Aesir - The Rain

I sit outside,
Mud up to my knuckles
And I wink the rain from my eye.
My father, old Wednesday in name,
Blesses inspiration
To my tired mind.

Against this tree,
I hear the sounds of war
As you fight your distant brothers
From distant Vanaheimr beneath
Over such small things as
Eternity.

I hear your breath
As you hang on branches,
Strung up in oft mimicked torment
For nine hard nights of sacrifice,
To make yourself worthy
Of us in death.

I sit outside,
Wondering about you.
I wink the rain away and climb,
To make myself a symbol too,
Of all that I would give
To have this life.

Senryu Fury

Listen to it build.

It's pitch is ever rising

To cacophony.

Ambient fury

Growing behind bleakest thoughts,

As you tend to them.

Then, the conclusion.

Tendrils of sound curl around

Your writhing small mind,

Calling out for rage,

And the last end of all things

That cause you this pain.

Cruel,

Burning you

With it's rippling flame,

Eating all your kindness away,

Until you are gone,

Just a dead

Husk.

Carrying a soul,

Cold from it's long exposure

To all your weakness.

It walks in dead-air,

The night dumb where it would stand,

For fear of it's eyes.

Taciturn and cool,

It's hands reach for frailest necks

That no longer talk,

And no longer lie

As justice takes every breath

That with which they might.

Over Ghosts

Because I don't know how to react
You tear apart the wardrobe
And throw our whole life
Into a tiny bag,
As if it would help.

Because I don't know how to react,
You tell me I will miss you
When you're gone from here,
Then you storm straight out.
I don't miss you

Because I don't know how to react.
I peer around at your make-up,
Your hair-filled hairbrush,
Your scattered treasures,
And I know you'll be back.

Because I don't know how to react,
I just wait for the key to turn.
Your apology,
False and meaningless,
Will follow through the door.

Because I don't know how to react,
I walk from room to room and
Pack your other bags,
Solemn, no sound
Or sign of my thoughts,

Because I don't know how to react
To losing something hollow,
That I have no use for,
But cold company
And wasting my life more.

Because I don't know how to react,
When you finally ask me why,
I talk of the ghost,
The truth you hate to hear,
The truth about me,

And,
Because you don't know how to react,
I take all my treasured things,
I leave our little home and
Your stupid broken heart,
And lock the door tightly.

Exit

Not knowing what to feel, I stand in your arms,

Wordless as I always am.

Cowardly and a little cold.

Scant minutes pass as we pause here like an old photograph

So often looked at, remembered,

As the emotion yellows and grows old.

Smoke pours from the lips of passers by, wondering eyes

Wandering over us, stock still

Like statues in a place of life.

Your hair is in my eye.

Have any of them had to say this kind of farewell?

To want so badly to depart,

But never to say goodbye?

We talk of course. My jaw moves on your forehead,

Spilling every fact I can imagine,

Other than those that count.

That, like with so many others it hurts so cruelly to know,

I will miss you so terribly,

I am so filled with doubt,

And I know you can see why.
 

Surely, more than any other you understand why I shudder so,

And spend long nights shaking,

Fearing all my time alone.

My comfort in mind, like tree-roots we stand entwined,

My friends, as ever, as always,

This is the you I have always known,

You see beyond the swirl of my darker days and love me

As only brothers and sisters could,

Undaunted by my smiling face,

You would tackle my failings,
 

Draw me in to the light of a once not so glorious world,

Filled with joy thanks to you
And all of your funny ways.
 

How I both long and loathe to leave this place.

Voice

You get in my guts.

You pull me

And twist

My memories of the past few months.

Why now?

Answer me

With that well-known voice.

Come on then!

Come on!

Say something. Say anything to me.

Okay.

A Long Way Away

Inspired by a piece of art by Rachel Glenholmes-Smith

What songs I sing across the wide river
Torn out roughly from the middle of this land,
To you, floating free among gliding gulls,
Tethered to your new family,
Happy...
Smiling...
Without me.

What company do I keep over here?
Nothing but grass, our wall and lonely mushroom tops,
And your long empty, neglected plant pots,
Their blooms now just a memory
Fading...
Your face...
Lost to me.

The ink of the ravine between us two
Grows deeper with every day. I watch you, buoyant,
Bobbing in wind, while I shiver alone,
Quaking in the cold, western breeze,
Alone...
Crying...
Naturally.

You could release that curly, mooring rope;
Gliding, sinking back to earth oh so tenderly,
To rest on these lonely shores for a while.
How miserable we two could be.
Please love...
Please come...
Back to me.

