2020 Week Three Poetry: For Tomorrow

Here we are at week three already, although it does seem about three months since all of this started. However, the last seven days have been a bit of an up and down affair, with this one of the notable highlights. Poetry’s an odd thing: what might make one person run away screaming will make another appreciate your work unprompted. These five verses  got more likes combined than I’ve managed in several months.

It just goes to prove, you never know. I pushed out of comfort zones. It’s structure that’s unfamiliar yet led me in the right direction every ‘verse.’ It’s nomenclature that feels difficult and yet sits comfortably with the progression. I’m not yet in the realms of smart, clever poets I look at and think ‘God I wish I’d written that‘ but it is honest, concrete progress. That’s all I can really ask for.

Everything right now moves me forward.


For Tomorrow

 

between exhales, pain distributes; adagio’s neat cursive sweep records another day within, despite intentions soundly built, belief collapsed, unhinged.

rhythmic stress, reality’s strained counterpoint: accepting downbeat concrete cadence only marks temporary transitions – release; extensions.

unchaste, canvas torn, counted almost out, rebound; suckered pinch, naught remains: woman down, distract, reconstitute idea, reborn.

constant inhale, cycle toned, repercussions symbolism, adrift no more: aloft, hope for tomorrow brandished; rewarding whole.

inhale optimism’s warm, upward trajectory; second stage preparation bolsters future, definition scored: sharp synonymy dismissing doubt.


2020 Week Two Poetry: Springs Eternal

This has been a REALLY good week, not gonna lie, even if the pace of content is still not at a level I’d like. Things have been completed, undoubted progress. I’ve applied for a course, submitted two lots of poetry, and finally got the episodic fiction running again. Then I discovered the header image on that static page needed a change, so tomorrow we’ll pull everything up to date.

In poetic terms, this is another decent effort, in the model of what’s become the ‘five day stanza’ method. Next week it is time to open things up a bit: not as structured, a little more free-flowing. I don’t wanna keep sounding like a Dr Who episode every time a new verse is produced, after all. The only way to gain maximum potential out of this exercise is to push my creative boundaries.

Suffice it to say, this is just didactic enough.


Springs Eternal

Understand, one possibility
all that’s required, turn
darkness outward, reconstruct
positivity, second chance
third time, no harm.

Embrace, each outcome’s
myriad possibilities, place
optimism foremost; hope
springs, eternal font,
creative disposition.

Ignore naysayers, melt
snowflakes, dismiss
anger-fuelled petulance;
no-one asked for this,
cry babies, reject.

Finally, dust settles:
survey wastelands, start
greenest recovery plants
expectation; reclamation
shoots, then scores.

All these species
collective utopia,
rescue together, great
scientific progression:
save planet for peace.


2020 Week One Poetry: That Kills Us

I stopped writing weekly poetry for Social media when it became apparent that work could be used elsewhere… to maybe make me some extra cash, or win a contest. After a year where neither of those things have come to pass, it is time to go back to what was working best for me in terms of creativity. This is the equivalent of drawing every day. It is means by which my craft improves.

These words are the best ones.

That means 52 poems, including holidays: Monday to Friday (or in this case, three days for the start of the year.) Where months start mid-week, I’ll write less (Week Five will also only be three days long) giving time for a bit more rest. The proviso here is everything is written ‘live’: no weeks of polish. If it’s a verse a day for five days the original selection will be skeleton-built the week before and amended on the fly.

That means next week’s five verses are ready to roll starting tomorrow but might totally alter when I post them. We will see. 

For now, this is a solid start.


That Kills Us

Repetitive, blamed infamy
always somebody else
pointing finger, insinuate
your problem, halved
segment, rotten whole.

Slope, madness descends
cackling uncontrollably;
finger given, on the way
past circles held, restricting,
other people’s selfishness.

That kills us, possibility
this time, perhaps, is better;
sad inevitable, lies:
hope only held eternal
if goodness sets her springs.


Supper’s Ready

There were a lot of plans made at the start of 2019: most were personal goals, attempts to improve cognitive process whilst pushing forward other important requirements, including health objectives. Superficially an idea existed to make Instagram less frightening and more a part of what can be done as a digital publisher. That started with the Places in Poetry Project, and last month took an important step forward.

Day 11 __ Religion

The #FaithIoW Project is a quantum leap forward from anything else that’s been produced for this form of Social media: for a start, people actually read and liked it. That alone sets it apart from anything else I’ve produced, barely scraping a handful of likes across entire runs of poems. We can have the discussion about popularity being unimportant until limbs fall off, but the fact remains that all exposure matters.

With no budget, starting small and being manageable are essential parts of the process: however, the business of habit forming becomes even more significant. Pick the right tags, push to the right audience, and just keep working. Produce your best output, continue to work and refine concepts, learn digital shortcuts and make the work itself shine not as someone else’s derivative content, but your own unique signature.

