View Article  Two haibun for Christmas

Shimmering in gold, two little angels – halos askew – frolic on a petrol station forecourt. It must be school nativity play time again. That, or the start of the Second Coming.

          deer moving cautiously in my garden –
          their bones remember the wolves

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Caught in the car headlights, an old man and his chubby dog out walking on a snowy Boxing Day afternoon. Over his shoulder, the old man carries a log. For the rest of the drive home, I keep a look out for King Wenceslas and his page.

          raucous cries in a twilit sky –
          rooks heading home to roost
View Article  It's all about me, me, me



Charles Christian? Who he? That's me. I'm a poet, publisher, photographer and performer who is building up a growing audience for my prose poetry, storytelling and rambling, self-indulgent, irreverent, semi-autobiographical anecdotes and narrative monologues. Yes, it really is all about me.

As well as my local area of East Anglia, I'm also now giving performances farther afield, including a gig in Greenwich Village in New York City. My own writing has won prizes in competitions and been published in magazines and anthologies however I now spend a lot of my time running the highly popular and widely read Ink Sweat & Tears poetry and prose webzine, which has also expanded into podcasting and chapbook publishing. www.ink-sweat-and-tears.com

For my day job I'm a technology journalist and editor – which is why the inner geek frequently creeps into my work. I've also been a barrister – with a serial killer for a client, a PR consultant, a Reuters correspondent, a sci-fi TV reviewer and, most recently, an art school drop-out. I live on a farm, far from civilisation, surrounded by mud, muck and horses. (PS: the photos are by another East Anglian poet Michael Figura.)

Here are a some recent reviews...

"This is Spalding Gray meets Joyce Grenfell territory – altho without the latter's songs!"

"His work walks a narrow edge that could crumble into cleverness." ...Obsessed with Pipework

"The other poet who stood out for us was a geezer called Charles Christian. His observations were sharp and telling and spiced with a fine touch of humour." ...Clueless Collective

"Very glad to have the chance to hear you in action. I really enjoyed your heartening dry wit." ...Michael Laskey





View Article  All about this blog
After two – or maybe it is three – previous attempts to get my personal blog sorted out, I am now about to go live & start loading up material. So, what is the big idea?

As you will see from my biographical details, for my day job I already publish a couple of blogs – including one that publishes other people's poetry & prose. This blog – which you can access via either www.wordsandvision.com or www.charles-christian.com – is my own personal blog to highlight my writing (the 'words' bit), my photography and digital haiga (the 'vision' bit) and my live literature/spoken word performance activities.

If you click on the main category headings, you will see a set of sub categories (verse poetry, prose poetry etc) encompassing the different genre I'm currently working in. The 'stuff you need to know' category is for all that stuff that doesn't fit into one of those neat categories – and includes general info about the blog, news, events plus a full biog of yours sincerely. And, 'the Digital Slow Lane' – which is also this blog's subtitle – is designed to hold an ongoing series of semi-autobiographical, mini-monologues (or prose narratives) about me – and life – and me – as I've finally come out of the closet and recognised my inner geek.


I do hope all that makes sense – and that you enjoy visiting this blog as much as I think I'm going to enjoy writing and developing it.

...Charles Christian
View Article  Five haiga
I'm also interested in the concept of digital haiga – an illustration + a haiku but using digital photography rather than traditional Japanese ink brush techniques. All these have previously been published elsewhere...





















View Article  Pedal to the Metal
This began life as a calligram but then I thought Hey, let's try a little animation – I know, back to the drawing board...




Here's the link to the animation



View Article  Three dimensional haiku
This can best be described as a three-dimensional haiku. The text reads:

for one brief moment
we brightly burn
– then darkness falls



View Article  Still Life at the 11th Street Diner
This is another relic from my art school days – I was attempting to create with photography and words the 21st century equivalent of those Flemish 16th/17th century vanitas paintings...





STILL LIFE AT THE 11th STREET DINER


At the 1950’s style, chromium-sheathed 11th Street Diner, on the corner of Washington Avenue in downtown Miami Beach, the short-order cook looks like Samuel L. Jackson would look, if he were playing a short-order cook in a 1950’s style, chromium-sheathed diner in downtown Miami Beach. Except the white’s of this cook’s eyes are permanently bloodshot and inflamed, from the long hours spent working in the hot fat and steam-filled atmosphere of the diner’s kitchen.

The 11th Street Diner is just around the corner from the Wolfsonian Foundation, the home of Miami Beach’s biggest collection of Art Deco. On a slack Saturday lunchtime in April, there are still more people in the diner than there are in the museum. Perhaps the people here prefer to live out their heritage in realtime, rather than view it through the toughened glass of museum exhibit cases.

As I eat, I hear the short-order cook speaking into his mobile phone, he is interceding on behalf of one of his customers, remonstrating with her boyfriend that he is not paying the mother of his child the respect she deserves. On the diner’s sound system American Woman by The Guess Who is playing.

View Article  It's ekphrasis time !
During my recent – and very short – studies on an MA course at a local art school (I think I would be described as an immature mature student) one of the topics I was encouraged to look at was the concept of ekphrasis – the relationship between words and images. Here are three pictures and the words they inspired...




