Poem – ‘A’ Is For Attraction

Writing

Enveloped in an aura of eternal amor.

Any armour I adorned,

Has been undone, it has been torn. 

 

Most magnetic is the mystery.

My mind is mute from misery,

As my heart mends from the lover before.

 

‘A’ is for attraction,

The feeling of acceptance,

Of an emotion more alien and more raw.

 

The feeling I have for you,

With the most painful kind of hope,

That you had it for me too, and not her.

Being Called A C*nt By A Stranger

Writing

It’s not everyday that you can indulge in the luxury of having off-the-cuff profanities spat at you on a public street whilst on your daily commute home from work.

So given that exactly this unfolded this very evening makes me really want to count my lucky stars and thank God for all of the socially defunct individuals who scuttle through our streets, waiting to pounce unannounced on the unprepared passerby a.k.a. moi.

No matter who you are or where you are, rest assured, an ill-mannered, pale and stale son of a b*tch will force their way into your life if only for a moment to p*ss on your parade. What kind of world do we live in where you can’t even walk down a residential street without being told you’re a c*nt by a stranger? Cat calls are bad enough but to say something so vulgar such as the C-word is a total disrespect and disregard for me as a human being.

If the world p*sses you off, don’t take it out on me. Mental-illness gets a bypass, but if you are not mentally-ill and instead you are someone who quite bluntly gets a kick out of straight-up verbally insulting someone you know nothing about then  you’re someone we should feel sorry for. For your life must be in a seriously dire state for you to be so cruel.

As the hooded man in his late-thirties stared into my soul while simultaneously slating it as he spewed the expletive with such conviction, I felt a tremor of shock ripple through my body. I turned my head to ensure he wasn’t going to step up his verbal assault with a physical one.

I stopped momentarily, struck by confusion as to why someone who doesn’t know me felt so compelled to say such a thing. As I watched him fade into the darkness of the Winter evening, my thoughts of confusion followed and faded alongside him too. In exchange came one clear intrinsic thought – ‘why be an enemy to yourself when you have plenty of enemies in this world’, not to say that every stranger I encounter is an enemy but moreso it’s this idea that we are all so hard on ourselves. We can be our own worst enemies, we look at self-love as something which is either mushy or big-headed. But those who see it in these lights fail to understand the true meaning of love. Perhaps love means different things to different people, to me it is an unconditional kindness and care for someone/something. Absent of harm, and full of compassion. It’s funny how we can apply all of these to another human being yet can struggle so much to apply them to ourselves. I am notoriously hard on myself, and I’m sure there has been times in your life where you have been so too. When you reflect on the ‘stick over carrot’ model this, do you think it has led to better or worse outcomes? Better or worse moods?

Perhaps I really should be thankful for the stranger who called me the c-word. For he made me realise that self-love is more important than I may have believed previously. I’m not saying that we need to put our guards up to strangers and repeat affirmation after affirmation to ourselves in the bathroom mirror before blowing ourselves a big kiss each morning. But I do believe if we were to even pause for a moment each day and reflect on how we are feeling, how well we are looking after ourselves then really all of us would be in a better place. Maybe even the man who swore at me today, he needs some self-reflection! Some self-care.

I hope you aren’t too hard on yourself, and if you are then don’t be! Because someone may just call you a c*nt for being so!

 

neon signage

Photo by Ivan Bertolazzi on Pexels.com

The Arrival…..

Writing

From the Coronavirus to Storm Ciara, it feels like judgement day has well and truly arrived. I helped an old lady cross the road last week, so for that alone I’m sure Jesus will bless me with the golden ticket straight up the squeaky escalator to Heaven and by doing so ensure that the fiery gates of Hell are for sure in my far far distant past.

For everyday of this week my Google newsfeed had bombarded me with biased negative reportings. None moreso than this contagious virus which is sending the whole world into a pandemic panic.

With images like this flooding the feed you can’t help but feel a hot flush of sheer terror radiate through your body:

Capture

Courtesy of Mirror.co.uk

Look at this! The only one without a suit transporting Brits to a quarantine centre in the UK is the driver! Why?

