Poetry Archive :: Grace

The haiku, on the other hand, goes from strength to strength. It’s the fact there’s structure that makes this much easier to write. My ASD brain thrives within structure.

I gotta fix that and see if there is the means to allow chaos to thrive more…


Grace

Calm, unruffled shift
compose yourself: commencing
graceful attitude.

Ignore fanciful
focus instead: rotating
facets reflecting.

Develop passion,
enquiring: development
mind’s enlightenment.

From depths of belief
soul’s true calling: reasoning,
remake this life, whole.

Emerging, reborn
eloquence: serenity
perfect conclusion.


Poetry Archive :: Favour

This was a disaster. There’s good in it, however, and it will be re-appraised in time. Once I do, there’ll have been lessons learnt about overreaching, metaphor and the way poetry ought to sound, because this is guilty of a lot of bad things.

–  So, why is it here? Shouldn’t you only publish good things?

No. I need to show I’m aware of mistakes being made, and where there has to be improvement. pretending all I ever do is good might look like a good idea but, on reflection the bad matters almost as much. If a prospective publisher came and found this, on reflection, I’d want to show that this journey isn’t simply about shoving anything up for public view. Choosing work that needs work is a willingness to accept that this is still an evolution.

There is a lot of work still to do.


Favour

Easier option; smarter child
low maintenance relationship
this rump steak isn’t medium rare
consumed with resignation.
Without contempt; bandwagon jumped
that other person’s better choice
perennial balancing act
favour the little guy.

Favourite all, follow no-one
retweeting memes, .GIF memories
Facebook Group friends will never meet
virtual tryst not meant to be.
Juggling lives, ignoring fools
ideal position for abuse
the quiet ones always trouble
a fool with most to lose.

Weight every option, online plan
Compare my Everything dot com
patronage for niche ideas
bright stitched, constructed web of buys.
Coffee pot turned on from work
dimming lights whilst traffic jams
does mobile tech improve a life
perhaps just sham, not future proof.

Take a moment; values shift
advanced consumerism sucks
sheer weight of noise, heavy deafness
ears bleed, brains slowly waste away.
Other’s plans can’t dictate choice
firmly remaining present tense
eroding thoughts of future past
removal of free thought and deed.

Perhaps the answer’s in belief
ancient mistakes our lessons learnt
rebuilding ideals, firm intent
target those lives which need the most.
Success not measured by these things
material wealth to put aside
eternal hope springs forth desire
favour constructive change of mind.


EX/WHI :: Part Fourteen

Previous Part :: Next Part


Consciousness returns unexpectedly: no dreams precede it, yet sense remains of being observed, examined before there was nothing, silence. Chris is no longer outside: this isn’t the cafe they were abducted in either. He can count tables though, re-purposed pieces of wood on delicate, metal legs to his left, stripped wooden floorboards with power sockets sunk into floor level. There’s concern about moving, considering how much pain existed before but everything is better than it was. He’s been completely reconstructed at a cellular level…

That reassurance came before he’d passed out, gentle voice heard somewhere behind field of vision, at the back of a neck which prickles at the memory, skin reacting to warmth and a familiar smell… CK One, somewhere to his right…

‘Wow. You have been busy.’

Disbelief and surprise interrupt Ami, about a metre away. She stands at one end of a long, white wall, on which space of several meters long and a meter high is covered with her neat, organised handwriting. Chris now needs to be upright, scrabbling to sit, already taking in what’s she’s been working on during his enforced absence. This woman’s industry is becoming indispensable, inspiring and frankly impressive. Across the white space is a detailed breakdown of everything that has happened to her since Thursday: it is logical to assume that the blank spaces have been left for him to fill in… but there’s a more pressing question that first needs to be asked.

‘Where did you get the pens?’

‘I asked for them, along with a blanket plus another camp bed for me. I assumed they’d not want us to discuss this, but it would appear that our reactions to experiences are now as important a part of the process.’

‘You know that’s what’s going on?’

‘I haven’t actually asked yet, if I’m honest, I wouldn’t anyway if you weren’t able to take part in the decision making. That’s something we both have to agree on first.’

‘Did they move us together?’

‘No, you disappeared and then I got shown where you’d been taken. I’d like to think all this has been set up because they’d seen me taking notes in the cafe and wanted somewhere in the simulation where I could work our situation unhindered, but that is simply speculation and nothing more.’

‘So, I was just here when you arrived?’

‘There is so much to tell you but I have no idea when they’ll be back, and they could erase this all when they do, so I needed to get started on fixing the timeline whilst you were in stasis -’

‘Stasis?’

‘It wasn’t just unconsciousness, you had this invisible barrier around you. I couldn’t interact at all. I assume it was to fix whatever was damaged.’

‘You’re right, I know they’re not here, because at least one of them was watching me until everything was fixed, then they left. How long ago did the barrier drop?’

‘About an hour by my watch. Are you feeling well enough to join in?’


Previous Part :: Next Part

Write Now :: The Book of Shame

I don’t know how other writers deal with rejection, except that it is something that anyone who writes will encounter the moment they throw themselves into competition. It is the inevitable consequence of attempting to be noticed, belief that one is only worthy when a total stranger decides your writing deserving of a wider audience. The problem, of course, is picking up confidence after failure, then carrying on.

I’m not sure if this is novel or not, but rejection here is dealt with via the Book of Shame.