SALVATOR ROSA

Salvator Rosa, Salvator Rosa, with your hippy hat and your insolent stare. Looking like Lennon, looking like Jesus. Acting like Guevara. Talking like Buddha. Salvator Rosa, Salvator Rosa. Client of cardinals. Befriender of brigands. Street-fighting satirist man. Seventeenth century, saturnine cool.





CHAGALL: FIDDLING WHILE ZION BURNS

Your uncle, the village butcher, used to whisper soothing words in the ears of the cattle, before he slit their throats. But when the storm-troopers and the commissars come knocking at the doors of Vitebsk, they won’t be so considerate. Then, all the cherubim of the Tanakh will never bring the chassidim back again. The wandering fiddler still plays but his violin will soon know only one tune – a kaddish – a funeral dirge that will be played six million times and more. It’s playing now but you cannot hear it. You are far away, dreaming of cockerels. And  candlesticks. And snow white virgins, with snow white breasts.





LENKA: SHE KNOWS

This is not the idealised Chinese Girl, the submissive Green Lady whose face used to glance down from a million suburban living-room walls. This the real woman. This is the woman who knows you will betray her love. This is the woman who stares out from your own living-room wall, whose eyes watch every screaming-til-you-are-red-in-the-face argument you have with the wife you went back to. This is the woman whose portrait you dare not sell for fear of guna-guna. If you’d stayed with this woman, you would have become a great artist. But you followed the money. This is how Jesus looked, when he gazed upon Judas at The Last Supper.

(Lenka was the mistress of the artist Tretchikoff during the Second World War.)

View Article  Haiku and senryu
The traditional distinction is between haiku – usually serious and/or with a seasonal tone – and senryu – lighter subject matter usually commenting on the foibles of mankind. I've just lumped them all together, life's too short to lose sleep over the distinction. Incidentally, some purists may object to some of my haiku (which in this batch also includes some sci-faiku) – that makes us equal as I object to some purists.


dusk at the office –
even the computers
are falling asleep


sick, I work from home
no sympathy –
with email no one can hear you sneeze

Published in Blithe Spirit (14/4) - December 2004


middle of the road –
a very dangerous place
to be

Published in Other - The BHS Members Anthology 2004


growing old –
more hair sprouting from my ears
than on my head

Published in Blithe Spirit (14/4) - December 2004


as I fondle, she watches
over my shoulder –
for her last bus home

Published in Blithe Spirit (15/2) - June 2005


everything
is work in progress –
including life


Sunday afternoon
my garden chair is calling –
for a coat of paint


The rainbow –
nature’s way of saying sorry
for an April shower


Autumn at the mall –
we turn away
from the Christmas displays


empty fields, green lanes
cycling back a butterfly –
races me for home


footprints in the snow
going their separate ways –
leaving a party

Published in Blithe Spirit (15/1) - March 2005


Boxing Day morning
we go hunting –
for batteries not included

Published in Blithe Spirit (15/1) - March 2005


hoglets staggering
drunk on fermented flesh –
of fallen plums


Family Christmas
goodwill evaporates –
like brandy on a pudding


On the train home
my How to Haiku guide stays open –
unlike my eyes

Published in Blithe Spirit (15/1) - March 2005


my ego is ok
but my karma –
just ran over my dogma

Published in Blithe Spirit (15/2) - June 2005


Burgandy in winter
red wine –
Beaune cold


the inspirational speaker
inspires me –
to go home early

Published in Blithe Spirit (15/3) - September 2005


Goodwill to all men -
we even laugh
at the jokes we've heard before

Published in Blithe Spirit (16/1) - March 2006


Suddenly the swifts have all flown
No farewells, no goodbyes
September


Burgandy at dawn –
lazy frog hops and plops
into a stone lavoir

Published in Blithe Spirit (16/1) - March 2006


after a hard week
I look in the mirror
– and see my father staring back


the road sign says
‘cats eyes removed’ –
is that a threat or a promise?