 Because I quote – wearing the suits would ‘pose a greater risk than the risk of contracting the virus itself’ says the Government officials. So in other words – if you put that hazmat suit on you’ll not be able to hold that steering wheel correctly due to the suits restrictive nature and may drive us all off a cliff as a result. So instead of taking us all out, just catch the virus like the rest of us and there may be a  chance that some of us may pull through. It’s all a game of probability really, isn’t it?

So, the coach isn’t looking like the cosiest set up if I’m thinking of heading to the coast anyday this week, and neither is a plane as it seems that Storm Ciara makes landing back from your business trip look like the fastest way to a heart attack. Take a watch of this:

Courtesy of Rehaan Omar

I guess if London really does become like ‘28 weeks later’, or ‘The Day After Tomorrow’ then I’m getting my ass on a kayak and paddling my noodle body to Easter Island. 

I think I’ll be browsing some positive news from now on, maybe ignorance is bliss! Perhaps this – Good News Network

A Poem About Love

Writing

Love.

Imaginary, or a force of nature?

Like the idea of ‘consciousness’.

Are they both just falsehoods,

Or truly realities experienced by those favoured?

 

Love.

As comforting as a hot bowl of soup,

On a cold frosty evening.

In its absence we are all but,

Lost souls, floating on rafts destined for sinking.

 

Love.

Perhaps yearned for more than money itself,

A truth too close to the heart,

That we mask it with our insatiable appetite for wealth.

I gush with guilt in admitting to the above.

Only to find myself alone at night,

Wondering. What it means to be loved. 

 

The Wacky Walking Race

Writing

Have you ever had a silent race on a footpath with a stranger? Where you both take it turns  to overtake one another. Steadily and surely picking up the pace in a desperate attempt to outmaneuver your opponent.

I’ve had this too, but what I haven’t had is an argument with an old lady who is desperately trying to outrun me on a  residential road on my walk home from work. Well, atleast that was the case until yesterday.

Yesterday evening it was dark, 5.30pm was fast approaching and my legs were making a speedy getaway from the workplace. On my usual route home I walk through quite a nice middle-class neighbourhood which, to my finding, can act as a quite the backdrop to some not so nice characters. As I trot down this residential road, as I do every other day, I try to overtake  a fellow commuter – a short elderly woman, who was walking at a slow pace and had a grocery bag full of red wine.  This was a maneuver I should have never attempted, no sooner am I inches ahead of her than can I see out of the corner of my eye her grey haired head bobbing straight passed me as she jogs with vigor to get ahead of me. I found this peculiar but thought nothing of it and so attempted to get passed granny once again. Yet this time, before I even had the chance to get parallel to her, she spins her head round like The Exorcist to glare at me before 1, 2 3, going at full throttle running the street to get away from me.

In shock at her antics I held back out of fear that had I somehow managed to outpace the geriatric then she’d have taken it upon herself to do me in in such classy style with a bottle of red wine to the back of the skull. And with that image quickly flashing into my head I decided to detour up a side road to avoid that rather inconvenient yet very probably possibility. And in doing so, the old doll, now an ant-like size in the distance, shouts back –  ‘good riddance, piss off’!

Now, bearing in mind I don’t know this woman from Adam or Eve, I have not bumped off her first born, taken the last red wine bottle in the supermarket or told her she’s a coffin dodger, so what is her problem? Can I not walk own the street without being hurled abuse at?

But I guess this is nothing compared to getting your hair spray painted red by an absolute stranger as you wait for bus no.24 at your local bus stop. Later do you come to realise through the city news rags that your newfound hairdresser is actually an escapee of a local London asylum. But I guess that’s a story for another time…..;)

Are You Poorer Than Me?

Writing

I’m so sick of being poor. Yes I may have a roof over my head and food in my fridge but when you can’t decorate your rooms or make meals beyond tins of soup and sweetcorn then what’s the point? I might aswell be living in The Amazon, atleast then I’ll avoid the council tax and eyewateringly long queues at the supermarket checkout. 

