Poetry Archive :: Under

There’s some good ideas in this sequence, but the execution is all over the shop, plus there’s not nearly enough poetic flow. That’s the disadvantage of not writing your poetry in one hit and editing on the fly. This will be the last time that happens, as I’m determined to up the quality of outputted content here overall in the months that follow.

Starting next week, we’ll be doing things differently, but I feel it’s important to have this stuff up and online to remind myself that there is always room for improvement, and when you produce work at the level I’m currently churning stuff out, there will be variance.


Under

Early morning heat haze shimmers,
too hot already for breakfast.
Green and pleasant land buckles,
warping: thank you, global warming.

Consequences of our actions
expirated, child’s discomfort.
Each day, all more apparent
Earth’s verdant fruits, diminishing.

Under protective skies that may
soon refuse co-operation:
Mother Nature, pressurised
no longer capable saviour.

Accept our blame for destruction,
start reconciliation:
clean up this mess we’ve made, before
damage done, irreversible.

The fault, humanity’s: shoulder,
collectively responsible
alter trajectory to
salvage future for all mankind.


Poetry Archive :: Over

This week’s poems are not my best work. There, I said it. They have suffered from interest diverted to other bits of work, the World Cup, and my increased training regime. Now I’ve had a day off from thinking full time, there’s the hope I’ll be able to bring some better work to the table for next week.

Needs less you and more actual poetry.


Over

Hate to say this, but
That’s me done: last chance saloon
Go drink there, alone.

Only so much grief
One person will take: enough
Of sanctimony.

Your ineptitude
Empathy, absent: reminds
Not to be like you.

However much you
Try to object: the answer
Involves change, with thought.

It is up to you:
Our time is over: perhaps
Mind can learn from this.


EX/WHI :: Part Five

Previous Part :: Next Part


Everything hurts, everywhere, and this is not good.

Moving from lying to sitting is an effort, but Chris is awake, desperately trying to piece together what happened to induce unconsciousness. He’s lying on the floor of the coffee shop, last piece of Apple Danish where it was dropped, before the entire World literally shifted around them –

Where’s Ami?

He’d felt heartbeat racing, body shuddering and watched as she passed out in his arms, shortly before he had done the same… except it hadn’t been via concussion or physical intervention. They’d been starved of oxygen, that he’s convinced of, but what happened before…? Staring at her prone, lifeless body, everything comes back in a rush, followed by an immediate need to check his partner’s alive. Her body should be in the recovery position at least: as hand reaches down an incredibly muscular leg comes up, forced into chest as body is launched into the air and back onto a table, which summarily disintegrates under both weight and impact.

I woke up and panicked, she’s awake thinking I was the enemy. One of us is not phased by what just happened: I need to get my shit together, because she really is very good.

‘Oh fuck I’m so, sorry, I assumed -’

‘I was a bad guy. It’s okay, at least there’s no worry you’re still incapacitated.’

‘I dunno about that, why does everything suddenly hurt so much?’

‘Well, that was my next question. You’re not alone.’

Picking himself up from the shattered wooden remains, Chris comes to help Ami to her feet. Physically she looks no different, but believable reality is not as concrete as it was when he woke up for the first time today. Turning to survey the damage they’ve just caused, air around them both moves, breeze that is anything but normal, somehow prompting the table to instantly and unnervingly reconstruct itself back to pre-impact state. Chris’ SIG is no longer in the holster either, giving nothing to point at this sorcery as reassurance, so staring will have to suffice as logic stops operating, giving brain the finger before leaving his body with disgust.

‘I have no weapon, and am officially out of my depth.’

‘Neither do I: on reflection, nothing from this point forward is likely to conform to our idea of normal. I’m happy to think for us both for a while, it’s okay.’

‘You go right ahead. I didn’t imagine the room upside down either, did I?’

‘Not if furniture’s putting itself back together, you didn’t, Mr Chambers. At least they stopped running the movie outside what I’m now thinking is probably a prison.’

There’s obvious daylight coming into the cafe, but Chambers isn’t looking out at London any more: instead an odd, white space radiates the illusion of… well, space. He needs to sit down where he stands right now, because all of this has just staggered beyond too much to cope with. Ami doesn’t stop him: instead she goes to the large, glass double doors and stares for a moment, before pulling keys to the car out of her pocket. Taking a step back, the bunch is thrown towards what used to be an exit but at the moment of impact they are flung back, over her head before landing near the toilets.

Suddenly, he’s very grateful somebody else has voluntarily offered to be a grown-up until he’s back in the game. Watching the walk back, picking up keys, standing and assessing: mentally thinking through their joint predicament is absolutely what Ami is doing, with a calmness which is immediately reassuring. Meeting his gaze without fear, there’s a decision made that is both logical and fair.

‘Yup, this is definitely a prison, and we need to know why.’



