excerpt_in the other room by brent t. downes
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Excerpt from "In The Other Room" by Brent T. Downes for www.brentdownes.comTRANSCRIPT
In The Other Room
By
Brent Downes
In The Other Room
A Lyrical Anthology in Contemporary Freestyle Narrative
by Brent Downes
“Lyricism is not the exclusive property of Poets” ~Brent Downes
Trimaxx Global Publishing Solutions
A Subsidiary of Trimaxx International Publishers LLC
Copyright©2012 Brent T. Downes
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored
in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means,
electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the
prior written permission of the Publisher.
Exceptions are made only for brief excerpts use in published reviews.
Published by
Trimaxx Global Publishing Solutions
Trimaxx International Publishers LLC
9092 Warwick
Detroit, MI 48228
ISBN: 0-9771186-2-2
Language: English (Australia)
Copyright©2012 Brent T. Downes - Brisbane, Australia
Printed in the United States of America
Edited by: Carolanne D. Grant
Cover Design and Interior Layout by:
Grant Design Concepts
http://www.trimaxxpublishers.com/Design
Contributing Photography©2011 Dreamstime Photography™
From the Author
Lyricism is not the exclusive property of poets.
For most of the writing of this volume, those words have been like a
mantra; when people ask what kind of book I have been writing I am
hesitant to pin it down to exactly a particular mould or genre. People often
misunderstand the term of ‗poetry‘ and even in my own journey with this
volume I have found myself shying away from the term of ‗poetry‘. In its‘
place I have dubbed this book at various points ―verse‖, ―anthology‖,
―experiment‖ and even ―novel‖. As I draw to the close of this book to I
seem to be settling on what has pervaded my mind since the outset; that
this book is a book of lyrics. Lyrics being not strictly music or poetry, but
instead a naturalistic and normal expression of human language. Our
ancient Greek brothers and sisters realised that everyday language was as
much chanted and sung as it was spoken and it is a revelation that has
been in my mind since the very inception of this book at an art gallery café
almost six years ago.
It was a rainy day in Brisbane and I was thoroughly inside a full embrace
of 1920s jazz and the old style lounge and crooners. Their voices were
melodious expressions of the extremities of my own life: the crushing
lows (Don‘t know why/There‘s no sun up in the sky) and the ecstatic
highs (Out together dancing cheek to cheek!).
In the Queensland Art Gallery hung a large full wall sized art piece which
was simply pictures of rooms. The artist had been all over the world and
had collected hundreds of photographs of different rooms. I being an
unashamed voyeur was instantly captivated by this piece of art and all the
promise and possibility of hundreds of rooms around the world; all lived
in, experienced, felt and real! I wish I knew the artist and the artwork.
Some years later I discovered the writing of the German modernist
romantic Rilke and his description of ‗those old houses‘ on the streets of
Paris is still one of the most incredible passages of writing I have ever read
and it is still my favourite.
The realities of a lyrical existence and the inhabited space are the
cornerstone on which this volume stands.. For me, this work is the work of
the times and places that we fill and the language that fills them.
I have tried, through my two stylistic devices; voyeurism and lyricism, to
bring you in, very, very close. To what?
To everything.
I make no apologies for the vast scale and scope of this book as I wanted
to go on a journey myself to the very, very close proximity of things--and
I wanted to do this for you as well. Lyricism was the key that opened the
doorway to ‗the other room‘ and voyeurism was the impetus that drew you
inside. I have discovered in the writing of this book that the simplest of
things is also the most complex, and that to write in a ‗simplistic‘ or
‗natural‘ lyrical meter was extraordinarily difficult; firstly to create and
then secondly to consistently obey. Basically, I had hoped to lure you into
‗the other room‘ with beautiful, natural sounding speech; imagine you had
just come down a dark corridor to see a slightly ajar door, with music and
wonderful conversation coming from behind it, who wouldn‘t open it?
This is also where the voyeurism comes into play. We are all voyeurs, we
love nothing better than to look upon or otherwise partake in the varied
spectrum of human behaviours and existence as our appetites and tastes
permit. In this book, I have invited myself and you into that ‗other room‘
from which the beautiful sounds were coming from, and in there I have
discovered and showcased for you some enormously private affairs, very
public conditions and always pressing matters to observe and relish in. I
am very forward that this is not a strict poetry book per se in that I feel it
blurs and bends a number of styles, forms. and conventions and then sits
in its own unique category. In this respect I recommend the book to a non-
poetry audience highly, since I haven‘t dubbed it as strictly a book of
poetry.
