A Poem for Autumn

A Poem for Autumn 

Always the most magic of seasons is she

That begins to wipe clean the earth again.

With air consciously breathed and falling leaves;

It is not death, merely renewal.

Preparation for a period of want.

A cleansing, a harvest, a bonfire blazing.

As a child I sharpened new pencils inhaling their scent,

As the year begun in September as autumn hit 

And it still buzzes like new for me,
In these orange months.

Summer may have rendered us dozy,

Satiated with leisure and loving;
A lackadaisical life.

But September chills our bones and heats our souls,

And we throw ourselves into it again. 
With purpose.

It's a new term after all and we can begin.

Living with the leaves, grasping for their colour,

Just as we shirked from bright brilliance in summer behind shades.

What do you really want?

We harvest and we store.

We frighten at Halloween, the extreme.

And we burn, burn, burn,

And light up our sky for Guy.

Autumn is a pleasure, a warning, a human quest for...

I like things moving is all.

And we keep ourselves busy.

Enthralled. Till fall has finally fallen,

And we are left to live as ice-cold gluttons for one month, 

Eating and drinking and fucking till new year.

After, we disappear from behind our eyes for a while,

Barren land, bodies stooped, curmudgeonly;

Until spring dances her pretty feet across our path.

Search Party

 

Search Party

I think you're lost little darling,
Your soul has wandered off.
The blank stares,
No trivial cares,
Quiet and then the rage
That sits within you sometimes -
Ignore the rhymes.
What I'm trying to say is that I'm here,
To listen to your woes, dispel your imaginary foes.
There is something in you that calls out to me,
I just want to soothe you until you see
How fucking unique -
A fascinating freak
You are.
Because what you have done and achieved,
You helped others breathe
And created a space where people felt worthy.
To me, you are magic
Your story isn't tragic.
Stop making it so.
The most complicated, mixed-up minds in life
The ones that create and help the most
Are often left sobbing when they're not playing host,
But you can choose a different way.
Cliches say,
Live day-to-day.
Choose joy instead of self-flagellation;
Pass by that station.
Put your shoes on and step out today,
(No need to make hay)
Don't absorb the world's troubles.
Think about glitter and bubbles,
Feather boas and plasticine,
Other things that make one scream
With joy at the nonsensical silliness of it all.
And if that doesn't work my friend,
You can depend
On the many that love you.
Who would sit and count sheep
Or listen to music on repeat
Or talk and talk and talk and talk
Until the planes begin to fly again.
I am one of those my darling, you know it too.
I would spend my lifetime helping you find your soul.
I would paint pictures of joyful things,
Write you stories, buy you beautiful gifts.
I would stay up all night Googling happy news for you to read
Give a speech on your qualities, whether you agreed -
Or not.
Your magic, your kindness, that limitless smile.
Your souls is not lost,
It has only gone away for a while.

Little Scraps of Wisdom

Yesterday was Father's Day and I didn't see my father. I had just got back from a week's holiday in Devon and he was away. I texted him late in the evening, but I haven't given him a card or present. I struggle every year on both Mother's Day and Father's Day with buying gifts, because how do you really say thank you for a lifetime... or even for a year. How is there only one day to express gratitude for everything they have given you.

Last year on his birthday I wrote a piece on Things My Father Has Taught Me (So Far), something I recycled and added to in a speech I gave at his recent 60th birthday party. This Father's Day, I was at a loss as to what I could write to explain how grateful I am, then I came across this quote online... 

“I believe that what we become depends on what our fathers teach us at odd moments, when they aren't trying to teach us. We are formed by little scraps of wisdom.”

― Umberto Eco, Foucault's Pendulum

It has inspired me to try to write a poem on these little scraps... so here it is... and Happy Father's Day, Daddy - a day late - I know...

Little Scraps of Wisdom

Safety is the best feeling you can give someone, safety and calm;

When I had nightmares you took me under your arm.

And now when I speak to others, I try to help them feel as secure

In the moment, the conversation, in themselves.

For fear disarms us.

Little gestures of kindness that I never acknowledged at the time

Punctuated my days with you. 

And now I try to be generous everyday too.

You never let me win any game, even aged five

And debated with me even then.

Now I'm a fighter.

Our conversations went on for hours, still do.

So if you didn't have time to finish it, you wouldn't start it.

A lesson I'm still learning.

You were proud of me when I did well, but not sycophantic;

You knew what I was capable of, even as young as I once was.

I loved to hear tales about your travels about all the people around the world,

That you'd met, that you'd spoken to.