 

Yes I may be whinging about a first world problem but I believe this is a key reason for my upheaval in the first place. If I did infact live in a tribe in a forest then I wouldn’t know what I’m missing necessarily. How can I miss the sight of some dope dealer sporting the latest balenciaga’s, or the gluttonous geezer buying the ‘extra special’ range in Sainsbury’s when I wouldn’t have the foggiest what either two of these concepts were? You can’t miss what you’ve never witnessed I guess. I would be comfortable and content with my relationships and my tribal lifestyle. 

 

Perhaps that’s just it, in the society I live in, less emphasis is placed on the value of social relationships, instead these are sidelined for the stars of this farcical pantomime I call life – materialism and capitalism. The terrible twins. They are the children you grimace at and purposely attempt to swap at birth, only to find them crawling and clambering their way into your back pocket as you exit the hospital. 

 

My experience living in London has made me reevaluate my perspectives on numerous things, none moreso that the value I myself place on money. Putting it short and sweetly, I now understand why some people may force themselves to do things others may deem shameful. For example, we can all hold our heads high, point our noses in the air, as we scoff at the single mum shaking what God (or her surgeon)  gave her in a strip club. But you put yourself in her 6 inch stilettos for merely a second and maybe then you would begin to empathise and understand that she may have a young mouth to feed on her own. Why? Because the dad walked out as soon as he found out she was pregnant. And let’s face it city ‘living wages’ need to be rephrased as city ‘suffocating wages’. Unless you are in the finance sector or as old as time itself then I’m afraid for the rest of us, youth and inexperience comes as a pretty big financial burden. 

 

I ask myself – why did I move to this city? A question which is becoming worryingly frequent. I’m from a small town in the middle of Northern Ireland, the rent I pay in London could have me living in two places twice the size back in a rural setting, so why am I here? 

 

The old line of ‘there’s loads more opportunities’ is becoming undone, fraying and feeling further from reality. Yes, there may technically be more ‘opportunities’ but let’s face it, no one’s going to throw me a wad of £50’s to take up the opportunity to soak up a West End show, or meetings with top CEOs. Unless ofcourse I turn to sugarbabying, which is a completely different can of worms I wish not open in this moment. 

 

Today, I’m feeling sorry for myself, but I’m sure I’m not the only one who wards away threatening voices in their mind’s eye, tempting them to smash open their piggy bank into a million little pieces, only to find not much more than a hundred little pennies in the remnants of Mr piggy’s once round stomach. Financial hardship makes itself known to all of us at some stage in our lives, I have no doubt, but I say it has outstayed its welcome. So my question now is, how do I kick them out?

Rid them from my minimalist overpriced matchbox flat, where the walls lay bare out of fear that I may maim it’s clinical appearance with so much as a smudge of a marker, or stain from a sticker. Landlords in cities like London make Sherlock Holmes look like a babbling unobservant buffoon when it comes to hunting down the most miniscule of marks on a tenants leaving day, wouldn’t you agree?

 

And with this thought lingering I wonder whether I should indeed make myself scarce of it’s confinements, escaping the financial restrictions once and for all and bid this city goodbye. 

What Do You Take For Granted?

Writing

I recently started volunteering at a charity for children with additional needs.  The charity provides free sports and activity sessions to give these children the opportunity to play and have fun as any child should have the right to do. 

 

Having only attended  a moderate number of session so far I can already feel that volunteering is making an impact on me. 

 

I come away from the sessions with so many feelings and questions. 

 

I asked myself on the train heading away from the venue this week – are the children trapped in their own little worlds, or have they escaped the chaos of mine?

 

They won’t experience the world in the way I do, but as my sister rightly said, they may be happy in their life. If born the way they are then they know no other way of living so how can they miss  or be annoyed at not having another way of living? A point I could not disagree with,

 

Volunteering is a humbling experience, I realise how much I may take for granted. If you can read what I’m writing right now then you are privileged as there are still 750 million illiterate adults across the world today. If you can understand these words in English then you are within 20% of the world’s population that can.

 

This is not me trying to play top trumps, I’m not saying that because you and I can read and another person cannot, this makes us better than them, not at all., I simply mean our ability to read is almost taken for granted, we think nothing of it to read signs and books, yet somewhere else in the world a person cannot do this. 

