An actual update from me. Good to be back.

After an unexpectedly long absence, I am going to come back to blogging land. I am not sure whether I’m doing it correctly or not, but I have decided that that is not for me to decide.

Anyhow, as you may notice from my other posts, I’ve been writing a lot of poetry in the last few months, some of it even getting published, which is wonderful and a real boost for someone like me who doesn’t have a huge amount of faith that people will like their work.

The poems come and go every so often. Lately with working and being a dad, my mind hasn’t had much time for switching to poetry mode. I hope this changes. As much as yoga and healthy eating, I found poetry quite relaxing and helpful during the pregnancy and early months. (Others have different methods, see @TiredDaddy’s blog for entertaining stories of dad-hood) Now that the young lad is moving and we are both working, a moment to lie down and take a deep breath might result in a nap rather than any poetry (or exercise either)

That being said, I am managing to find a bit of time to partake in a FutureLearn MOOC called ‘Start Writing Fiction’. This has taken up my writing time over the last few weeks and is the reason for returning to the blog. I’m not planning to give up poetry, but from now on, expect to find more character sketches, short stories and rants from me (as myself)

In the meantime, here is a poem I wrote back in August, staring at the cloud-shadowed moon from an urban wasteland.

“NIGHTWIDE MIND”

Searching for signals from deep in the sublime

The portal being opened from within  our time

We direct our gaze at the outern edge

And to one another we make this solemn pledge

“That never more shall your ears fail to see,

That knowledge of wisdom found deep in the trees”

And entranced we march into the gaping jaws

Of night’s dark terror, which gives us no pause

The delight which drags us on to our doom,

Is unlike to be found in a twilit tomb

But the open air of the hilltop crest

Would lead us happily to our rest

And while our fellow actors lie in wait, 

We stand alone upon the slate

Our roles to be played in the act of defence

The land we cherished has lost all its sense

Ourselves alone searching for a starry home

And a fitting end to a meaningless poem.

On homecoming

Where we have been is a beautiful memory,

Fading fast as though steeped in sepia

A photograph album soaking in tea.

And tea is one thing not lacking

After all the trips to the car, unpacking

The tea was last in, first out

Except our son, without a doubt 

and we drank in both, the journey ended.

As our house we once again befriended.

The days of sun and tiger mosquito bites remain 

But neither will quite be the same, in the city

The mosquitoes are less bitey

The sun is less shiney

Its glare seemingly harder somehow

As the voices of neighbours are harder and loud

Amplified in the closeness, proximity defeats

The possibility of keeping our vacation Secret.

“Ah you’re home?! It must have been grand.”

“You’re looking fierce well, were you out on the strand?”

And the questions push mirrors before our beautiful lives 

And our ghostly, but real memories merely live on inside.

Painter’s Muse

You stood stock still in the golden hour

Your brush dangled from your hand as you scrutinised the scene

It was the first time I’d watched you work

And the joy and the freedom were almost more than I could handle.

If I moved – to speak or to scratch,

You would gesture impatiently for me to resume my stance,

The crickets clicked their deafening wings

While the lowering sun engulfed us both in its splendour.

The heat of the day would not subside, but would linger

Long into the hot summer night, the mosquitoes usurping the crickets

Your sensual, gentle strokes continuing,

As your final touches transformed the wasteland around us into paradise

Running on Fumes

If ​a final fume were found

In the recess of my tank

I could keep on running round

And I’d let my mind stay blank

If a final fume were found

At the bottom of my lungs

I would exhale it all around 

As I let my song be sung

If that final fume were found

At the end of a long day

I could run another hour

To see the ones who had to stay

When those final fumes are found

In my life of joy and toil

I can keep running on fumes 

And forget about the oil

poetic injustice

I write what I would

Like to read and sometimes

I Even try to rhyme and not put too many words in one line
But then again 

Poetry can

Be surprising.

Beautiful.

Lyrical, lurid, unbelievably empty and always

Unpredictable.

When I read it, I say – my God I’d love to write

Like that!

But I follow my patterns

I write what I would 

Like to read and maybe even sometimes,

Someone,

Somewhere,

Thinks it’s pretty good.