Got a 2.1 for my Creative Writing portfolio, more than happy with that mark for my first. Some criticism in there, but according to my feedback, ‘There are many striking and beautiful lines…’, that’s all I’ve ever really wanted for my work.
Knowing the fate of my predecessors, Is not equal to collecting their daily artefacts, In the reoccurrence of my thought, My absent speech.
Fully conscious that, as an unset morning Is filtered into one anonymous slide, I will contrive to collect the receiver, And hear nothing,
Mouth fixed open and answerless, With the minor half held acceptances Of my time, to remain untold, Fragmenting into the receiver’s silence,
She gone with them, and you absent, Unstirred with one who does not wear my face, Afraid to entice the line, a servant to wake your automatic hand Into the condition, my pacing the length of the connection,
Smile heavy at last, weighted by leaden tears, Unlearned sharply, and proceeded by one who rested A street away, or who’s voice would chime at the ask, Of a telephone- I handle one used as a bedside
Ornamentation now, cloaked by the last Unread chapters of a life (Showing me something Of myself in its illusions) never striking as true as my own, Surprised at its sudden lightness.
When thought is in bondage the truth is hidden, for everything is murky and unclear, and the burdensome practice of judging brings annoyance and weariness. What benefit can be derived from distinctions and separations?
Our life is shaped by our mind; we become what we think. Suffering follows an evil thought as the wheels of a cart follow the oxen that draws it. Our life is shaped by our mind; we become what we think. Joy follows a pure thought like a shadow that never leaves.
Just arrived back from a reading by Ira Lightman, a British Experimental/Avant-Garde poet, excellent techniques and a very entertaining performance, nice to see there are still those types of innovations with voice and language going on.
The town blooms from the life giving organ of the night, it’s figures darting freely with the flicker of a hand primed at the bedroom, or the buildings bright countenance, certain as they are to be seen. We are moved by these things, as light shifting amongst the darkened frameworks gives only suggestion. Under the temporary motions of gesturing shadows, the town may be anywhere or nowhere.
An At Length Debate With My Father on The Structure of Contemporary Poetry
He had rubbed his working man’s hands through the works, His meditative breath breaking a fine space in the lips O, Separating the worn pages, and with the innocence Of our roles reversed he asked, 'Don't you write poems that rhyme?'
There was little to be said in my defence, In my limitations, it proves a harsh demand Forcing the unsaid into recognisable headlines, When the early hours bare down On the unwritten room.
Thumbing through the latest attempts, with a day’s graft Heavy on his mind, leaving more than stained finger prints, A cigarette, steadied on his lower lip, he would not give an inch, Only perhaps if I wore the time honoured Ache in my muscles, from rare mornings,
Breaking the cold earth’s surface with a shovel blade, Though here I still might find in the scattered soil, A hardening significance, enough logic in my clumsy repetition To rest, crafting some passing occurrence, Unrhymed, hands as dirty as his.
My explanation, though it failed to come, Would have excused myself quickly with a quiet truth, Togetherness is a difficulty, order does not offer itself To have all the pieces fit ,I felt that this, He could at least come to accept.
Mapping the lands secreted towns, Vague, unknown offerings to satisfy a temporary stay, The steel driven mesh of impatience And ingenuity, grants anonymous passage Over borders, into possibility.
Huddled in its shell, the air opaque With strategic signals, and the lengthening Of a line, broken like a link to the womb, From the seated, weary traveller, And another fixed with the platform’s emptiness.
The ground expands beyond the brightening signs, Giving vanished structures their single title, Weathered, often passed faces are bowed Beyond the silvered boundaries of the trail, A sudden blur’s kinetic legacy, collected in its gutters.
With the rolling of their names, mechanical and automated, Shadows recede at the corners of the eyes, And communal lips lift with knowing smiles of recognition, A minute halted at a midway point, reeled from the list, Unfolds to a bright station, alive with its welcome ceremony.
A minute has broken down, having no sense of purpose, And moves to conjure who the engraved couple May have been in life, how they went about their time, What the valleys of his palm could communicate In a handshake, thunderous against my own, Being many years his junior.
Perhaps, if searched long enough and with a true eye, Their tributes and endearments might be glimpsed suddenly To play out in the crevasses of wood grain, A mark fixed where their traditions aged, Holding a view to Ceredigion’s gift, born of water Its riding, unseen ships, baring news from Ireland.
With their promises adorned upon a home crafted sleeve, He offering her to the wind, never granting it to take his prize, And she clinging to him like the last, They stand beyond their years at this place to proclaim, 'Love conquers all' And I, if only one, carry their faith.
If you had asked me to collect the burning coals, Of the sky’s net for you to know me by, I could only turn my head away, Accepting them to be beyond me, They are needed to light lovers home, And mark the territories we have failed to reach.
Were it my choice, I would imprint myself upon you, With the minor things, the half held stream of memories, Though ancient and degraded by dust, Worked dark and smooth with the procession leading here, They are mine to give, and give willingly, And you, only half smiling, might wear them like a synopsis,
So that passersby in the street may know, That though the one claiming your side, Could not shift any great force from place, The secreted knowledge of our histories is committed to us, In the light of time where I find you, no longer fixed At a bright train window, slipping through the night’s valley.
“My mother said to me, “If you are a soldier, you will become a general. If you are a monk, you will become the Pope.” Instead, I was a painter, and became Picasso.”—Pablo Picasso (via lilysofthefield)
This is the adapted version of ‘The Exchange’ for my CW portfolio after the feedback I received at my seminar. Any comparisons and feedback would be welcome :)
The channels of her eyes echo in welcome. There is nothing as simple as this, nor as unreachable. A cafe stagnant with broken familiarity, its fragrant strangeness alive in the neutral air. Her body, carried in its shambling entrance, opens as she speaks. I warn her not to talk of the past. The animated muscles of her free mouth insist momentarily, before accepting silence. If I were to leave the moment now then all of its towering significance would crumble into the waiting nothing of the once was, the places we no longer live, yet revisit when we fear the future and fall, laughing through imperious time. I have everything to say to her. Before I could fix her with a name, or find her taking her ritual place at this table, she had drawn the room into herself, knowingly or unknowingly. Following the rumour of eyes from each onlooker that afternoon, I watched at this same chair, while the other lay empty, its weary affairs set in passing the day untaken. An arrangement of coffee cups and loaded ashtrays has accompanied my wait in her absence, startlingly unreal with their customs and performances. Bare as the canvas, she examines them softly with her unwritten, unspoken eyes. Even when turned to the table they are brimming with blue truth. Often she summons words to calm my concerns, she mocks the papers openly, and the compartments of the mind where the word ‘perhaps’ has free reign. If she knew one motion of her hand might raise Europe into prosperity, she would only entertain the notion, a suggestion flickering across her cheek before fading. The duty is mine, these cold hands occupied in the melodic light, with stammering gestures and pockets filled with loose coins, sonnets and promises.