 

We live in a society of ‘I want more, more, more’, we always want more money, more friends, more holidays. And we forget to notice our most fundamental abilities, we take these privileges for granted: talking, listening, reading, writing. All taken for granted. 

 

Being a charity volunteer is a humbling experience, bringing with it an appreciation, a gratitude for many factors of my life which I may have ashamedly overlooked previous to this. Maybe our own lives would be alot happier if we focused on being thankful for the simple things instead of material things.  

P*ss Off Christmas!

Writing

No sooner has the Grim Reaper even had a chance to pull out his scythe from under his cloak for the Halloween happenings than has every man and his dog cracked open the bottle of eggnog whilst covering outdated Christmas carols in the key of ‘sounds like I’m being choked out in a headlock’.

Christmas comes sooner and sooner with each passing year, and with that, my patience gets thinner and thinner!

Not content with keeping the festivities wrapped up in the comfort of our own homes, as low and behold the shops are at it too! Their plethora of pompous plastic propaganda is quite simply preposterous! Crowing their untimely festive ‘hello’ in the form of silver tinsel, shiny baubles and ofcourse the Christmas cards which you gift to the neighbours you don’t so much as blink an eye at the during the other 364 days of the year.

As the Santa sign with his harem of reindeer in tow swings carelessly above the heads of the unwitting shoppers who stock up like apocalypse preppers below, the shelf stockers are fast replenishing the sold out supply of extra wide aluminum foil and the Christmas crackers that do the toenail clippers. Cheery Christmas jargon is sprawled across the shop floor like your aunt across the king-size during the night of your cousin’s conception. Mid-November really has that festive feel about it, doesn’t it?

Sing along shenanigans, sherries, shandies,
Family fights, half necked-back brandies.

It’s all kicking off in Autumn 2019!

Not that I’m yearning to be the female version of Scrooge this year but is there really anything wrong with wanting the festive cheer to not start early? If Christmas can start early then why can’t the purge?

Can Christmas really start too soon, I hear you squeak? Yes! When it leads to a country’s recession! Starting Christmas that little bit earlier means putting your hand into your pocket that little bit deeper. Which means you’ll be giving up that kidney to the black market that little bit faster. And let’s face it, we all need as many kidneys as we can get our grubby hands on during the later months of the year.

Blowing your pension fund on secret Santa presents is all good if you’ve recently won the lotto or bumped off your wealthy mum and dad to gain access to their will, but for the rest of us unlucky law abiding citizens, Christmas just puts the ‘Christ’ in our mouths everytime we pull out our wallets.

Soon the case will be that Christmas officially ends on the 26th Dec and officially starts again on the 1 January the following year.

I might as well wish you a Merry Christmas now, in advance of Christmas 2020 for the way things are going, so here:

 

Merry Christmas ya filthy animal!

 

Poem – I Will Remember

Writing

Entangled in a web of grief,

Spiralling out of control.

Swig a bottle of cyanide, should I?

To let the pain mellow?

 

I couldn’t bear to bring myself,

To meet such ill a fate.

Instead I took a sip once more,

Of lemon and ginger ale.

 

I sip and reminisce,

 Of how life used to be.

When we would pick the daisies,

Beneath  the cherry trees.

 

I remember when you would hold my hand.

And tell me you’d never let go.

Your warm breath against my cheek,

Almost as warm as your smile, it glowed.

 

Forever I will love you,

Forever you shall be missed.

Heaven will always have taken you, 

Too early for me to accept.

If only God knew the pain I felt,

Then the angels would truly have wept.

 

Life – is but a fragile thing.

So precious, so easily lost.

If I could pray for just one thing,

It would be for you to come back to my arms. 

 

A close friend of mine recently lost her Father, he passed away while they were on family holiday. I dedicate this poem to her.

City life

Writing

Like mice,

Trapped in the rat race.

A maze made for manipulation.

Man against man, race against race. 

 

A breath.

Of fresh air at dawn.

As futile as asking the sun to,

Rise at dusk and set in the morn.

 

Private,

A word less chosen.

Only by those of land un-citied.

Cities keep the term unspoken.

