Poem: Planet Earth

Writing

What is this planet we call home?

 

Crying tears of salt water,

Which hugs the coastlines days later.

Spouting rivers of lava,

Meandering from vast volcanic craters.

Motions of oceans,

You see land, you feel safer.

Deserted deserts.

Here thirst does not waver.

Hosting the coldest of climates

Where chances of death become greater.

This planet we call home,

The home of Mother Nature.

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

 

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?

Haiku Time!

Writing

How do you feel now?

That I am no longer here.

Do you feel….freedom?

two people holding each other s hands

Photo by rawpixel.com on Pexels.com

I close my eyes tight.

Yet I still can’t erase you.

From my dreams at night.

abstract art artistic blur

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

 

Sugar – sickly sticks

Sweet sensory sensations

May it never end.

coffee dark candy chocolate

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Poem – My Red Mustang

Writing

Counting the pennies,

I just helped rescue from the jar.

It won’t be too long,

Till they’re exchanged for a car.

 

A red shiny mustang,

With matching interior.

With a waxwork shine so dazzling.

Making all other dull cars look inferior.

 

Counting the pennies in the jar.

I won’t have to count for too long.

For mum’s just turned out the lights.

So my red mustang will be but a dream once more.

Poem: A December Day

Writing

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. .

 

 

 

Poem: A Job Is A Job

Writing

Knees buckled beneath me.

Feet gnarled, toes curled.

The whole world’s up against me.

Yet still I spin, I twirl.

 

Counting pennies until it defeats me.

I’m sedated by my lost dreams.

It seems the past always repeats me,

A path of unraveling seams.

 

Whispered regrets always greet me.

My childhood career was not what is now.

If only my parents could see me.

In dismay, they’d ask me ‘how’?

 

Does your work make you happy?

Is that the aim of your job?

If you’re not in absolute misery,

Then what’s the alarm?

Poem: Christmas Food

Writing

Food.

So bad, yet so good.

So many colours, so many textures.

So many food poisonings taken for the pleasure.

 

You gave me gout last Christmas Eve,

But I don’t hold it against you, you see,

For I know our relationship is solid.

Once the doctor unclogs my arteries.

 

This Christmas things will be different.

You promised we’d take things slower.

If I end up back in the kidney stones ward.

I’m afraid our fond relationship may be over.

 

Poem – Shy

Writing

I’m Shy.

Is that ok?

I know I should meet your eyes more than sometimes.

But I don’t.

Should I be ashamed?

 

I get nervous when around strangers.

Find I become a stranger in myself.

I feel paranoid of the dangers,

That lurk just behind the shelf.

 

I’m angry for being this way.

Why can’t I just change?

Why do others seem so confident?

While I remain so restrained?

 

But really, where is the fault in being shy?

Shyness is not weakness,

Anyone that says this, says a lie.

This fact’s undefeated.

 

To be shy is to be cautious of the world around you,

Not to stick your head in an oven because the guy ahead did it before you.

Shyness should be accepted as part of my nature.

And not as a burden or ill-fitting feature.

 

We are all so different.

And this is a great thing.

I shouldn’t want to be you

And you shouldn’t want to be me.

 

Be the person you want to be,

Whether that’s shy, loud or somewhere inbetween.

 

The Poetry of War

Writing

Below are two poems I have written which I may enter into an upcoming competition The competition challenges the writer to explore the concept of national identity, by responding to how it is portrayed in the works of WWII Poets.

I chose Timothy Corsellis’ poem – News Reel of Embarkation 

The antagonism between fighting for one’s country and fighting for one’s own life. You’re walking into battle without a care in the world, Corsellis relays the all too knowing realities of war, his wisdom – a bid to wipe the smiles off the young soldiers naive faces.

Timothy Corsellis’ poem questions how you can be so giddy heading off to war – pre-war feelings

My two poems in response to his, focus on post-war feelings – how you can be struck with trauma (post traumatic stress disorder), a loss of self-identity, a loss of home.

P(lay) T(oy) S(oldiers) D(addy)

I fought for my country,

I fought for my life.

I’m now at home in my country.

But I’m not at home in my mind.

 

I’m lost back out at battle,

I’m battling my inner demons everyday.

The war may be over to the outward eye,

Yet within me it never ends.

What is unfamiliar to you is home for me,

Hearing the tear of flesh,

As you wash your sheets.

Feeling the last breath of a friend on my cheek,

As your mouth feeds.

You can never see what I had to see.

All for a piece of metal, for a so-called identity.

 

The title itself reflects the innocence of a child, a child who looks up to their father for support and leadership, meanwhile the parent is suffering from PTSD – Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Hiding his pain from his child. From the world as best he can. 

 

VETERAN HOMELESSNESS

I HAVE A HOME,

IT’S 53 BELVEDERE RD,

IT HAS A BIG TREE OAK,

AND A BIG CHIMNEY THAT SMOKES.

 

MY CHILDREN, THEY PLAY IN THE GARDEN,

BEANEATH THE BIG OAK TREE,

MY WIFE, IS SUNBATHING EFFORTLESSLY,

AND IT IS THERE SHE WAITS FOR ME.

 

I DO ONEDAY, HOPE THAT I RETURN,

TO THE FAMILY I  LEFT BEHIND.

TO HAVE MET MY FATE AT THE END OF A BARREL,

MAY HAVE BEEN MY ONLY WAY TO FIND,

PEACE.

 

ATLEAST THAT WAS HOW I USE TO THINK,

WHEN I USE TO THINK AND FEEL.