My Favourite Poets

Why do I place the word poets inside little " "'s for this post? Because I guess, technically the people I'm talking about here aren't poets. The people I'm going to talk about in this post are musicians who's lyrics I love because of their poetic quality. I love music that makes a point of beautiful storytelling and meaningful words and the three artists I'm going to talk about are the ones I love the most.

First up is a man called Kenna. Kenna is amazing. His lyrics are deep and drowned in meaning and I can sit and listen to his music all day long on repeat and never, ever get bored of hearing what he has to say. His music is massively under-appreciated and he should be massively famous and known by all for the genius he is. He has two albums on general release, New Sacred Cow and Make Sure They See My Face. Listen to this to see what I mean.

Second up is Damien Rice. Damien Rice is a poet. I listen to his music and honestly don't hear anything else in his pleading words and beautiful voice. Every song he has on either or his two albums (named 9 and O) are massively listenable and are filled with masses of meaning. He is also brilliant and, like Kenna, under-appreciated. Listen to this and see why.

Finally, Dave McPherson of my favourite band evereverever, InMe. Their early work was very much along the same lines of many young, developing poets. Angst-driven, suicidal and a little over the top. The years have been kind to Dave's mind and he has developed in to a beautiful writer of words. His style is very narrative. Listen to the song Daydream Anonymous from the album of the same name below and you'll understand what I mean.

I'd urge you to buy and listen to at least one album by each or any of these guys and see what you think. I get a real joy from treating my favourite music like a poetry recital and you can learn a lot from listening to people's choice of words. Give it a shot.

The Woman in the Corridor - For One Shoot Sunday

The "crinkle, crinkle" of dried leaves in the long corridor.

I found you here love, on the freezing floor.

Your lips all blood in a white dress.

You'd been following a lie.

A lie. Yes.

Fallen as if struck in the small of your supple spine.

Spread-eagled; prone, delicious and divine.

How long I’ve longed to devour you,

A long I have been a beast.

A beast. True.

You seemed innocent, so blameless as you lay there,

Face framed by your straight, cascading hair,

Dark and clean, so fragrant and fine,

That as I lifted you, I

Wilted. Mine.

Enraptured I became by you, my black obsession,

My sleeping beauty and my possession,

Made to carry you from this dark.

But I return you here now,

To die. Hark.

Listen to these words because I know what you are,

Trickster. You came here from so very far,

Beneath my errant feet, to tempt me so.

Harpy. Siren. I won’t.

I can't. No.

You turn from me. For a moment I feel my shame.

I may be wrong, but then, you speak my name.

Like a curse, I'm shaken. I crack.

So I draw and shoot you once

In your back.

Your collapse is instant, hurtling in freeze-framed death.

I imagine the scar the bullet left,

Across your rictus shocked aspect.

I leave you as I found you,

Resplendent and wrecked.

4 Senryu

Stranded in the snow,
I feel my homeland failed me,
By being so lame.

We ask so little.
Just some organisation,
If only this once.

I just may destroy
Birmingham city council,
You useless buggers.

Grit the flippin' roads
If you know the snow's coming
In such great volume.

Sonnet - Sixth in Sequence

I watch you because I can't even think.
 You're standing there, across my freezing room,
 Hands over your eyes, smiling out my doom,
Just waiting for me to, distracted, blink,
So that you can move, shuffling, inching,
 Bringing me closer to my lonely tomb.
 I dare not move, though you will reach me soon,
Cold, dirty fingers and your choking stink.
In denial, I won't face who you are,
 Your crueler acts disgust me more than words
 Could ever express to my future self.
This is why my memory seems so far
 From the man you said would not cause this hurt,
 Who'd changed in to a beast born from his hell.

The Lie

You can see the lie
On my coloured lips,
When I'm all smiles & a sugar coated kiss.
You can see the hurt
In my upturned eyes,
Which my painted face otherwise denies.
You can see the grey
In my patchwork coat.
You can see me plead.
You can see my hope...

Then you see it fail.
Then you let me fall.
You can see my heart break as I bear it all.
You can watch me fold
Behind this closing door.
I say I'm fine. You see it even more.
And you watch me shake,
As I fall apart,
And you see my core;
All it's deepest dark.

And I love you so,
'Cause you calm me down,
As you lay next to me on the freezing ground.
Then you hold me tight.
You tend all my wounds,
And you make it fine to be weak with you,
And you burn so bright,
And you burn so long,
And you make things right,
When they're all so wrong.