Poem: Time

Writing

 

Time.

Moving passed like 

Dew dripping from the leaves of

The waxiest cuticles.

My hands,

Gnarled, close tight,

Around the memories,

Uprooted by those of time.

 

Time,

A spectre of the night,

Time, invisible to the eye

Of even the most profound inspectors. 

I suspect.

Expecting time to wait for,

Any man.

Is like expecting a hug on

No man’s land.

 

Time,

And time again we

Try to cheat it’s nimble ways.

Like sacrificial lambs to the slaughter we,

Try to resort to cosmetics to

Bathe in youth’s fountain forever

 

Poems: My Self-Written Seasonals

Writing

What better way to welcome in the season of Summer than to give a recap of the ones that come before and after it through poetry:

autumn autumn colours brown countryside

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

The Fall of Autumn

Death never looked so beautiful,

Leaf litter burnt orange in the fading Autumn sun,

Crunches beneath my feet as the day carries on.

 

The air is colder,

Green is no longer seen.

The days are shorter,

A Midsummer Night is merely but a dream.

 

Ochre, pumpkin,  chestnut and crimson.

All show their true colours to this decaying season.

Autumn – like a Pageant Queen Killer,

Gushes with guilt,

As she plants the kiss of death.

On her Mother Nature.

 

bonfire

Photo by Mitchell Henderson on Pexels.com

Winter

Crimson embers of fire crackle,

Beneath the pale moon light.

The stars they twinkle like tiny freckles,

Upon the face of the night.

 

The sun awakens, from its slumbers,

Naked vegetation shivers with delight.

For they are scarce, they’re few in number,

Desperate for the new day’s light.

 

The season sets a spell of slumber,

Upon the many lives,

Of plants and animals growing fonder,

To sleeping day and night.

 

This too shall pass,

It just takes might,

Time will change,

The clock will strike.

 

A day will come,

Where we can surrender the fight,

Of surviving these testing hardships,

But until then. Goodnight.

road landscape nature forest

Photo by veeterzy on Pexels.com

Sensation

Smell the rain,

Smell the rain, don’t see it

The dampened tarmac aroma intensifies as cars go flying by like drive bys at midnight

Feel the heat of the rays on your skin,

Hairs on your neck rise like budding blossoms in spring

Hear the drops of tears hit the leaves, leaves crushed by commuters, the buyers and thieves

Don’t see……….feel

 

When your eyes sleep, other senses awaken

Do not be mistaken, the alternative senses must not be forsaken

When I ask you what do you see, please don’t just say trees

Say the rustles of leaves in the breeze or the sticky sap on your knees

Tell me that you will see more than you thought you were meant to see.

Too many people let life pass them by, avoid eye contact with strangers, avoid our environment’s hidden surprises.

To only stop for a moment and take in the world around us

would be a pleasant realisation that life has finally found us.

birdseye photography of city buildings near trees and mountains

Photo by O1234567890 on Pexels.com

A December Day

The air is crisp, cold and clean.

My breath sparkles in its grasp like fairydust.

I feel like a fairytale’s dragon.

 

The darkness cloaks the clouds,

Choking out any lasting glimmers of light,

As the sun sets low in the Winter sky.

 

The trees look fragile.

Their vulnerability exposed,

By the nakedness of their form.

 

Time slows.

Patience is a virtue,

As you wait for the freeze to thaw.

 

Spring is almost upon us,

Fingers crossed,

The wait won’t be too long. .

 

 

**Each piece is copyright protected.

What Does It Mean To Be Human?

Writing

As I sit with a cold bag of peas smooshed against the left cheek of my painfully windburned face (Northern Ireland’s coastlines are blustery af), I gasp in awe at the astoundingly graphic yet oddly fascinating scenes of ‘Surgeons – At The Edge Of Life’, a show guaranteed to have you on the edge of your seat grappling for the sick bucket I can assure you. From close-up camera angles highlighting the magnificent ability of the surgeons to intentionally stop a 3 year old child’s heart on the operating table in order to conduct surgery on the respiratory system, to the scenes of pneumatic drills screwing in metal rods vertically down the spinal cord of a 63 year old man. All I can say is it’ll put you right off your TV dinner and straight onto Google to investigate all types of weird questions about your very own body.

