Damned blasted poet

Damned blasted poet

Always writing her emotions

Flooding us in her tears that have formed giant oceans

Drowning us in the waves of her heartache and despair

Throwing out disharmony without ever a care!

Is there no uplifting prose that she could ever write?

Or is everything we read about yet another fight?

Can she not write about the roses or the birds that sing in spring?

Can she not write about the weather or a shiny wedding ring?

Must she always write so dull about agony and pain?

Must she always fly above us and entrench us in the rain?

Damned blasted poet

I beg you stop your whimpers and your gripes

We love your prose and literature but please write other types!

Struggling inner poet

The strange thing about poetry is that it comes easily when one is depressed or feeling awkward or has some sort of intense emotion or overwhelm; it does not however, come easily without those emotions or states of mind.

This is what I have been struggling with lately. 

Perhaps my apathy has gone so far, that I have become emotionally dense somewhat.  Though personally I disagree, I have been having better days – though it’s rife with worry for my son.

I am struggling with my inner poet.

Something has happened where the poet in me has become stunted.

Until this shifts, as it must and someday might – I can’t write poetry day to day.

I don’t know how long this will last, but I hope not for long.

In the meantime, I have been thinking about flash fiction, that will probably come easier these days or my old snippet attempts, they may make a comeback!

For now, I have been sitting here on and off for days, trying to force poetry to no avail – I believe it is time to surrender!

Thanks for reading!

About my poetry

This post is not about bragging.

But to those who will read it, no doubt you will have your suspicions that it is a sort of act of boasting.

However, it should be said.

No poem on this blog has ever been revised or made into second drafts etc. and no poem in this blog was pained over for hours on end.

There, said it.

Most of my poems are done in less than twenty five minutes, first draft, scheduled or published online immediately without a second thought and I can only recite one poem I have ever written.

Food for thought, isn’t it?

It’s one of those reasons why I am not a member of any poetic clubs; I am not welcomed because I can push out three to five poems an hour without aching over the words I should produce.

It just naturally flows.

I was astounded to find some poets online take weeks to finish a piece, I personally couldn’t do that and I think it goes to show who is more dedicated to their craft.  They are – I wouldn’t faff around like that over one poem.

I live for the current emotion, it is the current emotions that drive the poetry I don’t want to hang on most of those emotions for weeks on end, good Lord I really would commit suicide if that was the case and at the moment I am only tiptoeing at the edge of it.

It took me about an hour and a half to write one poem once, the longest ever.

I do delete poems never to share them, this happens about twice a week, so you’re losing around a hundred to a hundred and fifty per year, because I am embarrassed to share the depths of my emotions at times.

Sometimes I preschedule poems for months in advance whilst I think about deleting them – at the moment there are seven whose future is as obscure as mine.

Nobody believes I can write that fast until they see me in action, offline. 

Then they accuse me of boasting.

But they did challenge me!

I will sit there and ask them, pick a subject and I will think about it for two or three minutes, to get my mind into the zone of that subject and how I feel about it and then the words pour out and the poem is done within minutes.

I can write a poem about anything, so long as it doesn’t feel like a lie to my heart.  For example, I couldn’t write a poem which is supposed to be a love song for Hitler – I hate fascists!

So that’s not a poem I could write.

But I could write one about cutting his balls off and feeding them to him, no matter how disgraceful that would be and inelegant.

That’s not an invitation for requests by the way!

I find it hard to write more than three poems a day, though I have been known to do up to ten.

I try to force myself to do at least one per day, if I live to a hundred imagine a future publication of all my poetic works, how many volumes could that possibly be?

Thing is, I haven’t a clue what I am doing poetically.

I have never been formally educated about it, I can’t tell a poem from a rhyme to a sonnet etc. – for all I know they could be the same thing but fancy names!

I do know what a haiku is though and I used to write them.

In fact talking of sonnets, I have been seriously thinking about reading a book to learn about those.

One of my dreams is to be patient enough with my poetry that I could actually write a poem as long as Shakespeare, Christina Rossetti and Edmund Spenser.

I have often thought about creating a large poem which is a story like Edmund Spenser’s Fairy Queen – that would be amazing if I could do something like that.

That would take me months, could I do it on an emotional level? 

I have often thought about challenging myself to do it!

I originally wrote the first chapter of a fantasy story in rhyme, with that very intention; but I couldn’t hold it throughout the story – it’s still in progress after nine years, but I haven’t added a thing to the project since 2015.

It’s about gargoyles protecting the heart of a young maiden who lives in the house they protect.

It’s a dark fantasy and very macabre, it’s sort of like Edgar Allen Poe meets Hans Christian Andersen.

I have a couple of online friends who have made the suggestion that I should go on stage and read my poems out there, but I won’t do that.

Why?

Because hilariously as it sounds, I don’t actually regard myself a poet yet!

Yet this is probably what I am best known for.

At the moment I am having a very poetic night – I am thinking about poetry a lot and I am frustrated that a book I have ordered from EBay is two weeks late in the post and I had to put in a complaint about it.

I want to finish the book and do the essays in it to learn what I am doing.  Unfortunately the library is fed up with me re-borrowing that book, I’ve had it a total nine weeks this last borrowing session and it’s the second time in a year I did that, having it for about eighteen weeks in total for the whole year!

I wish it would come soon!