And I love you so.
Yes, I love you so,
And the way I lie and you always know.
The way you let me hurt,
'Cause you know I must.
Let me cry and tear at the dirt and dust.
I know you'll hold me,
When the fire's died
And ashes coat everything in sight,
Because you love me so.
Yes, you love me so.
'Cause you love me so.

Posted for One Shot Wednesday at http://oneshotpoetry.blogspot.com 

Ode to England

Oh, what merry shores were these in times past?
 Glorious I'll bet! Shimmering and bright!
It's people strong and stoic to the last,
 Bathed in a mighty empire's blazing light.
Lions did prowl her streets to ward off attack
 Encroaching from the world beyond your seas,
  Far less alluring to the subjects eye,
Which only saw the world as bleak and black.
 If those days returned, I would be appeased
  And glad to be both English and alive.

But your streets are dead, veins gone cold and dry
 In long days gone, when war tore you apart.
We left you as the rot grew strong inside,
 And sickly, daily, we break your ailing heart.
This nightmare we exist within today,
 Ignorant of our own unyielding plight,
  Is of our own device and failing thought.
We allowed our home to fail, to decay,
 To slide in to a long endless night,
  Where joy is dead, endeavor all for naught.

What comfort can man find in days like these?
 That national pride exists in some at least,
Though pride for pride's sake seems like idiocy.
 There's nothing to be proud of I can see.
We are a leveled land of weakened souls,
 And nothing to the men who gave themselves,
  So we could waste the gift they left to us;
Our freedom, kept for such a heavy toll.
 Can you see us rise from this turgid hell,
  Or do we deserve to lay in empire's dust?

4,000 views - Thankyou

Thankyou everybody : )

It's great to reach so many views so quickly and to know you guys are coming back to read my words. I'll keep writing on here as long as you keep reading!

Adam White

The Hammers of the Night (revised)

-

It's that time of night where the clocks taunt worst.

Clicking laughter as minutes chase those gone,

And walking the slow path, by choice at first,

I find my heart thumping and beating wrong.

It practically hammers at my ribcage

In sickness and such familiar anguish;

Anxious to escape and in it's freedom rage

Against it's prison and the guard who held him in.

But exhaustion, like a busker who's eyes mourn,

Comes to take what it can in chunks and bloody strips

My love's panic fails to later be reborn

And I journey beyond this veil of broken wits

Where my dreams will catch me and dare to ride

As black night mares thundering through my injured mind.

-

This poem has been posted for inclusion in this week's one shot wednesday at http://oneshotpoetry.blogspot.com, a place where poets gather and every wednesday create a downpour of awesomeness that can only be described as epic. Join us and post a poem of your own for inclusion. It's good to share.

England Rise.

England. Listen. I'll say this once more.
These days, the days are very long
And what to do when all quality,
All the joy of the journey is gone.

I waste them on trifling dice games
And act the token fantasist again,
Never deciding on anything.
Never taking the burden of blame.
I burn these oil-soaked liars columns
In your thrice damned and blessed name.

I speak of distraction. I speak of dust.
I speak of motes in the rancid air
Of a dying land long exploded,
It's people full of untended despair.
England. Listen. Why aren't you screaming?
Why is it you seem not to care?

Your words lost, unspoken by lips
That once spoke to now long deaf ears
That long to pay attention again
And pray for any vibrant words to hear.

So scream them, my ailing country,
All doused in blood, wrapped in white bandage.
Hurl your blazing cross across the sky,
To show them all your great and righteous rage,
And walk from dying winters ashes
Having turned this awful tales page.

From the Shadows by Stel Tsolakides

I see you pull up to your drive my love,
As you come on home,
You look so upset my love,
So sad & so alone,
I watch you unload your car my love,
Your hands look red & sore,
You have so much to carry love,
& then you lock your door,
I watch as you go inside my love,
I hear you turn the key,
You slowly go upstairs my love,
As I hide on bended knee,
I wait for half an hour my love,
For you to fall asleep,
You’re floating through a dreamworld love,
In which you never weep,
I go in your back garden love,
Sit in the chair in which you’ve sat,
You’ve turned off all the lights my love,
The spare key’s under the mat,
I walk around your kitchen love,
I take a look around,
You drift deeper into your world love,
Where you are safe & sound,
I creep down your hallway love,
& rise slowly stair by stair,
You lie there cocooned by sheets my love,
Your hands encased in hair,
I sit down beside you love,
I gaze at your sweet face,
You look so at peace my love,
How I long for your embrace,
I reach out to touch your lips my love,
To feel their crimson heat,
You start to stir, to re awake my love,
I hear your racing heartbeat,
I slowly stand & turn my love,
Pick up a heavy frame,
You come around & look my love,
At a room that’s always the same,
I leave the same way I came my love,
Through the kitchen & out the door,
You notice something’s missing love
A photo of you on the floor,
I sneak across the road my love,
Stare your way from the shadows,
You go to the window love,
Gaze lovingly at the meadows,
My longing for you grows greater love,
I know not how much more to bare,
You go back inside to dress my love,
So totally unaware,