You made me dream of travelling far and wide across the earth.

And you never thought you were better, so neither did I.

Despite the privileges afforded to me.

Bad language wasn't clever you said, it's an easy way out.

You have so much at your disposal, no need to sound like a lout.

There's never an easy way to achieve something great.

Whether money or success or respect, you have to graft.

You did graft.

Making the effort with family often seemed like a chore to me.

You respected the bonds of history.

And I loved having all those people around,

And I love to love.

You always have opinions on everything, with fire in your eyes.

Yet you told me of how you were dyslexic and shy.

I never saw it when I was young;

Except when you asked me to spell things.

To me you seemed like a lion, loved by all.

Yet you never made me feel small.

*******

Apologies for the lack of posts. I have fallen of the waggon in my #100DaysofWriting. Getting back on it now...

 

Thoughts Too Much

Thoughts Too Much

Thoughts, thoughts all the time, inescapable...

Locked inside, but so loud.

Thinking not sleeping, sleeping while walking,

So loud.

People don’t see, don’t know, don’t ask.

Externally calm and poised.

The chic woman on the tube with the slightly red hands.

The house on the hill, the door never opened.

Boxes and boxes of stuff, endless phone calls.

Rituals that become your life,

So, so loud.

Nonsensical, but it doesn’t stop you, does it.

Disney films and sleeping pills and late night conversations,

Might placate them for a while.

Self-medicating stills them for a while, but is inadvisable,

They return louder and more detailed than before.

Fighting them every way they come, vehemently fighting them.

But this doesn’t help in the end.

In the end, you just have to let them go...

Don’t fight anymore and the volume turns down.

Until you learn to mute them.

#The100DayProject, #100DaysofWriting, Day 16

On Courage

Another poem today. 

Courage 

"Have courage, my dear. Have courage, be brave;"

Words that slip into our psyches from childhood.

Through Disney films and fairytales

And scraped knees in the playground.

"Be brave, be a big girl for me, won’t you."

Fear, fear of the dark

And of monsters under the bed, or in our head.

Scared of characters from books

And dirty looks

From the coolest girl at school.

My sister hated dogs, I ran from clowns.

Still avoid the circus.

I am a big girl now, not scraped my knee in years.

But I’m less brave than I ever was, I think.

Scared of failure, rejection, not knowing what I want.

I run from confrontation, from an altercation.

From dates.

I am scared to feel awkward.

I’d say,

I don’t think I’m brave in any way.

Courage is a word I long for, a lion’s heart.

It’s easier for me to write my deepest thoughts online

Than it is to ask for what I want from someone.

Still scared of the dark and the monsters in my head.

Though unless you live where you fight daily for basic human rights,

Where your fears are hunger, violence, lack of freedom,

Unless you live this.

Unless your life is an extreme obstacle race.

Then facing ourselves is the biggest fear we ever face.

Have courage, my dear. Have courage, be brave;

Walk into the dark and see what’s there,

And love it.

That’s courage.

#The100DayProject, #100Daysof Writing, Day 14

Attempting Adulthood

 

Today's post (a day late, soz) is a poem about Attempting Adulthood and how in your late twenties, everyone is at very different stages... I hope you like it. Please comment, share etc x

Attempting Adulthood

Don't wish your life away,
They say.
Don't wait for weekends and wine.
Be happy and balanced and like life all the time.
Go into Monday meetings with grace and a smile,
Lack of caffeine is not a reason to be hostile.
Make sure you exercise at least three times a week, but don't worry about your weight.
Squat, lunge, downward dog and eat a healthy diet, a colourful plate.
Read all sorts of books to nurture your mind.
Keep up with politics and documentaries. Be kind.
Do some charity work, perhaps.
Don't collapse.
Socialise, see art and plays and watch the news,
Don't overdo the booze.
If you're single,
You must mingle .
On Tinder and Happen and Hinge, Oh My.
You'll certainly find the girl or guy.
If you're not, then keep up with your mates
Inbetween the convos on mortgage rates.
What's your five year plan?
You've lost your tan.
She's lost her phone again, she's gone a bit wild;
Her ex is in Singapore having someone's love-child.
I can't really afford to go out tonight;
They exchange in the next fortnight.
I'm thinking of sacking it all in to go travelling
My life is unravelling...
You're still young-ish... well not old yet
Too old for drugs and student debt.
Tick-tock,
Biological clock.
I'm bored of the city, but I like the culture and food at 3am
When do you ever use them?
I have a cleaner but shop at Asda and Primark.
I won't queue for clubs anymore, but I'm still scared of the dark.
Nothing's solved with drink, aimless spending or a late-night screw.
As the cliche says, just do what's right for you.
**

#The100DayProject #100DaysofWriting, Day 10

To Valentine's

Too-red roses squashed on the pavement,

Like they've been painted by Alice's cards. 

