have a good one I'll talk to you next week I'm going to go and have fun Rengar Rock City, rock city you're the best fans in the league bar none tickets are on sale now for fan appreciation night on saturday april 13th when the toronto rock hosts the rochester nighthawks at first ontario center in hamilton at 7 30 p.m You can also lock in your playoff pack right now to guarantee the same seats for every postseason game, and you'll only pay as we play.

Come along for the ride and punch your ticket to Rock City at torontorock.com. Thank you.