Looking Backwards, leaning forwards.
I have been browsing through some old stuff of mine today and I have noticed that other than a complete sense of humour failure not a lot has changed with the passage of time...other than I am reading what I wrote with a rye smile. I would like to think I have grown up since then, but I haven't.
I am a great fan of solitude - solitude is my best friend. I am also a great fan of bad poetry and whenever solitude and I go for a walk something marks the moment of thought. The marking is usually a pile of lines that won't share with each other. Each line stealing the words it wants and then rejecting any more when it has had its fill. As the words pour out of the pen they cascade down the page. I am not sure it is even poetry but rather it is an expression collected in form.
I am also a great fan of thought, but more of truth. Life is never perfect, but I tend to 'rejoice' in the good and the bad. I am partly ashamed of my 'creative' (I use the term loosely) expression because it could be interpreted as me wearing my heart on my sleeve or being too open. I don't think anyone can possibly be too open, sometimes life doesn't work out and it is only the truth and honesty that sets us free. I think. What I show here is nothing. My heart is firmly placed in jar on a bookcase in my fathers house and isn't anywhere near my wardrobe, let alone my sleeve. I take great satisfaction in writing. Words are so universal, so general, so clever and once released they hold their own meaning. It is easy to interpret them in our own mind with our own experiences and project them onto the writer, but that is, perhaps, a mistake. Words own themselves. They don't really give us a full insight into the soul of the writer, only a window into something that probably reflects the reader more than the writer. Perhaps.
I don't often read what I write, but I have recently returned to some of my old stuff - I stumbled upon it and here it is.
I mark events with bad poetry. July 2004 marked the 'end' of a particular time for me and this is what I wrote
*****************
t* is over You took it all
You took my life
Held it captive
In endless strife.
It took my all
To take my life
To set it free
To end the strife.
************************
the clouds are gathering
stormy skies covering
the sun peering through
looking for love
the birds take their rest
spiders take their cover
the rain begins to pour
trying to drown this lover
the flood gates open
washing all away
leaving what is sturdy
this love is here to stay
within the walls of terror
the haunting and the screams
within this myrth so dark
this love is my dream
sitting in my shelter
in your loving arms
resting in your presence
this love my soul it calms
**********************************
I am a great fan of solitude - solitude is my best friend. I am also a great fan of bad poetry and whenever solitude and I go for a walk something marks the moment of thought. The marking is usually a pile of lines that won't share with each other. Each line stealing the words it wants and then rejecting any more when it has had its fill. As the words pour out of the pen they cascade down the page. I am not sure it is even poetry but rather it is an expression collected in form.
I am also a great fan of thought, but more of truth. Life is never perfect, but I tend to 'rejoice' in the good and the bad. I am partly ashamed of my 'creative' (I use the term loosely) expression because it could be interpreted as me wearing my heart on my sleeve or being too open. I don't think anyone can possibly be too open, sometimes life doesn't work out and it is only the truth and honesty that sets us free. I think. What I show here is nothing. My heart is firmly placed in jar on a bookcase in my fathers house and isn't anywhere near my wardrobe, let alone my sleeve. I take great satisfaction in writing. Words are so universal, so general, so clever and once released they hold their own meaning. It is easy to interpret them in our own mind with our own experiences and project them onto the writer, but that is, perhaps, a mistake. Words own themselves. They don't really give us a full insight into the soul of the writer, only a window into something that probably reflects the reader more than the writer. Perhaps.
I don't often read what I write, but I have recently returned to some of my old stuff - I stumbled upon it and here it is.
I mark events with bad poetry. July 2004 marked the 'end' of a particular time for me and this is what I wrote
*****************
t* is over You took it all
You took my life
Held it captive
In endless strife.
It took my all
To take my life
To set it free
To end the strife.
************************
the clouds are gathering
stormy skies covering
the sun peering through
looking for love
the birds take their rest
spiders take their cover
the rain begins to pour
trying to drown this lover
the flood gates open
washing all away
leaving what is sturdy
this love is here to stay
within the walls of terror
the haunting and the screams
within this myrth so dark
this love is my dream
sitting in my shelter
in your loving arms
resting in your presence
this love my soul it calms
**********************************
posted by MortimerBones at
12:46 PM
3 Comments:
I've always appreciated your way with words Bones, since I first discovered your blog in 2009.
Thoughtful writer's choose what they will share with others and allow their readers to accompany them on their path for a ways.
While I had the opportunity of taking poetry classes at Uni I never did. The instructor was a famous Irish poet and he was savage in his criticism of all others.
I write poetry for myself. I share it seldom...I think it takes courage to do so. Thanks for sharing yours, and allowing us to walk with you a little way as we read your blog.
Jaq
Well said, Jaq, and very well said, Bones.
Poetry is where heart, mind and soul meet.
And dance.
So dance!
And sod the nay-sayers!
good heavens. Thank you for your lovely words.
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