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.
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.
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
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
Lyrical, lurid, unbelievably empty and always
When I read it, I say – my God I’d love to write
But I follow my patterns
I write what I would
Like to read and maybe even sometimes,
Thinks it’s pretty good.
As Shakespeare said: ‘what dreams may come’?
Lying spreadeagled under the moon
no tension there but an occasional moan,
Morning light will come too soon.
Resting on his laurels now
The leaves of which will flavour
His dream meals of tomorrow,
And the joys he has yet to savour.
And his throne will hide his tired eyes
He dreams not yet of how far he’ll rise,
The future cannot be explained
So slumber on, little prince,
With carefree snores and whines
What dreams may come, no one can tell,
But tonight your dreams are your design.
Fur (n.) a covering of hair, often found on animals and human young
Furry cute little creatures.
Creatures that bite,
Bite at your nose,
They sense your presence
And your fears
You can never go by
That cage in the window
Staring. you. out.
Out of the cage
Out of sight.
Years pass by and you say you’re
They won’t harm you
Probably not even alive’
But their trace survives
Inside your head
Your brain cage
Between your ears
And although you know that they are dead,
You still feel
Instilled in you
By the fur years
It hangs like a terrible tapestry
In the throne room of your house
You receive your exalted guests
Beneath its colorful folds,
Less blue and green than pastel shades
But the swirls of cartographic art
Embed in my mind the legend
‘Here be monsters’