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.


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.

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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.


EX/WHI :: Part Four

Previous Part :: Next Part


His bitterness is a surprise, Ami concludes with understandable resignation. He’s undoubtedly one of the Good Guys, already warmed to because at no point has any action suggested he’s seeing her as anything other than equal. An increasing conviction emerges that cheap gags or easy answers don’t exist in his repertoire: once you’ve had it with the opposite sex, there’s no need to worry about their rituals to begin a relationship. He stares instead of at her across the World, moving outside glass of the coffee bar, oddly obsessed with people passing to and from the City, before turning with clear confusion.

‘Something’s wrong here, tell me this isn’t just jet-lag.’

‘What are you seeing?’

‘Watch this guy outside, the one with the umbrella and the black backpack. I’m convinced he’s been past the window at least three times…’

As eyes follow the well dressed, middle aged man, something truly amazing transpires: as soon as city trader moves out of range of the glass window, he inexplicably vanishes. Literally blinking out of existence, the same individual returns to his point of origin, appearing again on the other side of the road before commencing an identical journey. With mounting horror, Ami grasps that this background might look like a busy London street, but the people trapped within it are simply recordings, looped to give an appearance of a busy rush hour scene.

The horror isn’t restricted to outside either: turning to look at the coffee bar, patrons are acting as if they were characters in a video game: same movements, repeated conversations, all looped to give the impression of normality. Staring at Chris, he’s doing his best not to look frightened but this is currently beyond collective comprehension. If an enemy was going to try and intercept them on the way to the Royal Courts of Justice, this is an incredibly complex and horribly expensive bait and snare. It makes no sense, when you could bundle them both into a van. This is something to do with the car, her sleepless night, his plane trip and the ozone…

She can taste that smell everywhere, which is beginning to inhibit breathing.

They’re in real trouble: brain is running too fast, anxiety now gnawing at the edges of consciousness. The coffee’s done nothing to help, and Ami needs to be moving, not sitting. Chambers anticipates her and is already standing, motioning her to do the same, but as they do the entire World shudders, throwing him into her body. They cling onto each other for a moment before the entire coffee bar appears to rotate completely on its axis: tables end up above them a joint grips tighten, pulling them closer not simply for protection.

The nightmare does not affect anyone else, however, their recorded lives continuing unabated: the morning rituals on a loop, oblivious to nightmare scenario playing out for Chambers and Bishop. Neither are now capable of movement, frozen in a moment of time that has been taken out of their hands: for a second both think the exact, same thought, before consciousnesses shut down.

I don’t want to die like this.

==

The suitability of this match is
even more fortunate
than was first considered.



Previous Part
:: Next Part

Closing Time

There comes a moment in your working week when, under the pressure of about 35 things you’d like to do but know are unrealistic, something gives. Before for me it would undoubtedly be the personal stuff that was thrown by the wayside, but this time is going to be different. I know where the finish line is, this year, because I drew it. In previous years I’ve taken work with me and combined it with relaxation. Things are going to be a little less regimented during this Summer.

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A part of it has to do with not knowing what kind of Internet access we’ll have whilst being away, but mostly this is me recognising that my biggest failing possessed by some way is an inability to know when to stop working. Therefore this month will be a process of planning what needs to be done to cover the gaps for four weeks, and if it is successful I’ll repeat this process in February. This then gives me two clear months away from the daily worries concerning writing, and to focus then on Arguto. If this all works out, Issue 2 will be available on February 20th, 2019.

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The idea of a Winter and Summer magazine pleases me, and allows other stuff to happen in the background. It also allows the vital space to insert jobs like writing poetry for contests and editing existing work. All of this is eminently doable in the time-frames assuming I’m smart enough to organise far enough in advance. Right now that means sacrificing the occasional exercise day, but after the adrenaline-fuelled evening I had yesterday with the Football, both mind and body are pretty happy for the break. It isn’t just the mental stuff that needs addressing, after all.

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Tonight’s plan is to get all of the You Tube contents from the last two and a bit months up to date, whilst simultaneously seeing if I can’t schedule the rest of July’s stuff at the same time. If all of THAT gets dealt with the weekend can begin to front load the stuff for the holiday. I’m mindful too that maybe I could do with a short story to publish whilst I’m away, as that feature has become far and away my most popular daily post via Social media. Maybe I could do something holiday-related…

Right, quite enough nattering from me. Time to write the words.

Poetry Archive :: All Change

We’re halfway through the year, and this is becoming less and less like wading through treacle. The haiku have always been easier (though occasionally I slip up on syllables) but making decent, fully-formed poems is still causing issues, before making sure the five verses combine to work as a cohesive whole. The learning process on these is often harder than the long-form poetry. Perfectionism is a harsh mistress.

The effort is becoming more and more worthwhile with each passing week.


All Change

Kind, the new mantra
Applied liberally: think
Consideration.

Care, in the moments
Where others falter: conscience
Bought to this debate.

It’s okay to leave,
If all else fails: walk away
Reconsider change.

From this chaos grows
Fresh impetus: defining
Your new way forward.

Congratulations,
It’s happening: transforming
This life, redefined.


Paranoid Android

I have a problem with self-promotion.

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Things have improved over the last couple of years, but the whole ‘sell yourself’ thing is tough. It isn’t just the British reserve either, far more significant worries from beginning to grasp there’s been a lifetime of misinterpreting the signals of others in personal situations to assimilate first. Getting all that settled in my head’s been a fairly notable undertaking but finally, there is light at the end of the mother of all tunnels.

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This means that, starting in September, the promotion machine will move into high gear. I suspect this site will undergo a revamp, to try and make it more friendly to potential individuals and organisations who may wish to approach. For those of you who don’t like the idea of me getting all commercial? I’m sorry, but at least part of my future is now being pushed this way, and there’s no going back now. This week the first of many applications for writing support is submitted, plus poetry finalisedto be considered for financial gain.

There really is no going back from this path now.

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I’m cautiously optimistic for the future, because pinning all your hopes on summat and then watching it fail is no way to live a sensible existence. We’ll just keep plugging away at this stuff for as long as is needed, and keep on writing in the spaced in between. That’s what matters most of all: not the recognition, but the words that narrate life’s inevitable progress.

That’s something I’m getting increasingly good at controlling.