I want to thank you for picking up this volume, for holding it in your
hands. I hope that the journey into the other room is as full of joy and of
sorrow and eventual enlightenment as it has been for me. I congratulate
you on your willingness to travel some distance with me, I am at times an
unpredictable companion and not always the surest of guides on the lyrical
or spiritual highway. I can guarantee you that this volume will not
engender indifference; whether you hate or love what transpires here are
both equally possible but I do guarantee that you will not be indifferent to
these affairs.
This volume is a story. But it is not a story that even I am used to. It is a
story of stories and the storytellers are the limitless voices of all the other
survivors of the fallopian highway and travellers on this lyrical, spiritual,
and earthly plane. If there is some reoccurring theme here, it is of
doorways. Someone once told me that ―When God closes a window, He
opens a door‖ and I hold that to be true and believe it with all my heart.
For me, this volume is all about the space that lays beyond the threshold,
the place you are not in yet, words you are yet to hear, tears you are yet to
shed, pain you are yet to endure, love you are yet to be nourished by,
kisses you are yet to fall into like they were long cool summer nights. All
this and so much more awaits you on these pages but also ‗in the other
room‘ of your life and of your soul.
So much hasn‘t happened yet, but it will. It lays just beyond the door, I
invite you now to step with me into it and we shall see where we end up
together.
Brent T. Downes
Ventura County, CA
On the 23rd
of April 2010
Author Photo©2011 Brent T. Downes
Foreword by Stefanie Petrik
When I first met Brent Downes as a budding performance poet in
Brisbane, Australia, he was doing his best not to obviously shake out of
nervousness on stage. Now, after many years, gigs and tours later he is
going to make you tremble with this volume of poetry.
During my years of running poetry readings, I have had the privilege of
watching, right before my eyes, Downes explode into a seasoned,
confident performer, and have come to expect the very best out of his
writing. In The Other Room is an impassioned compartmentalization of
the love affairs that have changed him, that have shown him both sides of
that particular coin—innocence and experience.
As you move through all the ‗other‘ rooms of this book, you will bump
into Downes‘ honesty; it will not apologize and move out of your path.
You will knock over teacups full of sorrow; they will not ask you ―how
many sugars?‖ to sweeten the taste of their tears. You will find that time
wanders around holding hands and offering alms, but those twins—
wisdom and youth; as with Tweedledee and Tweedledum, you may need
to consider carefully what they say before applying their advice.
Downes‘ work is intimate, calculating, accessible and bold. It will dare
you to read it aloud, while you are sitting alone in your room, in cafes, in
parks, on street corners, on trains, on stages and even in public toilets. The
lyricism that swims through this volume like a current will hum with a
tune that you can‘t quite catch, play your windpipe like a distant flute, the
sound gently scattering your emotions with memories of your own. For
these tales of love will be ones that you‘ll recognize. They‘re universal
and real. Two words often not associated with poetry of our own age.
Most importantly, Downes‘ In The Other Room will show you that poetry
is everywhere. You just have to know where to look. Downes is
illustrating where he has found poetry, but here begins your own obstacle
course. Poetry likes to be courted, sometimes likes to play hard-to-get. But
there is something wonderful when natural poetry is caught red-handed in
the everyday actions of living; in the beauty and skill and meaning lying
haphazardly on the stairs of your apartment; in its rising to meet you
despite having been ground into the path leading to your office by the
racing feet of greed and capitalism; when its found to be growing on a tree
outside the library--or winking at you from the salt you just sprinkled on
your dinner. This volume will make you want to look, show you your
blind spots, encourage you to examine what is growing there in the dark.
In The Other Room is a journey that has the power to set you on your own
journey. And we all know what they say about journeys. They all begin
with a single step.
Stefanie Petrik
Lismore, NSW
On the 14th
of November 2010
Stefanie Petrik is an international grade poet deluxe, performer and
published author. Widely toured across Europe, the UK and the USA she
has continually redefined and dramatically reshaped the scope of 21st
century poetry. Her outstanding debut collection of poetry “The Artist Vs
The Upstanding Citizen” is available for purchase.
www.stefaniepetrik.wordpress.com
Acknowledgements
There are some very special people I would like to acknowledge in
opening this volume.