Mesmerised by every filmed intricate movement the hospital staff make in their efforts to save the lives of patients in life-threatening conditions to vastly improving the quality of life in others. To being in awe of the recovery and the adaptability to which the human body is capable of, I ask myself, are we all just bags of flesh and bone, or are we something more than that? Having a ‘personality’, the ability to empathize and rationalize, are these not qualities spared only for humanity or are we all just an experiment of evolution? Evolution going so far as to grant us with the brain to body ratio necessary to think logically and imaginatively and perhaps to think that there is more to us than maybe there really is?

What does it mean to be human?

Robots Are The New Songwriters – Is This Morally Right?

Writing

Warner Music Group’s newest addition to their ‘artist’ roster is that of an algorithm addict destined to make your newest jam, pretty much an alexa with an insatiable interest in generating sound while simultaneously reading your heart rate and circadian rhythm. Designed with the aim in mind to produce 20 albums this year, each containing frequencies which will help you in an array of areas of your life, from being more productive in work to reducing your anxiety:

It’s called ‘Endel’, it’s a sound app, it’s ‘Artificial Intelligence’.

Am I the only one who feels slightly uncomfortable with this? With the overall concept being that a robot will be making an album which makes us jump for joy in one track before crying ourselves to sleep with another. Not by using genuine experience, or raw emotion but instead through big data compilation and machine learning.

It’s one thing having electronics play a part in the music making process, we all know that wizkid producers with state of the art technology  open the doors to having the capability to produce unearthly sounds, afterall autotune is such a common element of music currently. With image taking precedence over singing talent (but I’ll save that topic for a rainy day). Back to the point. It’s one thing having a human use machines to assist the music making process but if you remove the human completely can we really call music art then? Will it not fall under ‘engineering’ or ‘technology’? And if so, would you find an issue with that?

If a robot is evoking certain emotions in us when we listen to the sound frequencies it generates as a response to data based off of my internal functioning (heart rate, movements, temperature), it makes me question how will it be able to manipulate us emotionally further down the line? As the late Stephen Hawking highlighted that although AI may host beneficial impacts to us humans, the theoretical physicist also raised the point that artificial intelligence may also pose the threat of kickstarting the beginning of the the end of the human race if used incautiously.

I must stress, I’m not against AI, but I am cautious of it’s capability. My curiosity for its role to play in sound is sparked by my love for music. And perhaps, my disdain for it’s potential domination through the music industry stems from my subliminal believe that music is something innately human, it acted as a glue, binding our ancestors together as they danced at rituals and socials, it bonds us together today, whether sharing a feeling for heartbreak or one of pure ecstasy, music seems to be a vector to share what at its core makes us human – emotions. Do I really want to press a button on an app to release a frequency to calm my nerves or do I want to talk to a human face to face and get something off my chest?

 

Enough about my opinions, whether I agree with its motives or not, it sure is interesting, if you want to learn more about Endel, check it out here.

Does Equality Really Exist?

Writing

I ask myself this question as I’m swiftly ushered out of my own workplace by rather hench looking security guards an hour earlier than I should be, because an A-list celeb is coming in shortly to do a quick Q+A session on the release of their new album and no stragglers must be lurking round corners trying to get a quick pic with the megastar.

 

Not that I’m complaining about leaving work early, as if! But instead, I’m questioning the value placed on me – the staff member as oppose to the visitor – a temporary guest. Am I not worthy of seeing them in the flesh? Am I not worthy of breathing the same air as them? I know we’d like to believe that it’s actually because we they don’t want some psycho stalker maniac fan getting too close so they filter the Q+A audience to avoid this, but a part of me struggles to believe the reason is solely this. Am I simply not valued as highly as the celebrity? How can you say we’re equal if they’ve flown in on private jet, have been chauffeured around all day and now have most of the workplace exiting for the evening?

