Poetry Archive :: Enlightenment

Ah, the benefit of hindsight. It’s too late to worry about it now: just take what you’ve got and make the most of it. ALSO stop using the word stress because it is only making things worse. You’re a writer, dammit! BE MORE CREATIVE.


Enlightenment

The fog, now lifting:
Mists recede: enlightenment
Presented, begins.

Choice, complexity
Defined through pain: revealing
Uncomfortable truths.

Reality grows
As consciousness shifts; within
Perception altered.

It has come to this
Line in the sand: drawn, ignored
Facts instead embraced.

Sometimes, to start fresh
Acceptable direction:
Reach out, ask for help.


Poetry Archive :: Don’t Panic

There’s been a phenomenal amount of stress this week, which has not come from the Internet. Fortunately, as you are reading this I’ll (hopefully) be sitting in a field with a drink in my hand and all the trauma will be a distant memory. This set of microverses is the standard reminder to myself that honestly, truthfully, none of this really matters. Just live each day as it comes and stop worrying about everything else.


Don’t Panic

Don’t start with dim outlook:
Life, not some kind of drill.
One run at the track, mate:
How many false starts now?

Prevaricate, pointless
Helps nobody long term.
Hiding sudden panic
Fact: everyone’s alone.

Once dust settles, centre
Thoughts, redirecting self.
No more self-absorption
Break apart this problem.

Always take assistance
Whenever given: friend
In your corner, support
During difficulty.

Far brighter future when
Ownership taken, life
Improving steadily:
Strong future, reinforced.


 

EX/WHI :: Part One

Previous Part :: Next Part



Arrival Minus One

This hotel room is beyond his normal range: the British government are now paying for a polished, understated testimony as expert witness, so it makes sense that they’d offer the best. There is no time to worry about jet-lag either: Mark can sleep all afternoon, once the initial briefing is handled and his part in process outlined. To get this man to court at all was a miracle, and to then gather sufficient evidence to formally convict the bastard… normally, professional scumbags like Mehdi Alami were simply removed from the equation with a carefully-placed bullet in theatre.

This time however, the Moroccan’s handiwork with C4, a 747 and a bribed airport official had murdered innocent British and American lives: for that reason alone everybody got to wear their best suits and string him up to dry. The Brits had pursued this bomber, hoping to find him alive for close to a decade: Chambers had discovered him in a Russian brothel completely by accident, on CIA intelligence that suggested he was somebody else entirely.

All that had ever been seen of London before this was Tower Bridge and the Tower of London: as his holster is adjusted under the Tom Ford jacket, SIG not even removed, there’s a mental note to maybe do some sightseeing this time. His liaison will be meeting him outside, before driving them to Court, where he’ll be briefed on what will happen in the days going forward. If this all goes to plan, a couple of hours testimony is all it will end up being, and he can take his MI6 shadow out for a nice dinner at the best Dim Sum place in Chinatown.

Once his own barf had been cleaned up, her file made entertaining reading on the descent to Heathrow. Amelia was something of a folk legend amongst his community of professional assassins: if you asked certain Americans they’d laugh, making a convincing pitch that this woman doesn’t even exist, simply a PR stunt to make the Secret Service look good. You can’t have physical and mental brilliance and still be alive in your mid 40’s. There’s something wrong with that picture: she’s an amalgam of other’s statistics, never as good as her male colleagues, because that would just be wrong.

Mark knows better. This was the right way to do his job, an example in planning, execution and dedication to task. Other men would be jealous, or aroused by her pedigree. Not him. Ami is just the best at what she does, pure and simple, and if you let stuff like that intimidate, there’s never a chance to try for redemption. Instead, failing agents need to be inspired by brilliance and not look like a fucking loser when you tell her that she’s an inspiration.

There might be a decade between them in age, but she is fitter and smarter than Chambers will ever manage. It is time therefore to ignore the tiredness, go find her in the Hotel’s underground car park, and not fuck this first impression up.



Previous Part
:: Next Part

 

Go

This Summer, I am going to push myself into entering a number of awards and trying to get my peculiar talent-set noticed on a wider stage. Despite what some might think, this isn’t about building a massive multi-media empire. That’s the easy part: what is harder for me is the recognition that a fifty-summat writer can be considered as a neophyte, and that there is so much to learn as yet undiscovered.

Therefore, these things matter, and I’ll be pushing to produce/showcase my best work for inclusion to the following:


Penguin Write Now (Novel) (second attempt!) :: Entries close July 9th.

Poetry School (Mentoring) :: Entries close July 22nd

The Woman’s Poet Prize (Mentoring) :: Entries close July 23rd

Aesthetica Magazine (Poetry and Short Story) :: Entries close August 31st

The Poetry Society :: Entries close October 31st


Undoubtedly there are more, but for now this is my limit in terms of ability and real life.

Let’s be honest here, I’m a realist after all. Knowing how many people, with considerably more ability and experience enter these things, being realistic as to my chances is as important as presenting the best output possible. There’ll be no spamming of timelines or incessant banging on about how excited it is waiting for the outcomes. If my work is good enough, then someone will eventually take notice.

That’s the mindset that keeps the whole process moving forward to begin with.

It’s a Small World

Today, we start a daily endeavour for the next week, which may well be extended as time goes on, depending on reception. I’m using every character of the 280 word Twitter limit to tell tiny stories about technology, and how it might alter our lives as time goes on. I’ll then be adding all the tweets (and the tales) to this thread so that when the week is done, you have a record of them all.

Without further ado, let’s begin:

Poetry Archive :: Connected

Considering the amount of time I spend in the Virtual World, there really pught to be more written about it from a poetic standpoint. Consider this notice that’s going to happen, and that there’s a tenable connection between life and data.

Again, another one for the ‘very happy how it turned out’ pile.


Connected

Your head’s in the Cloud,
Virtual resonance moves;
Desires anthesis.

Sensuality,
Neurons intertwine: perfect
Synergy commenced.

Together, upload
Combined want: arousal sparks
Joint start-up sequence.

Data conjoining,
Interfaces touch: buffered
Downloads intermix.

New programme written,
Connecting: past and present,
Our aggregation.


 

Poetry Archive :: Disconnected

Amazingly, this has worked far better than I’d initially expected. In fact, this is something I’m very proud of. It’s also ended up as incredibly personal.

Funny how that happens sometimes.


Disconnected

Palpable loss, surrounding
Remains of this broken brain:
Was deconstruction worthwhile?
Unplugged, life disconnected.

Corpse of worthwhile anguish, strewn:
Crime scene sectioned off, weapon
Bloodied yet unbowed. Escape
Impossible; arrested.

Considering our failures,
Largely worthless exercise:
Run instead past this roadblock
Fleeing pointless metaphor.

Command, unconnected bursts
Randomly piled. Makes no sense
Yet begins transformation,
Create order in chaos.

From disassociation,
Confused, frightening signals
Finally, things get better:
Simplicity emerging.