My family, the family Downes
Nihil sans Labour.
The family Forsch – My wonderful other family.
Dedication
This volume is dedicated in its entirety to
Courtney Hayes Forsch
To whom it belongs unequivocally along with my heart.
She, who understands this ‗is what it is‘.
Kind Acknowledgements
I would humbly and kindly like to thank all those who have helped
produce not only this volume but all those I have written and will write.
As well as those who have supported me in my journeys.
Stefanie Petrik, Joel Perkins & Family, Bob (Mud) McMahon. Kristian
James. Cafe Checocho. Miss Kate, Paul Milo. Rowan Donovan. The
Kurilpa Poets. Speedpoets. Graham Nunn. Amanda Maystone-Towell. Vij
Chandra. Paul Dobbyn. Austin International Poetry Festival. Ruta Maya
Coffeehouse. Thom Moon Bird. Wendy Woodruff. Auntie Barbara
Youngblood Carr. Auntie Patricia Fiske for providing a home away from
home. Lee Leteff. Ash & Benedict Kim. MFYK. Nick Hall, Australian
Catholic University especially Dr. Tracey Sanders. Daevid Allen. Tiffany
Kelly. All the people & poets I met at AIPF 2010. Susan A Lewis. Brad
Beneke. Misbah Khokar. Raphael Sabu, Carolanne Grant (Lady Eros).
―And I was alone again, in the unquiet darkness.‖
~F. Scott Fitzgerald ‗The Great Gatsby
Chapter One
A Visit
~
In the other room
we‘re
talking secrets,
lips to lips,
shooting stars
with
the way
we‘re leaning into this,
sharing secrets
lips to lips.
& then suddenly
it‘s
not about the kisses anymore.
We‘re shuffling in the door.
With suitcases packed
dragging them
‗cross the floor
in through the hall
Washing hangs
on lines in the yard
& blows in the breeze
Taxi cab pulls in
under the palm trees.
Casting shadows, long shadows,
& drifting, waving, haunting silhouettes born on the breeze.
& she‘s
out of the taxi cab.
It‘s not about the kisses had
it‘s about the secrets spilled
among the coffee hot & juice chilled.
It‘s not so much
what‘s
said.
In or roundabouts the bed
or
what‘s
overheard.
It‘s
just a little thing
that happens in the other room.
She steps out of the cab.
In the afternoon.
&
The palm trees are all playing like they were on strings.
Distant birds
& lawnmowers
& choirs sing,
the darkness
whispers
things.
It rolls down from the western hills
we‘re out back
&
the beer‘s chilling.
She unpacked her suitcase‘s filling.
& We spoke at length about
a little bit of everything & a little bit of nothing
a little bit of not much & a little bit of something.
Went to the kitchen
& I open up the drink.
She says she‘s hungry
We‘ll go out
I think
-
Sitting at a pub table
on Queen Street Mall.
A thin girl plays guitar
alternating between her own song & a cover.
I‘m eating two fillets of barramundi
with salad & chips
tomato & tartar sauce
as dips.
She has
the Caesar salad
with chicken fillets & hollandaise sauce
she‘s drinking white wine
of course.
I have
a vodka ginger.
& I tap to the song with
my finger
“dreams last for so long
even after you’re gone”.
The girl has a pretty
voice
high
& with a Tamworth accent.
She smiles to the bar
with her pina-colada
& says everyone should
get online
& vote for her.
She gives the bar a sample of her own stuff.
I cut off a piece of the garlic & herb cobb loaf
that we bought to share.
My friend tells me of her flight
& all the things happening
back home.
The weather
the traffic
the people we mutually know.
Songs that she is liking at the moment,
new seat covers she bought for her car,
something she read in the paper
about our signs in the stars.
This year apparently
I‘m bound for a career push
I‘m destined for two romances
one bad, one good
&
a lesson learnt
& a new regret.
An old habit resurfaced
& a new haircut.
I laugh
& she tells me
don‘t make fun.
―There’s more in it than you think‖
I stay silent & raise up my drink.
She pouts
“Not on good terms with fate?”
She asks looking around the bar.