 

I have no issue with the celeb by the way, they’re just doing their thing, but moreso with society on how we value one person more than another. This sadly is truth. We live in a world where we want to believe that everyone has an equal shot at success, were everyone has manners and respect, treating everyone equally and fairly. Not to be a Debbie downer but I don’t think this is 100% the case, infact I would go as far to say that it’s not even 50%.

 

I think the ugly truth of the matter is that it comes down to what qualities do we truly value in people? Intelligence, good looks, athleticism, wealth…..? Atleast this seems to be the case in the society I live in. But what about morals and altruism? Are they characteristics of the weak, the overly sensitive? Why are they overlooked?

 

From rags to riches, to cultural classes, throughout our lives we are categorised in terms of our quality/value. As we are individuals, can it therefore be said that each of us have different qualities or even further, different levels of quality? Is a murderer, in your eyes, equal to a doctor, the Queen equal to the commoner, woman equal to man? Civil partnership equal to marriage?

 

If we are so similar in our qualities are we so similar in our flaws? Is killing one person not as bad as killing several? Is killing an animal lesser than that of a human? Are animals equal to humans? 

 

There are so many questions surrounding this idea of ‘equality’, afterall it is just an idea. Because if we were all treated as equal, I wouldn’t be sitting here writing this post an hour early.

 

Am I just feeling sorry for myself? Do you think equality exists?

Why Is Poetry So Enchanting?

Writing

From ‘Tyger Tyger, burning bright….’ to ‘I wandered lonely as a cloud……’ somehow words have the power to capture the emotion of the poet and freeze it in time. To evoke an emotion in the reader that may last a lifetime. Why is this so? Why doesn’t it happen when we’re reading the bus timetable in a new city or reading our latest bank account statement (ok maybe this one does evoke emotions, normally bad for me). But you get my point. There’s just something about poetry which draws you in. The imagery created in your mind’s eye as you follow line by line, the rhythm you naturally fall into as the poem carries you onward, the literary devices leaving you tongue twisted at times or is it merely the raw emotion the writer is sharing with you in that moment in time which makes you a fan of the art?

 

Perhaps hearing poetry transports us back to our childhoods of nursery rhyme bedtime stories and  school sing-a-longs. Maybe it allows us to release our very own emotions onto a page which may have otherwise been challenging to vocalise.

 

Possible reasons why:

 

Short And Sweet – Allows Us To Value Words Meanings

By poetry being broken down into short sentences, it means that as a result, emphasis is placed on each and every word of the poem. Thereby allowing us to understand the significance of each word in the piece.

 

It Broadens The Imagination

Just as a good book takes your mind on a vivid journey, like a mini film playing in your head, so too does poetry. With so many choices at hand from Rupi Kaur’s Milk And Honey opening up a dialogue about femininity and abuse to Oscar Wilde’s Poems In Prose proving to be both unsettling and biblically evocative, you can see just how varied and gripping themes of poetry can be.

 

It Oozes Creativity

If ever in need of a little creative inspiration, perhaps a quick skim over Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales could get those creative juices flowing? Or maybe penning your own version of the 17,000+  lined poem might do the trick? Poetry, unlike other forms of literature, can bend the rules, a poet lacks the necessity to feel confined to the style in that of fiction or factual writing. Grammar, can at times, take a back seat to the rhythm or emotional message the poet feels they need to share with the reader.

 

People Like Poetry Because They Are Too Lazy To Read A Full Book

I Think,

Not.

 

Maybe, there’s no need for a reason at all.

 

In Robert Frost’s words –

  • “Poetry is when emotion has found its thought, and thought has found words”

And

  • “Poem begins in delight, and ends in Wisdom”

Here are some links to my mediocre attempts at poetry, if you fancy giving them a read!

The Fall Of Autumn

A Closed Fist

A December Day

Rorrim

 

What Does ‘Value’ Mean If You’re In Poverty?

Writing

With over 500 million people currently in poverty across the globe, materialism is but an abstract concept. Unimaginable to the people, who, through no choice of their own have found themselves struggling to survive.

 

When put into context it is  somewhat fortunate yet ignorant of us who complain about shops not stocking the right wines to go with our Sunday roasts, or leather shoes to fit on our feet. When you have almost 2,000 children dying every day from  diseases linked to unsafe water and lack of basic sanitation. We may complain how supermarkets never put our favourite soap on discount, when I think the bigger point should be, atleast we have money and a shop to complain about in the first place.