It’s where some of my poems I’ve posted on here has been inspired by, such as “Grief”, “Brent Cross Shopping Centre” and “Lessons from life”.

Anyway, if that’s bragging I apologise!

Thanks for reading…

I am the devil

I know what I am

I am the devil

I am man

I lived on Earth and it I ran

It fell apart

I broke your heart

I caused you pain

Made you insane

Now you have to, start again

I am the devil

Your bane

I broke your heart

Drove you insane

And I will always

Do it again

Until you have me

Home again

If you want peace on earth

Bring me home

Back to heaven

I’m so alone

I won’t stop

Till I’m at your throne

Kneeling down

On the dais stone

Before your feet

I need your sweet

Hand to touch me

And I need

To come on home

Kneeling down

Before your throne

I need heaven

My home again

Bring on back

Your wicked men

So that we

Can love again

Poetry sneaks in

I know I write poetry and this blog used to be known for that; but I seldom read poetry personally.  I read Byron, Christina Rossetti, Alfred Lord Tennyson, Wilfred Owen, Pam Ayres and silly kid stuff like Spike Milligan and Dr Seuss; but generally, besides these, nothing else. 

I read Wilfred Owen purely for GCSEs and I think I have read some of Sylvia Plath too, but those were for studies only. 

I have been recently reading a lot of country and wildlife journals and I keep seeing another poet mentioned a lot in there with quotes; this has spurred me onto wanting to read more of him and I got Paul to get a book from the library for me of him.  “John Clare”, this could be a new influence if I am honest.

Also I consider Neil Gaiman to be a poet too; I love some of his short stuff sometimes more than his long stuff, he is another influence of mine.

Upon reflection, I think perhaps I read more poetry than I take for granted.  A lot of the novels I love are crammed packed with verse and rhymes, like Alice in Wonderland etc.  See poetry sneaks into funny places; it’s easy to take advantage of it and not notice it when it wafts in front of your face.  Anyone who says they are not particularly fond of poetry are liars, even street gangsta types and chavs who gets embarrassed by the notion that they even pick up a poetry book – sorry to say it to you guys, but you love poetry.  Every song is a poem and that means rap IS poetry too!

See the world with fresh eyes and you will see it’s so true!

Happy reading!

Spring

So many

Pretty flowers

Return every year

Interesting in colour and patterns, to me are so dear

Never bleak in springtime

Gardens burst in bloom, colouring the world again after winter’s gloom!

 

Truth about witches

Oh yes witches are bitches

You shouldn’t cross us at all

You are a stupid person

Who doesn’t know fuck all

You sit and play with candles

You sit and play with words

You sit and design your potions

How utterly absurd

You sit and preach your karma

You sit and judge us all

You deny the darkest powers

That sits to serve us all

You fill your cauldron with rose petals and salt

If your spell doesn’t work, it is your own fault

These are the qualities of a true love potion

Chocolate, chillies, cinnamon, plums and your devotion

Not all spells are to go inside a pot

Not all spells are obvious

But you wouldn’t know a lot

Your knowledge comes from people who have blather flair

You will not find love potions in book shops or book fairs

Now heed what I say

Hear me strong and loud

A witch doesn’t sell her power

That is not allowed

To give away your knowledge

Give away for free

You can do this if you want

But you shouldn’t if you were me

You lose power with every spell you share

This isn’t something, they teach you at book fairs

Witches cast your spells, but cast them with scrutiny

For if you share too much, the powers will mutiny

Only a true witch, knows things like this and more

Do not trust the ones who shares spells like a whore

All ye songs I sing on this blog and elsewhere

Are all make believe, the real ones you’ll find NOWHERE

This is the creed of all witches, all witches that are true

Witchcraft is inside my blood, but it isn’t inside of you

Phantoms of the sea

We hear echoes in the dark like night

But it is daylight outside right now

We are in a mouldy damp place

Shadowed with stones around

Every footstep is like a heartbeat

Every movement a rustle like many leaves

Everything is black and wet

This is a home for us thieves

We are scurvy vagabonds

Fresh from the sea

This is our hiding place

It’s not nice, but it keeps us free

We do not wander in the daylight hours

We sit and wait till dark

Then once everyone is tucked in bed

A commandeered new ship we’ll embark

We keep this way forever

We are the pirate ghosts

Though some say we look fresh and alive

If I said I had flesh I’d boast

We’re not like what we used to be

What we are I really don’t know

But we don’t have mortal concerns and we have far to go

So maybe we will see you on the shores of some sea town

But it is likely if we see you, you will surely drown

What we are, I cannot tell

But we won’t be looked on at all

If you see us, by perchance

We will take you to Poseidon’s ball

Some may even call it Hell

You know who you are!

If you don’t like my literature, why do you still read?

Especially when things are hard to chew and supposedly make your heart bleed?

Why do you still watch me, every day and night?

It’s been a decade – get over me, I don’t think your head is quite right

You sit and curse and you watch me still

You know I am sick and very ill

But you keep watching, I think you’re waiting

Just sitting back and anticipating

I wonder if she will die?

Well fuck off you dirty rotten fly!

Just thought I should add, this is to certain specific people who I personally knew once, not people who read this and don’t know me!  Ha-ha

Winter

Why so bleak?

It is the season

Never warm, always cold

Though thrilling festivals forthwith

Ever singing in the New Year

Riding the end of the year in larks and laughs