“I prefer”
Says I,
“To be surprised”
“To see things as they come.”
She smirks
& changes the subject
enquiring about dessert
when the waiter comes to pick up the plates
“How about pudding? Sticky date?”
“Mmm” She says
“Sounds sweet. Sounds great”
-
Sitting back drinking beers
cold stubbies
bitter to taste.
Slouching on a bar-room couch
with the light forming crescents over my face.
The band sings:
“I cannot wait
I’m yours”
She taps her foot to the rhythm
My stomach is full & fed
I yawn & check my watch
looking at the time.
Look down at my beer
& her tequila & lime.
“Cuz yeah, everybody here’s got somebody to lean on”
Yeah,
I guess that‘s true
so I yawn
& lean to
the side resting myself against her shoulder.
(―Ah‖ you are thinking
―he becomes somewhat bolder‖.)
& yeah
I guess that‘s true too
after all
if a good looking woman
flew down to see you
What then
would you do?
& so
I guess it‘s true
I lean in,
lean over
she leans in too.
But we don‘t hold hands
we don‘t kiss
I don‘t put my arm on her shoulder
nor hand on her leg
we‘re just together
Leaning together, leaning together
just so
I watch the lights in the bar dim
it must be past seven.
I check my watch
It‘s eight
where did the time go?
Now we‘re leaning together just so.
sipping beer,
& tequila & lime
shoulder to shoulder
listening to the cover-band sing in time
“All that shimmers in this world
is sure to fade
away”
&
yeah
I guess that‘s true too.
It‘s funny
when everything you hear,
you feel it pertains to you.
She‘s smiling
a lime smile,
a nice smile,
I would like to kiss it
just once
& see how it tasted.
She has her eyes closed
“Too far away for me to hold
far out away”
Yeah
it‘s true
all that
Glitters
Shimmers
& shines
is so surely
doomed to fade away.
The song ends
people in the bar cheer
I look down
& see my beer is empty.
But we‘re still leaning together
& I remember
what she said before.
“Two romances
one bad
one good”
& I think
I‘d like to kiss her if I could.
My beer is empty
the band takes a break
the speakers in the bar blare back on
some nonsensical, inaudible
techno-disco-electro song
“I’m running on empty”
I say
“Would you like another? The same again?”
“Mmm”
she sighs
“Make it a double”
I smirk
“That kind of thing could get you in trouble.”
-
In the other room
my lips at her neck
her hands
wandering on the inside of my leg
fall to the bed,
Pull the blanket over
it‘s a bit cold
but her skin is warm to touch
we‘ve probably
drunk too much.
Out goes the light
but skin is pale
like its‘ own
light
in the dark
lips find lips
whispers are whispered
her hands
find the hem of my shirt
& lift
it up.
My hands move to her breasts
& cup
& grasp & feel
she tosses my shirt aside
& smiles at what she reveals,
Bare skin
she gropes in the dark
with her fingers she sees.
I move my hands down her body
& unbutton her jeans.
Move my hands back up
pull off her top
she wiggles
as she pulls her jeans off
giggling non-stop.
Cheeks flushed
she unclasps her bra
I taste her nipples
she moves her hand to my crotch
her hips on the bed
like a ship on the ocean
pitch & toss.
Not a moment,
not a minute
is wasted
or lost.
She moans
when my tongue
moves on her collarbone.
I gasp
when her hands
grip my arse.
Hands in her underwear
both mine & hers
hers giving pointers
mine eager to learn.
her lips at my neck
& teeth this time
her voice
in the dark
like a chime
“Oh god!
oh please!
get your pants off now!
oh god!
oh please!
I want it!
oh now!”
I unbutton & unfasten
my cumbersome jeans
my underwear joins hers
pushed to the floor
she opens her legs
I move between them
& into her.
We both cry out
the anticipation met with reward.
“Oh fuck!…mmm fuck
oh yes!
oh god!”
Lips meet lips
in the dark
I barely see.
More, just flashes
of leg,
of breast,
of torso,
of lips,
of her
&
me.
Like flashes
of
something
deep in a dream.
Just glimpses
with feeling
of her flesh
& her skin.
She approaches
climax
with me
within.
She moans
I moan
we
gasp
&
fall.
I wonder
if the stars
saw this coming
at all.
~