Ever since I started entering contests in 2017, this is where the stuff is remembered: a copy of my poetry printed out, then stuck in place, with accompanying notes to remind what inspired the pieces, and what was learnt from them. The idea is to try and evolve after each piece or group of poems, alter approach and style to better mach the increasing amount of poetry that is being read, and then finally to transcend the feelings of failure. Shame, in this case, is not a bad emotion. It is the understanding that from failure comes progress, and to recall how that took place is as important as the poetry itself.

It’s easy to print the collections in a tiny format on my shonky printer: four poems to a page of A4 and then they’re cut up and stapled together. One of these two will now have four poems added for a second hit at a pamphlet submission, because I honestly think it is good enough. This is the first time that’s happened, and hopefully not the last. It will only get easier if I do more work, after all, and my workload/schedule is beginning to bear fruit in that regard. Who knew that if you keep writing, things get better?

newtype5

In the unlikely event I do hit the jackpot, its where I’ll have lots of lovely background stuff to pull from as what inspired me to write in the first place. Whatever happens, it has become a way of celebrating progress and not allowing failure to consume me.

This Book of Shame is one of the most important things I’ve ever made.

Pictures At An Exhibition: Two

There’s going to be back-to-back posts here today (mostly allowing schedule to get back up to date) and also a commitment to a project that was started last year, and which proved to be of significant personal enjoyment to try again this year.

Yup, THINK-TOBER is back.

think-tober 2018.png

I don’t get on with Instagram. It took a lot of heartache (and the Cambridge Analytica debacle) to make me grasp that I don’t want to be a part of a generation of users that only see a perfect image, whilst failing to grasp what spontaneity means. To add both depth and breadth to my experiences, it isn’t just about visual composition. There need to be words.

So, this time we will do this differently. Twitter will be the medium used as delivery, and content will have themes, rather than the insistence a certain word is used in each haiku… and because that format is now much loved by myself as poetry in a distilled, eloquence microcosm of feeling? Makes perfect sense.

header131.png

October is also quite nicely formed this year too: the 1st is a Monday, which gives us four weeks’ worth of beginnings and ends, with a three day conclusion at the end. In that respect, the overall theme of the month’s decided: Symphony. Under this, there will be four blocks of seven haiku, which will all tie together around the weekly sub-headings.

I’ll share titles, artwork and a look into my thought processes in the next post: there’ll be use of archive pictures, new work and stuff especially planned for the month. The overall plan is to create a self-produced and curated sequence of images and words, which (hopefully) will stimulate something positive in my readers. The only way I’ll know if it works is to try.

I’m already very excited at the possibilities.

Blue Sky Thinking :: Doubt

[INT; Alt’s Brain. Things have definitely improved since our last visit. Papers have been filed, cabinets are slowly being refilled. The skeleton staff of GUILT and REMORSE are beginning to make some inroads, revealing lavender walls and a dark blue carpet. GOOD and EVIL have their own separate desks, on which are piled roughly even stacks of folders, behind which is a whiteboard with a series of To Do Tasks marked in red and black.

GOOD returns from the coffee machine with two mugs, placing one on her desk before taking the other to BAD, when she stops, face creasing in confusion… ]

GOOD: How many sugars did you say again?

BAD: I’m going to write this on a Post It and staple it to your jacket. Every day is the same: I say two, you repeat it after me, then off you go and forget!

GOOD: I *think* there’s two in there, but the best way is for you to drink it and let me know –

BAD: It’s BLACK COFFEE woman, I can’t drink that now, it’s far too hot!

[DOUBT suddenly materialises between them, dressed only in underpants and a reindeer headband.]

DOUBT: There’s no sugar, you were distracted by Beauty at the water-cooler again, YOU FAIL!

[As quickly as he appeared, DOUBT is gone, leaving the faint whiff of Stilton in his wake. With a heavy sigh, GOOD trudges back to the machine. BAD watches her with a satisfied smile. These shortcomings were always her undoing…]


I tried yesterday to explain what is like when I experience a mental overload. Then it occurred to me that poetry might be quite useful as a descriptor in this situation. This poem’s existed on the hard drive for a while, but never with a confidence to use as explanation. The time has come.

This is my brain, folks. It’ll be here all week.


Doubt

Disparate threads, basic command
thwarted, abortive path untied
slack flax unwoven, memories
playback fast freeze instruction,
coil induction feedback loop
return track, switch back, look out
reload to starting point.

Every action, reproduction
remember how, order direction
exhaustion, normal purpose
fatigue makes it worse, rehearse
varied needs, cover all, enthral
then overload, as brain explodes.
Noise, sound, panic compounds.

Sit, breathe, withdraw, ignore
wait, noise abates with time
blissful calm, relief morphs doubt
I’ll never find my way back out.
To dream, one day, far away
dissonance dim history.
Then sleep, escape myself.


Poetry Archive :: Mellow

Writing haiku has never really presented a problem, but this restart will give an opportunity to try and be a bit more creative with my imagery. Life, after all, should always be about improvement…


Mellow

Exhale, entwining
bramble’s thorn: protection sharp
relief, juice running.

Seeds burst, explosion
air filled arousal; inhale
winter’s cool foreplay.

Stretching days contract,
hour sacrificed: dark gods
conjure fresh secrets.

Bare arms warm wool-wrapped,
chill morning glass: pumpkin spice
flavours memories.

Summer hanging on
fingertips, slipping: fallen
leaves mark, transition.