Of All Things Life Changing

Always coming to me as my back is turned

The bliss and pain

The sharp strike of emotion

The blunt trauma of numb

A conveyor belt of events one

Is never prepared for

One after the other

Under the bleak black or

The promising blue

You’re clutching hands

You’re clutching roses

Every time handled

With the blind tenacity of a child

The time to panic is when things plateau,

Because change will stalk your every shadow.

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Living Uncertainty

Wearing clothes someone else has made
Eating food someone else has grown
Living in a home someone else has built

Does this feel like your life?
Do you feel in control?
How can you be sure this is freedom?
You can’t go wherever you want.
You can’t do everything you want to do.

You were taught algebra and grammar.
You learnt about wars and the achievements of dead people.
You weren’t taught how to live beyond the confines of walls.
Or if life were possible out of reach from satellite connections.

We are supposed to be advanced.
We are the human race that knows ever square inch of earth.
What are we without our guns, our computers, our armour?
We are delicate and defenceless.
Our skin blisters under the sun.
We bleed at the scrape of rock.
We are blind in the dark.

The truth is there is no truth.
We send rockets into space in hope something out there gives us an answer.
In the meantime, we try to cope with the overwhelming fear.
The fear of the unknown.
Or the fear that we will never know.

The Melancholy Song

(I wrote this a while back going through a rough patch, but that’s all over now)

The Melancholy Song

You want to escape
Yet you are afraid of the passing faces
The faster paces they make to desert you
They are quick to mock all they see
You want to isolate yourself in a room
Yet you fear what you will become without
Touch, without
Assurance, without
Family
You want to escape
Yet everything seems to make you sad
It is not an unstable feeling
It is a deep, pensive familiarity
It is Melancholy, and it is a long-lasting fixture
It soaks your bones
It lulls your conscious
It creaks and groans
Silently
You’d wish it gone if you had
The will to wish it gone
Anonymity would suit you well
Yet these days you would need a permit in hell

In A Moment

It happened within the speck of a second
Like a whistling arrow cutting through
The air and splintering its target.
He felt the inevitable pause
Between peace and chaos and blinked;
Thwack!
Buckled glass. Tightened muscle.
Last minute thoughts of love.
He squeezed his eyes in prayer
To the gravel road to be kind to his fragile spine.
He soared.

It happened within the speck of a second
Like a whistling arrow flying through
The air and striking its target.
He felt the inevitable pause
Between peace and chaos and blinked;
Thwack!
Buckled knees. Tightened embrace.
Last minute thoughts of lust.
He closed his eyes in prayer
To the divine girl to be kind to his fragile heart.
He soared.

A Portrait Of Nick Drake

Nick Drake was a singer-songwriter of the late sixties and early seventies, particularly skilled with the acoustic guitar. His music was soft and meaningful. Unfortunately, his songs only gained popularity posthumously. His death, in 1974 at the age of 26 from drug overdose, is not known to be an act suicide or an accident.

He is one of my favourite artists and if you aren’t familiar with his work I suggest you look him up 🙂

Nick Drake

The young man’s eyes gazed up to the ceiling, attempting to filter through the darkness. His feet were sticking out the end of the hand stitched quilt, which sent a chill up the rest of his lanky body. He gently sat up, letting himself hunch over in an attempt to recollect his complex dreams. A sliver of morning light streamed through a gap in his velvet curtains, highlighting the golden streaks in his long brown hair. It beckoned him over to the window as his long fingers drew the fabric aside. A fruit tree faced him in the garden, thriving in the touches of warmth. The sight caused him to smile, which felt funny to his usual stiff expression. This was the same fruit tree that had inspired him to write an entire song.

“Fame is but a fruit tree, so very unsound.
It can never flourish, till its stock is in the ground.
So men of fame, can never find a way,
Till time has flown far from their dying day”

Suddenly, he felt the tingle in his hands to pick up the nearby acoustic guitar and replicate what he experienced from last nights sleep.
His mother peered into his room, obviously pleased he had a healthy glow to his smooth face. She left after informing him breakfast was about to be served. He could smell the sugary waft of blueberry pancakes.
His callused fingers began a slow melody. He pictured an audience were sitting outside the window, fingers leaving dirty marks and breath bequeathing ghostly silhouettes. He shuddered and turned to face the head of his bed instead. An oil painting with a rose tinted moon was more pleasant to perform to. He thought about his last recording, the faces of his friends that had been so troubled. They could not possibly understand what that song had done to him. Was the subject of the song, “black eyed dog” a symbol for the hell hounds? Had all his music been contaminated with metaphors and riddles? Should the fruit tree out his window be a cypress?
After hitting an ugly note he stopped playing and inhaled deeply. The single note sustained through the silence. He swallowed a lump that had been caught at the back of his throat. There. He got up to get changed in his brown corduroys, white paisley shirt and warm black jacket. His clothes smelt of grass and dirt, an earthy scent that Nick found comfort in. His dark eyes closed and let his soft lips part. He felt a pressure subside. He was in his parents home, safe, away from people that constantly demanded things of him. Of  painstaking deadlines and embarrassing live performances. He felt like a baby bird safe in the wings of a warm nest.
“Nick!”
He ruffled through his knapsack till he found his favourite plectrum and hurried, guitar in hand, to the kitchen. He heard the faint sound of something spilling out of his bag, but gave it no further thought as he went to join his Mother and Father for breakfast. A bottle labeled “Tryptizol,” rolled to a stop on the floor. Orange pills were scattered everywhere. Laughter could be heard echoing down the hallway

Fog Song (Reworking of T.S Eliot’s poem ‘Marina’)

This was a part of an exercise in my Experimental Writing class where we had to rework a piece of writing we liked.

For those of you who don’t know it, you can go to this link: http://poetry.rapgenius.com/Ts-eliot-marina-annotated

My goal was to reverse the original poem. ‘Marina’ was about an aging father lamenting his deceased daughter who was lost at sea. ‘Fog Song’ is the response from Marina. The title came from the idea that her voice calls out to him from the fog on the shores.

Fog Song

O’Father further
cracked with ice-fire
you have forgotten you remember
rotting June weak September
dissolved by a fog song grace
your conscious unknown knows
time beyond yourself where you spoken
for I un-spoken resigning your awake for I
un-woken
What world towards hurrying timbers
does nearer, lesser meet