Monthly Archives: April 2016

Fish

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This is not a particularly profound, or even very good, poem. I simply needed to get an idea out of my head that had been troubling me for a while. Humans can move, basically, in one plane. We move forwards, backwards, left, right, and various combinations of those. Yes, we can jump or fall down, but we are limited by gravity and the ground.

Fish, however, can swim up and down at will. Their world has so much more potential for movement! It’s hardly fair and it irks me greatly.

Fish

Fish can swim in any direction
With graceful perfection that drives me insane
I ask them to cease all their vain self promotion
They reel in commotion but do it again

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I’m a beautiful merdog!

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Good Morning

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This poem was written during a week where I had to get up at varying early hours and work all day. I’m rather prone to insomnia so I was suffering slightly by the end of the week and my first emotion, every morning when the alarm went off, was rage at the world. One evening, as I worked late into the night, I decided to channel some of my anger into a poem. I started it in the evening and finished it in the morning. The result is an angry but quite silly poem. I’m sure people will sympathise with the feelings expressed here.

Unusually for me, this poem was written more to be spoken out loud than read off paper. Hopefully it won’t lose its impact being written. Try reading it out loud or sounding it out in your head to get a picture of what I was aiming for.

Good Morning

When the alarm sounded
A sudden, profound, and all consuming
Fuming and festering thought
Wrought an almost indescribable change in me

The deep seated sedation
Though well within its expiration date
Was devastated
The enduring security of bed’s allure
GONE GONE GONE GONE GONE

Slipping from the summit
I plummet and crawl
And I can’t help but think
Of that very first fall

Seeing that it was good to eat
Sinking her teeth into the sickly sweet
Go on, indulge a little, sinful treat
Feeling the world tremble and rage
And rue the rebellion, and break
Beneath her feet

Perhaps, in that moment
What she felt, in the fear
The new weariness wracking her bones
And the tears now running
Still stunned by the sudden dysfunction at play
In ways she could never have dreamed

Perhaps, what she felt
Might be close
To the flood of emotion
The long, lord help me
Self reflection
Self deception
Self defence
Deflection of the inevitable knowledge
That all is not as it should be
All summed up for me
In the earnest and agonised cry of my heart
Expressed in a faintly heard
But aggressively stressed
Four letter word

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NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Beach Gate Hut

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I spent much of this week stewarding at a Christian festival called Word Alive. I had to guide crowds, set up venues, tidy up etc, and, to be honest, it was quite a draining and difficult job. There was, however, one absolutely wonderful duty. There was a gate on to the site called the ‘Beach Gate’ because it led down to the beach. Every couple of days, I had a 30 minute shift at this gate.

There was a small, one person hut for the on duty steward to sit and and check people’s wristbands as they entered. There was colouring in to do in the hut, someone had hung balloons up, and it was generally a nice escape from the noise and busyness of the festival. I spent much of the time in the hut singing Paul Simon‘s new single Wristband and writing this poem.

Beach Gate Hut

Hut by the Beach Gate, secluded escape
At the nape here of Pontins, the steward’s retreat
A small grey oasis, a warm bottleneck
For the checking of wristbands and resting of feet

It’s clear of the clutter of any marquee
And it’s free of the bustle of crowds in the hub
So rest in the nest of this wanderer’s crib
And inhibit pedestrians not in the club

30 minutes are yours, til the next guy gets here
But don’t fear, you’re in charge for the next half an hour
The authority’s yours, do whatever you choose
Til you lose all control and go mad with the power

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A tattered remnant of my fallen empire

The Seal Lullaby

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My girlfriend is studying music so she often recommends classical music for me to listen to. Through her recommendations I have discovered some music that I absolutely adore, such as ‘Fantasia On A Theme By Tallis‘ by Vaughan Williams . Inevitably, with ‘classical music’ being such a wide term covering many different kinds of music written over many hundreds of years, some of it isn’t to my liking.

One composer I’ve listened to a bit of work by is Eric Whitacre. Some of his work, such as ‘October‘, is beautiful, but there was a particular choral piece of his that I just couldn’t get through without laughing. I, personally, found it very hard to listen to ‘The Seal Lullaby‘ without getting diabetes from its nauseating, sickly sweet faffery. I’m probably an absolute pleb or something but there we go. In response to this piece, I joked that I should write my own Seal Lullaby. Then I did. This is the result.

The Seal Lullaby

Be still Sealia
Your blubber is quaking
Don’t open your eyes
It’s not time for waking

Be still Sealia
Your flippers are trembling
Don’t lift up your head
Your dreams are assembling

Oh Sealia, swim through the sea of your mind
And flob on the sand of your wishes
Glide by the islands you see in your sleep
And eat some impossible fishes

Be still Sealia
Your jowl is quivering
Your layers of fat
Will keep you from shivering

Be still Sealia
Your whiskers are waving
Your body  is weak
From a long day of caving

Oh Sealia, rest in the nest of your dreams
And wibble o’er rocks by the tide
You’ll marvel at things that no seal’s ever seen
While still in your bed you abide

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That poem was rather sealporific