In the Hiddenness of June

July 29, 2016 § Leave a comment

The rain fell in shivering cords
Ropes of sky plummeting straight down
The way only summer rain really does

The air felt close, protective
Like the jungle warmth was on our side
June’s hiddenness draped a damp arm around us and wept

My Unhappy Place

January 26, 2016 § Leave a comment

Lonely Sound is an imaginary body of water that lives in the recesses of my mind.

It’s a desolate place. The sun never quite breaks through the cloud cover and it’s only ever warm and damp or damp and chill.

Looking out over the sound is a sad old cabin with a half-collapsed porch. It’s rotting from the outside in and it’s full of empty rooms that no one could be bothered to care for. The air is thick with melancholy and you wouldn’t want to be stuck there.

I started believing in Lonely Sound a long time ago, before I knew its name. Then I read about a place called Doubtful Sound in New Zealand and it gave me such a weird, creepy feeling – like I knew it somewhere in my memory.

Lonely Sound isn’t even a sad place. It’s blank. You might feel sad reading about it but it’s worse than that; it’s depression and the kind of hunger​ that exists when you’re past wanting to eat. It’s where you go when you’ve done all the crying and you’re left stoney and still.

I find Lonely Sound comforting. I can go there when I need to feel more than what my life is. Do you keep a memory or an idea that helps you feel pain? Lonely Sound is my place for that. My unhappy place.

Lonely Sound

January 26, 2016 § Leave a comment

It rained for days.

I sat out on the wet porch;

Wet rattan, wet canvas, wet timber;

And watched the mist moving across the sound.

When you’d been gone four – five – days

I began to think the rain would never stop.

Food ran out. Fuel ran out. Spores settled in my lungs.

And you still weren’t back from the store.

I sat there, staring out over Lonely Sound,

Picking apart the rotting rattan.

Waiting, but not expecting.

Just me and the weather.

My Tree

July 9, 2015 § Leave a comment

There is a tree in this world that knows my name.

It breathes in my nightmares and stalks my sunlight hours. At the centre of my self, that shadow grove with pine-needle ground and the hollow where Beauty lies down to her forever sleep.  

I dreamed a chair of black wood, rattle-scuttling across the shady porch of my mind. Its twisted back was rough and alive, and moss surprised from its lureful seat.

I knew if I sat it in, I’d die. I’d be snapped into its tree mouth and crunched between twiggy fingers, leaves stuffed down my throat.

It’s breathing in my nightmares and stalking my sunlight hours. It doesn’t have to chase me, it knows I’ll come back.

A Shadow With Claws

July 8, 2015 § Leave a comment

Deep in the forest, far under the sky
A stranger was calling, I don’t much care why.
I heard him and found him, followed him down
To a dankening dark hollow, with never a sound.

And there in the gloaming, breath whispering ice,
I killed and consumed him in shining delight.
His eyes I ate last, with eye-rolling joy –
What a specimen he was, that wandering boy.

Oh, it’s quiet in the forest and the daylight is dim,
If you’re looking for danger, please do come in.

I Am a Horrible Poet

February 13, 2015 § Leave a comment

I really don’t give other people’s poetry a lot of time. Someone said I was “channelling Kerouac” recently and I was like “hmmm, yeah, should really get on that.”

It’s not that I don’t appreciate other people’s writing; I do, so much. But mainly novels, stuff I know I couldn’t do. Poetry for me is about summing up exactly what you felt in a moment, or trying on another skin and reporting on how that is. It’s pretty darn personal, so reading someone else’s go at that seems a bit weird. Like trawling a stranger’s Instagram and commenting on every single vulnerable selfie. But a poet doesn’t put themselves out for derision, just indifference. I’ve certainly never seen cruel trolling on a haiku. No, you’ll feel it in the silence.

Recently I saw someone reference the fact that we read our own writing over and over. I do, a lot. No one gets me like me. Is that wrong? That to me is the very point, and feedback is a recent phenomenon for a poet.

I see the stuff on the homepage. I glance. It bores me, because hey guess what? I didn’t write it. Other people’s poems are generally as interesting as other people’s dreams: not. I find it very hard to be an active part of the poetry community because it feels like being an active part of the local village hall crafting community. Maud loves her bug-eyed felted cows but everyone else thinks they’re so tediously ugly that they want to puncture their own eyes with a knitting needle rather than look at them. I’m not a nice person for saying it but the self-centredly centred, boldly bolded, irritatingly italicised, lovingly lowercased bollocks that’s clogging up this internet is upsetting to me. I just can’t get involved.

So why get involved? Well, narcissism. Obviously. I need the feedback. We all love being special and I think we’re mostly idiocentric enough to not check out if other people are getting the same attention. That would kill our buzz.

It’s not fair of me to love the praise and then be a bitch about where it came from. I haven’t even looked at the work of the people who have complimented me; I can’t be bothered and I also don’t want to find it lacking because then I’ll feel even worse.

This doesn’t end with a resolution or any self-improvement. I always feel that awareness is half the battle, which makes things a lot easier because you can feel OK about yourself without having to do anything.

Being Read

February 9, 2015 § Leave a comment

I’ve been writing online for quite a few years now. In that time I’ve not had very much feedback on what I’ve written. My mam asked me last week if I’ve ever experienced any nasty trolling and I told her my little corner of the internet doesn’t attract enough humans to engender hatred.

But there’s one place that I do see interaction with my writing, and that’s Just recently, people have been showing interest in my poems. The Good Boys, which I wrote last month, has had some really good feedback – which surprised me because although that poem did sum up my feelings, I didn’t think it was very tidy. I only decided to put it on because I hadn’t posted anything in a while.

Maybe that’s it: if you don’t ponce about with something, it’s a lot more true and people connect with that. It’s nice to feel like someone has read, understood and actually valued my words. Weird, but nice.

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