Poem 21:16

This isn’t really a poem, it was me just messing around with lines when planning out The Pathless poem.

21:16

Light footsteps,

dreams?

A film over reality?

Disconnected steps,

surreal breeze of happiness, peace,

spinning and seeing

and constant, and constant.

Lazy ripples

see the life in your heart

crushing, crushing, gone.

Lazy glimpses of importance

searching, following their presence.

Reaching for connection,

chasing and falling.

Muffled sound in a surreal land,

leaves brushing against bare feet,

but cold and ground not harming them.

A body no one sees as ugly

despite the blurred presentation.

Poem 21:15

21:15

A water bottle

large and bold,

2.2 litres you

can hold.

You’re carried around,

drunk from

and cherished,

for the liquid

you can hold

to revive and

 hydrate us.

Yet the bottle

has a dream,

a goal of its own,

to sit in the

driver’s seat and

take us home.

Feel the power of

deciding a course,

of being noticed,

and offering a choice.

But the bottle has

no hands, no feet,

no eyes,

you remain in the

passenger seat,

unnoticed and

alone.  

Poem 21:14

More of a rant than a poem. I can’t even remember why I was so angry now.

21: 14

I hate people.

I hate their fake concern,

their indignant nature,

thoughtless justifications

and self-righteous excuses.

No one is more important

or more deserving

or as hard-done by

as a person forced

to do more than

they want.

They look and find

someone to

blame,

push,

condescend

until all is right

in their world again.

Who cares about

the other,

their life is good

again, nothing

is more important.

Leave them there

to bleed.

Poem 21:13

Right, I’m really back now! I’ve typed up all the poems scribbled during my hiatus (not a lot really, but at least there’s a few). You might notice there’s no 21:10, this is the poem that’s being published in the anthology I helped edit, so I’ll give more details on that when it’s published (we’ve just been sent the publisher’s final printed draft to look over, so shouldn’t be much longer). Expect a poem a day for at least two weeks 🙂

21:13

So easily I discarded you,

object I carried for so long,

fiddled with in absent-

minded moments.

Signs of your end were

clear, and so I scoffed

and handed you away,

to one I knew would

abuse you.

Did you feel that betrayal?

Or have you been

dead all alone;

your ink an

illusion at a

lifespan.

Update (I’m alive!)

Just a quick update. I would apologise for my absence, but I think I’ve done it so many times now it doesn’t mean much anymore. Truth is I was struggling for inspiration and motivation. I’m enrolled on my second year of my masters degree, which focuses more on workshop/writing my own pieces, and so I’m hopeful I’ll be posted on here regularly again. I still plan to do the music/poem idea, but I also want to focus on my fairy tale poetry theme.

I have a week off work, so I’ll try to get started with my plans. Hopefully I haven’t lost all of you due to the long writer’s block!

(I should mention the anthology I helped edit will be coming out October time, hopefully, I’ll give me details nearer the time).

St. Nectan’s Glen

This poem I wrote, inspired by St. Nectan’s Glen in Cornwall. It’s a poetry video, containing photos I personally took within the three visits I’ve been there, and the music is me on the guitar (after many years of hiatus). This is another aspect of music and poetry I want to try, so I’m hoping to get back into guitar playing and improve so I can create higher quality music for the poetry.

We’re setting up the spare bedroom as a mini-office/studio, with the computer and audio equipment set-up, as well as the guitar amp (I have a hybrid, it’s a classical sounding guitar but with an amp capacity). It might take a while for me to get better with it, so I hope you guys can offer some useful feedback 🙂

Anyway, here’s the video, and the poem in written form below.

21:12 St. Nectan’s Glen

A steep descent leading to a haven

hidden, unknown, unappreciated

by most. The crisp, cold air

softens from the moisture of

promises, a gentle spray coating

bodies in a thin but

comforting layer.

Open out into a space of enchantment,

breath pausing at the pressure, the presence,

the sense of something special.

Many come to pay tribute,

an item of memory in their hand.

Choose a sturdy tree branch 

and dangle an angel over the water,

tie ribbons of colour to remember,

announcing your unending

loyalty to those who are gone.

Stack up stones as a

guide for the dead,

Cairins leading unsettled spirits

to the powerful, contained waterfall.

The noise is endless, muffling reality

as you explore and marvel at

all those who came before,

carrying a story.

A copper tree mutated by wishes

has shared the inflictor’s pain

over-and-over, loss of flesh,

loss of ground and growth.

The powerful pressure draws

wanderers near, both dead and alive.

Waddle, dignity forgotten, towards

the water’s fall, clear and beautiful,

coating all in protection

as they gaze into the hypnotic eye

that speaks of worlds beyond.

Follow the water’s path,

lost souls, be carried down

streams of memories and to

the open sea. 

The Pathless

This is a poem I wrote based on Juan Sánchez’s Rebirth. I have the audio of me reading the poem to his music, as well as the typed poem below. This is something I really enjoyed doing, and I plan to continue it with other non-copyrighted music.

21:11

The Pathless

Black gives way to nature,

the forest of searching you have

dreamt of reaching,

piercing your life with sunrays

that now soften through leaves

and guide you to your end.

Follow the trail of branches

and twigs, dying on the earth.

Forgotten corpses of leaves

brushing against your feet.

Breeze-light fabric touches your being,

presenting you to a world unknown.

Reaching for connection,

following their presence,

chasing and falling

spinning and seeing

and constant, and constant.

See the life in your heart,

crushing, crushing, gone.

You sacrificed everything to get here

but the memories fade with every step.

Pause and consider, bend down with

phantom limbs to examine the stream.

Lazy ripples, an illusion of familiarity.

Life is behind in the land of weight and

senses, the urgency of time a memory, a habit.

Time is a concept here, not an absolute.

Notice in your reflection the perfect version of yourself,

beautiful figure, vibrant hair, no stress lines;

the one you always wanted to be for them.

The telling scars on your arms and wounds

 to your body are gone. You are

new and finally here, ready to be reunited.

Stand straight and feel the

disconnection to sense, the way a

sleeping body would feel in their dream,

their everlasting dream.

The stream grows wider, a river of end

coaxing you to leave, become pathless.

Step out and remember the reason you

gave up and came looking for them.

The years and years of loneliness

and pain, and loveless existence you

could no longer bear.

Dulling the agony with alcohol,

and drugs, and harm no longer

worked, and so you took the

final step to join them.

You step into the river and walk

along the bottom. Walk for

years and years, until you reach

the Other Side and emerge.

They’re waiting there for you,

a sad smile on their face, of what

could have been, but still they

reach out and welcome you

to whatever lies beyond.

You pull them close in an

embrace so desperate that your

senses explode and you smell them

and feel them.

A sound you remember as laughter

and salt you recognise as tears

leave your body

as you embrace,

forever and ever.

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