Previous Part
:: Next Part

In and Out

I’d love to know how Normal Brains work. By that, a couple of assumptions are made: there are people who do not go through the mental turmoil I seem to cope with on a semi regular basis, and there are people who just write and everything comes out fine. Yes, I know you do editing and you tweak and then you go get some advice from your friends and tweak some more but… Okay, let me try and explain the problem I have in words that make sense.

I’ve always been able to write, and if you look at my work across a period of years it is obvious where the light-bulb moments have taken place. Just as pianists must practice, or an athlete will run every day whilst in competition, keeping mental faculties sharp is a vital part of the evolutionary process. What didn’t happen was the discovery of my own internal ‘voice’ until very recently (and by that I mean the last five years.) Fiction before this point was variable at best, and I’d not written a poem since the late 1980’s.

It was time to go to the mattresses.

Fighting myself has been very productive since 2012: pushing away the perceived barriers of ability, logically dismissing shortcomings, learning from everywhere and anywhere. The oddest stuff has been inspiration, literally hundreds of hours reading other people’s advice, so that a workable path could be plotted between where I was and where ability needed to be. A fellow writer this week has lamented the time its taken her to edit her novel. I’ve been at MMXCI for over 18 years, only now close to something that could be considered worthwhile.

I have 007 to thank, of course, for the training wheels that were stuck on my two fanfics, easily removed and bolted onto my own work. Creating a work of fiction in a well-established, easily accessible Universe give an opportunity to work out what is needed for your own to work, and for me there were so many holes to be filled when pulling MMXCI back to the table. However, now comes the realisation why that is so important, as the narrative pretty much runs as parallel experience for how I managed to find my way from the lowest point in my life in 2005 until now.

I have inadvertently written an autobiographical novel.

What has happened in between 1999 and now, of course, is the continued and systematic learning and unlearning of the restrictions on my mental freedom. After all that time, I really am getting somewhere.

Pure Comedy

I have dreamed of a day, for quite some time, where I’d end up not having time to blog because brain became too busy producing something to be properly proud of. Don’t get me wrong, the blogging serves a very useful function: daily dose of application which keeps brain on the rails and body sated via the release of dopamine. However, there’s always been a wish that eventually, there might be content good enough to throw at the World for consumption. This week, it has finally begun to happen.

There’s a couple of interesting Poetry mentorships up for grabs at present, both of which have a late July deadline and require a three-poem ‘sampler’ from prospective applicants. That means at least six pieces, to a standard that reflects the development I’ve made so far. Over the last two days there’s been a re-writing of an English standard, my reaction to ASD, masturbation, the Internet, bisexuality and internet stalking all used as basis for a raft of work that reflects what I am far more truthfully than anything else thus far written. Looking at the pile to my right, five are in primary editing phase already.

It is as if my brain’s just been waiting for the moment to disgorge all this stuff at once.

The title of my poetry book, should it be required, is taken from a Father John Misty song which I discovered back in February. To give you an idea of subconscious turnaround times, it has taken that long for the poem spawned by that song to come out of my head and onto the page, but now it has I am immensely pleased with the results. It’s a realisation that with the right stimulus and enough space for my brain to distil, there’s the real possibility that I can become more than a competent poet. I can be political, and honest, but most importantly true to myself.

Now, it’s a case of editing everything and doing the covering letters to match. Those are easy, it’s the poems that were the problem, but now the measure of my mind is marked, the worry is beginning to slip away.

I can actually do this.

Art for Art’s Sake

It’s twenty-one days before my holiday begins: not that I’m counting days or anything, but last night the dates were put in the Work Diary, which has somehow made the entire experience a bit more real. The poetry deadlines are looming for the first couple of awards/contests that I feel are feasible to enter, and last night my work to show for this was woeful. As of typing this (12.07 p.m.) there’s FIVE pieces of work whose foundations I’m very proud of. There is, I think, a way forward.

It’s as if my brain finally turned up and got with the programme.

I edited some novel last night, and today I’ll prune and organise a portion of the scheduling backlog. Wednesday is the World Cup semi-final so as much as I can get done before 7pm will be great, and then a part of me is considering cycling to the entire thing in the shed, because then I have to focus on something other than worrying about whether we win or not. The week’s been planned out, but already today has come the need to throw that away and focus on the poems. Once upon a time, this would have ruined the rest of my week. Things are slowly becoming easier to deal with.

It might not seem like much to you but its a big deal to me.

escalated.gif

If I can keep this impetus up for the rest of the week, there should be space on Friday to begin planning for August’s scheduling…

Poetry Archive :: Stop

I fall in love almost every day.


Stop

That’s quite enough, stop
here, let me out: terminate
sad, pointless journey.

To expect support
without offering same: stop
pushing love away.

This is a paper
relationship: flimsiest
construction of lies.

Better start, grant
license for change: emerging
redefinition.

You can drop me here,
Qualify yourself: travel
alone, start afresh.