carrying her harp
to music school
she wishes she’d studied the flute

Published in Blithe Spirit (16/2) - June 2006


middle age calling
designer jeans out
stretchy waistbands in


she’s getting old
now she mainly sees her friends
– at funerals

Published in Blithe Spirit (16/2) - June 2006


a late spring
the daffodils do not open
till the clocks go forward

Published in Blithe Spirit (16/2) - June 2006


back for a class reunion
the only face I recognise –
is mine

Published in Blithe Spirit (16/2) - June 2006


its exotic scent
belies the primitive looks
of the sweet brier rose

Published in Blithe Spirit (16/3) - September 2006


An English summer –
drought orders signed
the deluge begins


Wimbledon, Henley
– and Big Brother
Summer is only a gameshow


time travel –
seeing tomorrow today
and yesterday tomorrow

Published in Ultraverse (3/5) - September 2006


space time dilation –
when I return
the only face I know is mine

Published in Ultraverse (3/5) - September 2006


13th JULY 2006

black smoke over Haifa –
this summer katyushas
arrive with the dawn

white con trails against the blue –
tumbling bombs glitter
in the Beirut sun

in Gaza life ebbs
from a fallen phone
one message waiting – unread

Ari – are you ok?
me and the cats and dogs
are waiting for you


The Oracle at Delphi –
Sun so bright
we squint to see the ruins

Published in Other - The BHS Members Anthology 2006


ripening brambles
powder blue sloes –
children drag their heels to school

Published in Blithe Spirit (16/4) - December 2006


con trails against the blue
tumbling bombs glitter
in the Beirut sun

Published in Blithe Spirit (16/4) - December 2006


dry at last
the winter’s clippings burn
in an early evening sun

Published in Blithe Spirit (17/2) - June 2007


beneath opening blossom
two buskers exchange
mobile phone numbers

Published in Blithe Spirit (18/2) - June 2008


gone jogging –
gathering footprints
before dawn

Published in Blithe Spirit (17/3) - September 2007


Las Vegas in June –
the hissing of sprinklers
on astro turf

Published in Blithe Spirit (17/3) - September 2007


St Martin's summer
butterflies still flittering
over poppy wreaths

Published on Ink Sweat & Tears - November 2007


Halloween sunset –
sky the colour
of ripe pumpkin

Published in Blithe Spirit (17/4) - December 2007


sky-racked oak
500 years history
– gone in one night

Published in BHS Members Anthology Storm - 2007


Birdstrike – falling like snow
across the highway
so many feathers

Published in Blithe Spirit (17/4) - December 2007


passing the old house
blinds pulled down
– Ornette Colemen playing

Published in Blithe Spirit (18/1) - March 2008


rain dripping into a bowl –
ticking off time
til it overflows

Published in Blithe Spirit (18/1) - March 2008


after the gale –
the old garden bench
on its back, bleached frame skywards

Published in Blithe Spirit (18/1) - March 2008


like a moth
I’m drawn to your flame
– an ember on the wing


last niece married –
only funerals
to bring us together now

Published in Blithe Spirit (18/3) - September 2008


shirt off, cross-legged
a brickie takes a break
– the buddha of the frogs

Published in BHS Members Anthology Building - 2008
View Article  Haibun - where prose meets haiku
One of my favourite poetry genre – much under-rated and with huge potential – more people should try them...


THEY DON’T TELL YOU THIS

They always tell you Las Vegas is the wedding capital of the United States. As I’m waiting for a cab to the airport, I get talking to the couple in the queue next to me. They’ve been in Vegas to get married at one of the big casino hotels and took a honeymoon suite with 1800 square feet of floor-space. “That’s bigger than many homes in the UK,” I say. “That’s bigger than many homes in the United States,” they reply.

          Honeymoon in Vegas
          – in a bridal suite bigger than the home they’ll share

On the flight home, I get talking to a professional gambler returning from a poker tournament. He says you can make a living out of poker – as long as you understand the math. “Every hand gives you a slight edge or slight disadvantage. Professional players always take an edge in their favour and shy away from hands where the numbers are against them. It’s not about luck – but I do like playing against people who think it’s all about luck, as that gives me an edge.”

          The King, Queen and Jack show no favours
          – they are all slaves to the laws of probability

What they don’t tell you in the guide books is that along with being the centre of the gambling universe, Las Vegas is also the suicide capital of the United States.

          In the casinos, there is no day or night
          – just unlimited hope and unrealisable expectations


I LOVE VEGAS

It may be kitsch.
It may be ersatz.
It may be open to criticism
on grounds of bad taste
and of being one enormous
well oiled, ruthlessly efficient
money extraction machine.
But it is executed with such style
such audacity, such panache
and on a truly awesome scale
that you just have to admire it.
No, you have to love it.

        Las Vegas in June –
        the hissing of sprinklers
        on astro turf

Published in Gift (Gatehouse Press) 2007


TRUE CALLING

At a stripped-pine table, in a French-style cafe near to Oxford Circus in the West End of London, sits an elderly Buddhist monk in crimson robes – I think he may be Tibetan. Taking advantage of the free wi-fi internet access available in this cafe, as he sips hot drinking chocolate from a large bowl, he surfs the web on an old Apple Mac laptop computer.

          he’s in cyberspace
          searching for enlightenment
          – on Google


FLYING TO VIENNA

Flying to Vienna. Out today and back tomorrow. Check-in, customs and security. No creams, no blades, no liquids, no gels, no toothpaste. Shoes off, belts off, phones off, take off. Viewed from above, the wind-teased cloud tops are the same colour and consistency as the froth on the cappuccino I drank in the departure lounge.

          at thirty-six thousand feet
          the sky
          is always blue

Sachertorte, einspanner coffee, sturm, schnitzel and strudel. On the journey home, the only excess baggage I’m carrying is around my waist. Along with German MTV, ads for chocolate cake and dubbed episodes of Mr Bean, the in-flight entertainment video monitors display our location, our altitude, our speed and the outside temperature.

         framed against
         the curvature of the Earth
         the plane’s wing rimed with frost

Published in Blithe Spirit (17/1) - March 2007
Published in Haibun Today - April 2008