NOW ALL I FEEL IS THE WET COLD GROUND,

AND THE CHALKY TASTE OF PILLS.

IT’S WEIRD HOW I FOUGHT FOR YOUR LIFE,

BUT YOU DON’T EVEN NOTICE MINE.

YOU WALK PASSED ME ON THE SIDE OF THE STREET.

MAYBE YOU JUST DON’T HAVE THE TIME.

 

So many of our veterans are suffering. The Mirror has reported that atleast 13,000 soldiers are left homeless after serving. Shouldn’t government funding go towards getting them off the street than on painting parks and leaf blowing?

The fact that the poem has no set rhythm between verses emphasises the disillusionment the war veteran is experiencing, lost flow reflects his sense of losing his family, his home and himself (his identity).

Poem order: normality – he had a home a sense of place, he went to war and lost himself, scarred by the trauma, on return he struggled to cope, he became a recluse, thought it better to end his life by overdose, but now doesn’t even have the effort for that. He is numb to any emotion. He sits on our street corners, we walk by not batting an eye for a man/woman who has in actual fact saved our lives. They’ve lost their identity, but haven’t we lost part of our own? Haven’t we as a society lost our morals?  

 

Sigmund Freud – Pioneer or Provocateur?

Writing

The name ‘Sigmund Freud’ brings with it antagonistic thoughts in my mind, was he a sexist pig or pioneering psychoanalyst?

I was going to enter a poetry competition recently about his findings on ‘civilisation and it discontents’. But something stopped me in my tracks. It was the opinions of others around me when I told them of my plans. I went to the Sigmund Freud Museum in London, listened to his theories, saw his thinking chair, saw his daughter’s room. I went into the gift shop and saw mugs, and fridge magnets, tea towels and aprons. Were they all dressing up someone who needed to be un-masked, I thought? Or is there truly room for celebration for his psychoanalytic work?

Below you will see the start of my poems I was going to enter, you can read two alternative endings on the beginning of my thoughts and feelings towards him. Perhaps I was wrong not to enter the poetry competition. But whether I agree with his theories or not, I felt like my poetry was not yet ready to explore his person. I still don’t know if he is famous or infamous, all I know is he is thought-provoking and I will need to do further research before I can form a true opinion of my own.

I’ve read articles such from physchology today and the Huffington Post, dichotomous reads.

My question is, who was Sigmund Freud, really?

A Civilisation of Discontent

I laugh in hysteria,

daydreaming about se……

x-rays of my inner emotions.

There’s this constant commotion of chaos.

I get lost.

In Life.

Yet, still, I don’t want to lose my life.

Civilisation has me in a choke-hold.

The kiss of death imminent.

Yet in this moment I am reborn.

The vice grip of society loosens as I sense the sweat trickle down my neck.

My anxieties become my strengths.

 

You ask me for what brings this discontentment?

I lament, and answer softly.

Because I am a human in disagreement.

For I do not agree that rape is an innate desire within me,

I do not agree that by killing another human being,

 it would infact pacify me.

 

*Oedipus Complex  *Penis Envy  * Hysteria

 

A Civilisation of Discontent

I laugh in hysteria,

daydreaming about se……

x-rays of my inner emotions.

There’s this constant commotion of chaos.

I get lost.

In Life.

Yet, still, I don’t want to lose my life.

Civilisation has me in a choke-hold.

The kiss of death imminent.

Yet in this moment I am reborn.

The vice grip of society loosens as I sense the sweat trickle down my neck.

My anxieties become my strengths.

 

My mind has morphed,

And I feel no more,

Pain.

My walls have come down,

I embody now,

A reversed resistance to change.

 

*Defeating Resistance To Change  * Development  *Defence Mechanisms

 

**Please note I have gave different sides, because I take no side. So don’t bash me and say I’m a hater! Just a discusser! My poems are based off of opinion not fact. I’m neither for or against Freud, just offering alternative viewpoints to his studies through poetry.

 

What are your thoughts on Sigmund Freud?

Poem – Lost

Writing

Below is a poem I wrote in a state of confusion one evening. I was at a loss with what my purpose in life should be. Frustrated that I had so many thoughts in my mind  yet took so little action:

Lost

I feel lost,

There’s a voice in my head that can never be silenced.

Yet a tongue in my mouth that only works when I’m violent.

I don’t see life through rose tinted glasses,

As a matter of fact, I don’t even see violet.

 

I’m lost within myself,

What is my purpose on this planet?

What should I be?

I endlessly try and plan it.

 

I’m tired.

Of the constant scribbling on pages.

Years have ticked by,

And still it’s words I have wasted.

Not actions.

 

For I can say a million things in a night,

And not act on a single one of them.

Lie awake at night,

Yet dream more when the day begins.

Against myself,

I feel I cannot win.

 

2nd Place Poem – End Hunger UK – ‘A Closed Fist’

Writing

2nd place in the End Hunger UK poetry competition.

‘A Closed Fist’ –  a spin on the meaning to hurt someone. A closed fist can be a punch but it could also be inferred to as a hand that is not offering food and therefore hurting someone by starving them.

I wanted the poem to show how it’s essential to be kind to one another. Afterall you never know where someone might be in their life, or who they may become. And perhaps you may even find yourself needing their help oneday. The bigger picture is that we are humans we need food and we need to put ourselves in eachothers shoes more often, especially when it comes down to this essential element of life – to prevent starvation.

Listen to the Poem:

 

Closed fist verse 1closed fist verse 2