Day 3 __ Truth

Most importantly, every one of those 31 poems in October came straight from my soul, in a place of what is turning out to be pretty monumental change. As a result, this project has become a deeply personal, very important line in the sand: indicator not only of evolution, but a distinct shift in the landscape that surrounds this movement. You can find the images via my Instagram account, or in their new collective home on the website.

Feedback and comments are, as always, gratefully received.

Inside my Head

Constant, rhythmic hum: this, good enough
door was locked, keys in bag
don’t panic; daily resonance
better existence with design
reminders Posted, multicoloured door
minutiae underpins each forward step
slow renaissance from perceived inept.

How lucky they all are, unbound
explanation not required, I’m sound
inside my head’s vast golden place
without bazillion checks, hard balances
foot to foot, Warrior’s stance contrives
expectant moment, incoming empire’s fall
from everything to absolutely none at all.

You have no clue how lucky you all are.

Surprise, Surprise

Yesterday, at about 10.45pm, I recorded my first poem. Well, that’s not strictly true: a lovely BBC Sound engineer in Manchester did it for me. 

At NO POINT in my planning was there provision to get anything other than a mention in passing for this project. It wasn’t about recognition, after all, just to give back to my home town, which I’ve now done with some style. To talk to one of the Project founders, and a poet in residence, was a brilliantly unexpected bonus. It took that Guardian mention and knocked it out of sight. I’m gonna be thanking these people in dispatches for quite some time to come.

EVERYTHING that’s changed my course this year has come from a willingness to be vulnerable, to place mind and body in situations that were previously frightening. The knock on effects from this are only beginning to register, but in last night’s recording I can hear my own fear, nervousness in voice that comes from being exposed to an audience. In time, I’ll get my head around it. It will get better with practice.

All these things will improve with practice.

Here’s the poem I read on the show.


Two Tree Island ::
Bleak, Hoarse

Golden hour,
I came here to begin
next chapter’s transformation

remade through other’s imagery,
inspired
earth to sky,
brown
to gold
adheres, presenting unexpectedly

grubby printed brilliance, webbed feet
pointing path, open silt bar
my usual; steaming,
anticipated
epiphany of
self abstained, regained.

I asked for a sign;
you gave
graffiti covered
rubberised playgrounds
broken boats
peeling
saint’s
names

Pier’s glorious insertion, failures forgotten
thousand harsh rejections sail away
masts of possibility remain,
renewed
mirrored sunrise
into grateful eyes.

Bleak, hoarse failure recedes
to seeds,
green runway, as above, first plane

softens

mumbling to trains.


I really hope this isn’t the last time I read a poem on national radio. This is a pretty high benchmark to exceed.

I do so love a challenge.

Look Away

However hard you try, stuff sometimes is out of your hands. That’s tough to rationalise as a woman who, most of the time, finds it hard to function without a measure of notional control. It asks increasing amounts of you not simply as a person, but as an artist. I call myself a poet when it suits me, but there are other strings to this bow: writer, novelist, short story writer, photographer and, quite possibly, performer.

That last one’s still being played with: poetry needs to be read, aloud. It should be the notional means by which both passion and expression are properly expressed. I’ve only done it once with an audience, but it happens every time a new set of poems are produced. To make sure they ‘sound’ right and my voice is correct, everything needs to be spoken, with passion

This is when I allow myself to fail as a poet.

I can allow a succession of TED speakers tell me how failure matters on the way to success. People have famous people on podcasts talking about failing. It’s a means by which you are allowed to open yourself to being critical of development. It is looking at work and knowing that yes, you can do more. However, what you define as a failure in a  larger sense is utterly and totally subjective.

It’s taken over two years to actually find my real voice, one that matters most to me. More and more, expectation arises is to write a certain way, or to a specific brief, and to end up with something that isn’t true to me, rather something that’s saleable. I’m trying to do this to make other people notice me, and that’s exactly not the way to do the job. I have failed myself on multiple levels, and now it has to stop.

I should be writing for myself, first and foremost. A very good Social media mutual is about to embark on a journey that reminded me of this fact today: why you write is as important as the subject matter, and the reasons why you choose to focus on particular subjects and interests. When I write about things that are important to me, that are passionate points of contention, the work is better.

How did I forget this? Well, that’s easy. My life in poetry has become the mental equivalent of a Supercut: to fit everything in, you just remember the best bits of everything, whilst the rest of the output is relegated. I want to produce this brilliant, aurally arresting selection of works, all carefully intercut, but totally fail to grasp that by doing so real goodness is diluted.

It is time to go back to my roots.

reality

The last four poems written are probably my best work to date. This is how I need to work moving forward: passion, honestly and personal accountability. Anything else, quite honestly, is a waste of my time and effort right now.

Let’s try and do this right.