Sticky chocs, and socks, and the scent of

What someone has called perfume on the breeze.

Shops are shades of pink and red,

The heart and the flower rule the court.

Stars and crosses cast aside

Whilst eggs are patiently waiting.

Those entangled with another,

Feel pressure and pleasure in parts.

Whilst those who stand alone

Shrug or ignore, burn or laugh.

Men and women both

Revert to forgotten stereotypes.

Restaurants pawning regulated romance, packed.

Though the world seems to ring with rejecting the day.

Silly, so silly, so silly they say.

Love is not one day.

So American with vivid white teeth is St Valentine,

A result of Cupid's arranged marriage with Simon Cowell.

We hug ourselves a little tighter,

Those of us alone.

It's like New Year, I hate New Year.

Yet though true, it doesn't numb us to it.

Leave the cards and three-for-one singles cocktails

At a damp west-end bar

And whether a half of two or one whole one. 

Accept it as a day to remind us of all love.

For yourself, for others, for life. 

Just don't start with a paper cut-out heart. 

Six Things to Learn from Maya Angelou

A week ago last Sunday, I went to the Royal Festival Hall to attend an event put on as part of the London Literature Festival; Maya Angelou: A Celebration. It was a beautiful evening with actors, speakers and notable guests reading parts of her autobiographies and poems, as well as talented musicians performing some of the hymns and songs that she did.

For an English Literature graduate, with a minor in history including a lot of the American Civil Rights movement, I came very late to the gifts of Maya Angelou. I first discovered her through my incessant love of other peoples soundbites - namely quotes- about two years ago and just loved everything that had been attributed to her, so I read up and I read her and it's safe to say she was a word and mentality guru.

Her biography reads pretty stark and also shows incredible resourcefulness and talent.... Born Marguerite Annie Johnson on April 4, 1928, she was raped aged eight by her mother's boyfriend, was then mute for almost seven years and went on to work as a cook, madam and sometimes prostitute, nightclub dancer and performer, opera singer, coordinator for the Southern Christian Leadership Conference, and journalist in Egypt and Ghana during the decolonisation of Africa. She was an actor, writer, director, and producer of plays, movies, and public television programmes. Today we talk of multi-tasking, but she was a pragmatic polymath, a Renaissance Woman of the highest degree. Here is what we can learn from her life, work and treatment of others

Poem for a Friday

I love this poem, I've just discovered it, so I thought I'd share it.

An Almost Made Up Poem

I see you drinking at a fountain with tiny
blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny
they are small, and the fountain is in France
where you wrote me that last letter and
I answered and never heard from you again.
you used to write insane poems about
ANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and you
knew famous artists and most of them
were your lovers, and I wrote back, it's all right,
go ahead, enter their lives, I'm not jealous
because we've never met. we got close once in
New Orleans, one half block, but never met, never
touched. so you went with the famous and wrote
about the famous, and, of course, what you found out
is that the famous are worried about
their fame –– not the beautiful young girl in bed
with them, who gives them that, and then awakens
in the morning to write upper case poems about
ANGELS AND GOD. we know God is dead, they've told
us, but listening to you I wasn't sure. maybe
it was the upper case. you were one of the
best female poets and I told the publishers, 
editors, " her, print her, she's mad but she's
magic. there's no lie in her fire." I loved you
like a man loves a woman he never touches, only
writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have
loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a
cigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom,
but that didn' happen. your letters got sadder.
your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, all
lovers betray. it didn't help. you said
you had a crying bench and it was by a bridge and
the bridge was over a river and you sat on the crying
bench every night and wept for the lovers who had
hurt and forgotten you. I wrote back but never
heard again. a friend wrote me of your suicide
3 or 4 months after it happened. if I had met you
I would probably have been unfair to you or you
to me. it was best like this.

Charles Bukowski

Dwell in Possibility...

"Dwell in Possibility" was my umbrella new year's resolution for 2013. I like to think I did towards the end. I do love the so-titled Emily Dickinson poem, thought it is a little sad.

Watch out for my 2014 New Year's post coming in the next few days. Also, a slight breakdown post over turning 28 on Saturday. G~A~H.....