Sonnet - Tara 10/12/2010

My love does soar in fits and starts for you,
 Often flying beyond it's normal range,
 Like a bird released from an open cage
To sail ever higher and never to
Descend below the line it draws anew
 With each climbing hour, each journey it makes
 Into wondrous skies, clear as shallow lakes,
Pushing itself and never making do.
My love proved now as unyielding promise
 Given form as two linking, angled rings,
 I wear on my throat each difficult day
That distance would defeat and make me miss
 Your scent, lips and the great joy that your bring
 With all your strange and still unusual ways.

Crafted - Unfinished

If I am carved, what wood am I made from?
Some sturdy oak or soft and pliant pine?
No, this actual question demands truth.
If you made me in your blessed image,
And I am twisted, and I am this warped,
Then, father, have hard times twisted you too?

Say yes. Say anything and end the silence
That these years, these long years have given me.
Tell me something even though I know what
The answer has ever and always been.

Absent minded, you turned your knife to me,
Carving tender lines with most tender hands,
Not noticing at first the flaw in me
Until my heart made it's first bass, wet beat.
You named me the first of the wooden boys
With dark expectation and mockery.

The answer though, which you, ashamed, avoid,
For my grace, love and attention starved heart,
Is you made me in your image and failed,
But had no means to pull me back apart.

Why have I posted an unfinished poem? Good question. Many people don't see process. This is an awful poem, I have decided, but I like it so I will make it better. It may become longer. Something seems missing between stanza 3 and 4.

Adam White's One Shot Wednesday Poetry Selection Theatremajig

Another One Shot Wednesday and two more favourites of mine that I'd recommend you check out. This week is an all male affair. Your know how I judge peoples work by now and it's all about quality and accessibility but not at the cost of depth of meaning. My first choice is, as far as I'm concerned, a great example of this.

His name is Anthony Desmond and the poem he posted is called The Last Poem. I'm ashamed to say I haven't read much of Anthony's poetry in depth save for the stuff he posts on One Shot Wednesday but he always impresses. This is by far my favourite of his so far. On Twitter, I commented that he masterfully plays with double entendre and I genuinely believe it. His work has depth and passion and is far from confusing while at the same time, keeping you guessing as to some of the meaning. Take these lines for instance;

 

Sweat was dripping into my eyes,

Still no match for the sting 

Of prick filled hands 

The salty taste on my tongue was of my mother 

My mind toyed with these words, probably making them much more crass than they are, but it opens up a whole raft of questions about the narrator of the poem (obviously struggling with his or her existence.) Is the intention here to suggest the narrator has spent their life promiscuously and now regrets it? Does the mention of the narrators mother suggest this is learned behaviour? Who knows. I'd have to ask to find out and I think I'd rather be happy with the mystery. Well worth the read.

Also, I found a poem by Pete Marshall. A favourite of mine from One Shot Wednesday, he helps to run the blog. Like myself, he is an Englishman and as such has a certain amount of resistance to disappointment. This is neither here nor there and has no bearing on his work whatsoever. Just thought I'd mention it. The other thing I've discovered Pete does very well is write narrative poetry. I love narrative poetry and this week he posted a wonderful fantasy poem called The Return of the One.

He has a series of these poems, posted in a section of his blog called The Darkened Tales Series. They star a group of recurring characters and, after reading them, I found them to be a fantastic distraction. The Return of the One has a fantastic lyrical quality, which I really connect with as I always read others poetry out loud. The musical pitch especially impressed me as well as the tight storytelling. He's well worth your time and effort and he has posted quite a volume of work for those that are interested in an afternoon of great poetry.

Hope you can go check these guys out. They genuinely are good at what they do.

Adam White

Throat (For One Shoot Sunday)

 

The scent.

Vanilla pods,

Torn open with bare hands

And the seeds greedily torn out

And ground.

You knew.

 This, the one thing

I could never resist,

Laid out on the bed like a meal,

For me.

And so

I will devour,

And you'll always be mine,

Your throat an open submission

Of self.