 

Value to someone with money is money, value to someone in  poverty is not solely money. Yet instead, basic necessities of life such as food , water, shelter, healthcare and education. In 2019, how can these figures exist? How can 3 billion people live on $2.50 or less each day?

 

Changing our perspective on what truly is ‘valuable’ in life may hold the secret to real life fulfillment. Instead of this adopted attitude of ‘I’ll be happy when…..I have the newest car, the job promotion, the mortgage paid off on the house.

 

Maybe if we stopped chasing happiness and just humbled ourselves every once and a while we’d be more grateful about life. If we leant out a hand to help one another more often, we may gain a greater sense of self than merely buying a new TV. I touch on this point in my poem ‘a closed fist’ – how we walk passed those in need today, yet you never know how you may need them in the future. Gone are the days were favours can be repaid by favours, money seems to be the main way of bending someone to your will be it by bribery or blackmail.

 

Before I go off on a tangent about this maybe I’ll finish on the following:

 

“Nowadays people know the price of everything and the value of nothing.” – Oscar Wilde

 

Poem: I Didn’t Believe

Writing

They say the aim is to make others believe in you.

But if I couldn’t believe in myself,

Then there was no way of making either true.

 

For years I would beg, I would plead,

To just let out my potential and abilities.

To let them free to grow and to weave,

Into something that would resemble someone with esteem.

 

Yet, I just couldn’t be proud of the gifts I’d been given.

I’d keep them wrapped up from the world.

They’d become so distant at times, I’d forget that I had them.

At a stage in my life,

I’d be too embarrassed  to admit them.

 

Learning the hard way,

I can safely say.

Be proud of the talents you have, put them on display.

Not because you owe it to the world.

Or because you owe it to the person you will be in the future.

But instead to the person that you are today.

Poem: Trust

Writing

Trust is like trying to catch a spawning salmon in a freshly flowing river.

You catch it! Then all too soon it slips from your tiny grasp.

Whether it’s trusting others or trusting yourself.

Trust never seems to want to last.

 

Are we blinded by bullsh*t or beauty?

All we need is for someone to flash us a smile that’s toothy,

To fall victim to their captivating conversation?

 

Are we truly the ones to blame?

Too naive, too gullible and so delay,

The truth from our very selves.

All in hope of keeping the pain at bay?

Bullying In The Workplace

Writing

Being bullied is never an easy thing to deal with, and compounding the matter is dealing with bullying from someone at your place of employment. In this situation you really are stuck between a rock and a hard place, for alot of us, we can’t just get up and move jobs or tell the bully how we really feel about them. Showing annoyance to the bully could make us look like the aggressor infront of other colleagues or just fuel their taunting even further.  So what to do?

  1. Try Ignoring It

This would be my initial advice, there are twisted individuals out there who get a rise out of making good people feel like victims. If you don’t show them the irritation they are looking for from you then in some cases the bully moves on.

  1. Try Reasoning With Them

The saying that ‘hurt people, hurt people’ is true sometimes, perhaps they are irritated with something about their own lives and they’re taking it out on you. Perhaps patience and trying to understand why this person is acting a certain way towards you may be a step in resolving the situation. It must be noted that this can’t be said for everyone in my opinion and in no way should someone’s past be an excuse for abusive actions. But trying to settle things by talking to someone may be alot easier than escalating the situation further. Ofcourse this depends on the kind of behaviour the bully is exhibiting. If they are assaulting you or being verbally abusive then reasoning may not be an option. Instead I would take step 3.

  1. Seek Support And Guidance

If you feel like the bullying isn’t ceasing up, you should  seek help. No one has to tolerate abusive behaviour from another person. I would seek advice from a manager, if the manager is the bully or just generally unhelpful  then I would suggest contacting Human Resources or an external helpline not linked to the workplace.

Being on the receiving end of a bully at work, I found it difficult on how to confront them in this environment while still defending myself. If you are being bullied do not accept it. Seek help.