I’m Back!

So, I’ve come full circle with this sharing my work thing. As any fellow poet will know, there’s a trend among the poetry circles for any kind of publication to stipulate that your work must not have been shared anywhere previously (including your own personal media accounts) in order for them to consider it for submission. Well, I have finally come to the conclusion that I can’t claim to be ‘finding my own authentic voice’ if I am going to allow others to speak it for me. So here I am back again. And excited by the prospect of continuing my project of photography and poetry pairings.

So what brought about the change? One very inspirational writer called Jolie Booth (author of The Girl Who’ll Rule the World – available on Amazon.)On Saturday I was lucky enough to have randomly booked myself on her Psychedelic Wandering tour of Brighton. This actually had nothing explicitly to do with her book. However, having been totally drawn into the world she created, around a story pieced together from letters and diaries found in a squat she inhabited in Brighton, I had come to admire her creativity and spark by the end of the two hour experience (described as part theatre, part walking tour, part pub-crawl.) At the end of the tour, Jolie mentioned that she was off to the Dorchester for a drink and if anyone wanted to join her they were welcome. It was here that I learned of her book, her stance and journey as a writer and her dogged determination. She was living proof of the modern maxim that self-publishing AND an eventual publishing deal don’t have to be mutually exclusive and her advice to ‘Just write for yourself and love what you do. Never write to be published’ really struck home.

It made me realise that I had been keeping my poetry imprisoned because of a set of rules imposed by people I didn’t even particularly care to impress – and it meant nobody had seen my work for far too long.

So, as so often is the case in this life – a totally random decision, to go on a totally random adventure somehow ended with a little nod from the universe. I believe those that watch you and have your best interests at heart will always find a way to get their message across. Eventually. In this case my messenger was a charismatic and courageous woman I met totally by chance and as she guided me on a  two- hour journey around the counter-cultural ghost-haunts of Brighton, I already felt it was only the first step on a far greater voyage.

And so here is the second step.

Look out – I’m back. And I reclaim my authentic voice once more.

Jolie Booth

Writer and performer Jolie Booth – my inspiration for continuing my quest to find my authentic voice!

Advertisements

Mourning Wood

15740772_10155578337660752_342470346012835228_n

Earth to earth, ashes to ashes,

He scans the bereaved for available gashes,

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,

Grief itself inflames his lust,

Black is such a slimming colour –

How’s your father? (And your mother?)

Tears lend such a delicate hue,

(Come now, this day’s about you)

‘She’s laid on the wake and made me a sandwich,

Surely that’s licence to make her my bitch?’

The pain on her face lends a peculiar grace,

Silent permission to give an embrace.

Was he very close to the deceased?

Not at all – just there to get her on her knees.

(Come, now – don’t play hard to get,

He knows a way that’ll make you forget)

Oh, it’s sad that you’ve lost your spouse

But honestly speaking, aren’t you a little aroused?

He’s there to fill the hole that’s been left,

To observe the ritual and her breasts –

They’ve laid her husband to rest in his plot, Now he’s straining to rest in that slot.

Death becomes her, it has to be said, He’s not resting ’til he gets her to bed,

He’s intoxicated by the scent of death in the air,

As he gently strokes her face and her hair,

(There, now – doesn’t that feel nice?)

He’s determined to please her once if not twice,

‘Don’t worry about what they may say,

Your husband has gone and is in his grave’

She leans in to him and it feels so good

As he leans into her

With his mourning wood.

halloweengravesbest

 

Words and images (c) of the original artist 2015 and may not be reproduced without permission

Done

DSCF5041

No delicate brush

Met my palette of poetry

Fingers dug

And flung

Straight at the canvas

Creativity ravenous

To be done and hung

With a plaque reading ‘Raw’

Perhaps somewhere near the door

Where my family

And others too poor

To pay the entry

And mingle with the gentry

Could see.

Words and images (c) of the original artist and may not be reproduced without permission 2015

Words Like Strings

DSCF5193

His fingers play words like strings

And when his scribing sings

It’s like a siren on the rocks,

And every comma shocks

Me to the core –

The perfection inspires awe,

The constructions are a pure

Testament to his genius

He is the nemesis of Aesclepius

The feelings inflicted can never heal,

And each syllable is so real –

Like black magic cast on a page –

A page, a sage, a gauge,

Letters to shape an age,

Subtlety that needs no cage

Already executing perfect restraint

In a divine refrain

That leaves echoes of sensations on your soul –

Fragments that plant themselves and grow,

Images that fall and tickle your existence like snow –

Belief is frozen

Suspended and broken,

Taken somewhere else

As you crave shelf after shelf –

The untapped mine

Of a golden mind –

Sublime, divine, eternal prime.

‘Does it make it ghastly to read?’ he asked:

How could I even word the unsurpassed

Class

Of what I had read?

The pinnacle of lyrical pleasure inside my head?

And he plays words like strings with his fingers,

And the echo of fascination lingers and lingers.

All words and images (c) of original artist and may not be reproduced without permission 2015.

Becoming

DSCF3854

In a quiet corner

Of my existence

You bring order

Without persistence –

You’re a hoarder of resistance

And

It’s not a story of holding hands

But of holding our breath

As you implore me

To become my best.

This is how you show you adore me –

I’m blessed.

All words and images (c) of the original artist 2015

Winter Sun

Aviary Photo_130646977958715665

Cold and broken

Free of emotion,

He would not love anyone –

He would not thaw in the winter sun,

There would be no commotion,

He’d won.

All that was left for her to do

Was to become frozen through too,

She would not love anyone,

She would not thaw in the winter sun –

This was the cost,

She’d lost.

All words and images (c) of the original artist 2015 and may not be reproduced without permission.