Posted for One Shoot Sunday on One Stop Poetry

Hours Of This

Hours of this...
Distant fireflies dancing in the night behind my eyelids,
Taunting, distracting me from sleep with their quick, confused movements.
The dizzying arcs they weave in my mind are, at times, too much,
So I wake,
And the ceiling, blank and uninvolving, greets me with a stare.
Always the unrelenting winner of this nightly game we play,
I turn to the side and ignore his self aggrandising glare.
Hours of this...
My thoughts drift back to too long months ago when you were still here.
Your lips would bend into a smile, pleading for a single kiss,
With fingers linked in mine like a steeple in the warming sun.
I loved it.
Loved staring through the cracks in our roof at the blissful, bright day
And how we'd climb up, push our hands through the gaps that formed up there,
Daily becoming larger so that we could fit ourselves through.
Hours of this...
Regretting the memory of the day the invasion came,
And quick fix boards were pasted to blot out all our precious light,
The dark days I spent asleep, all alone and so without you,
'Til it rained
And refreshing water dripped into my parched and thirsty mouth.
Love, the cracks and holes in our steeple are just now coming back
And, at last, I can climb out and get myself back home to you.

Posted for One Shot Wednesday at http://oneshotpoetry.blogspot.com. Come and join in!
 

Follow Friday - Diana Lee

Hey guys,
Today and on irregular Fridays every once in a while I'm going to post a little somethin' somethin' on here about a poet I've discovered. I'm gonna recommend some of their work, talk about their writing and my opinions on it and generally make a nuisance of myself telling you why I think they're good.

I'm going to start with a poet I discovered through the One Shot Wednesday project on http://oneshotpoetry.blogspot.com. Her name is Diana Lee and she is brilliant.

Sometimes all it takes is a small and simple idea or description of an important thing that you never saw the beauty in to make a beautiful poem. I've been trawling through Diana's poetry for a few days, finding poetry that is often good and sometimes great. One such poem affected me today on my bus ride home. I was sitting and listening to the (frankly awesome) Damien Rice song, "Sleep Don't Weep." A couple nights back, I read a poem called Staccato Notes that Diana had posted in April of this year and it leaped into my head as I listened.

You know that tingle you get in the back of your neck you get when you listen to your favourite songs as they reach their crescendo? Diana's poem gave me that as I thought of the music playing and they way it was formed. Deeper than that, this poem demonstrates perfectly Diana's sensual way with words. Intended or not, this poem has a beautiful and passionate undertone that plays with the idea of a secret sexuality. This is what made me decide that Diana was the first poet I'd feature.

I can't even begin to describe how amazed I am by Diana's poetic growth this year. It's strange to think that a month later, she posted my favourite poem of hers. Inch by Inch is a brilliant read that subtly weaves a picture of that gentle succumbing that comes when you want to do something you really shouldn't. It really is a beautiful piece and I'd recommend it alongside any other.

Away from her more sensual work is a piece called Little Girl Lost. She crafts the idea of a beautiful picture filled with two contrasting images. In my mind, the little girl and the older woman sit in reflection of one another, one bright and hopeful, the other somber and pleading.

I'd recommend reading through Diana's blog at http://dianaswords.blogspot.com/. She's a brilliant poet and you can follow her on Twitter as @Diana605 and stay up to date with everything she's posting.

If you want to follow me on Twitter, I'm @Zerodemon and this is a post for #FollowFriday

You're No Songbird

8:41 in the bladdy morning.
Somebody tell him it's no time to sing.
My eyes hazed with a sleepless night in pain,
And he won't stop his redundant warbling.

See, the surf in my surf 'n turf returned
With a fiery vengeance and since then burned
In my stomach like a pile of hot coals,
Ever being prodded and stoked and turned.

For now, the tide had stopped and sleep had seemed
A nice, promising possibility
But the sun is up, and with it the din
Of a nice sounding, bothersome ditty

Revenge would be a fine and futile thing,
As he leaves reggae E.L.O. blaring,
But what can I do about all the noise,
When he's deaf to any sound I'm making.

My faves from this weeks One Shot Wednesday

Wanna read or take part in One Shot Wednesday? Visit http://onestoppoetry.blogspot.com on a Tuesday night and post a link back to your blog. Good times. Here are my 3 favourites from this week.

For the Ghost of Christmas Present by L. L. Barkat on her blog Seedlings in Stone @llbarkat on twitter

The Last of the Hearts by MoondustWriter on Moondustwriter's blog @moondustwriter on twitter

Predator by Shan Ellis on Musings and Smatterings @awdures on twitter