Insomnia

Nocturnal silence hunting the dawn,
pacing through the night;
waiting for sleep's intermission.

A fear evoking summons severs the fitful slumber.
The indistinct sermon does little to placate.

An inevitable sequel to the metred voice
are the caustic endearments,
and the crevasse cut with familial shards.

And the child waits, treading lightly-
seeking the tranquility of daylight.
A welcome paradox, despite the fatigue.

It's the little things you don't think of ...

No poem tonight, sorry guys. I will have one for you tomorrow. I have it now, if the truth were to be told, but I think it's important to address something that happened today. I have Lorraine to thank for this, some lovely feedback on my writing and she really made me realise what other people can take from each of my poems.

In saying that, Lorraine also made me see something else too, a message that I can also benefit from, so I am going to share it with you. For me the poem 'Momentos', is a little bit like an angry catharsis; a message to the person who did this to me. It is so often these negative memories that we carry around, allow to haunt and plague us, so much so that we are crippled. What of the good memories? They are pushed away, not allowed to have as much of an impact, and what an impact they could have if we only let them. This is what Lorraine saw - this is what she told me. She sees this poem as a reminder to focus on the good, and allow these memories to have the same power we give to the bad. It's also a reminder to us all to ensure that the momentos we give to others are good, as so often we can offer the negative ones without thought, and it's these ones that can be the most damaging.

Thanks for all your feedback, please feel free to post it as a comment on the blog, so that everyone can see :)

More than memories

So what is a momento? Something you can hold onto, something to remember an event by or someone with. When you hold the item, close and dear to your heart, you can remember the joy you felt.

I found it interesting to invert the nature of the word, and describe something totally different; something not nice at all. Each of the items described in the poem is a memory, but it is more tangible than that, they are diary entries allowing anyone who reads to relive the time.

For those who lived through this, with this, it is something more. It is the scars left on your psyche. Scars that itch and burn and never heal. Scars that remain and remind you of the torment. These are the momentos that some offer to their children, that husbands offer to their wives, that wives offer to their husbands. These are the momentos that were offered to me for years at a time, and I work very hard to forget.

Momentos

Your repeated scorn broadcast in an impromptu commentary.
Demoralising laments inciting grief; but never for you.
A mirrror of words that revealled the abhorrent.
My tears, deplorable in your eyes eventually dried; ceased to flow.
Your verbose nature, imbued with Hyde's judgement,
was ignored by those who could.
Frenzied strikes enforcing a despotic authority, were offered
like rocks to be carried in my pockets for a lifetime.

Forget, forget, forget; and yet they are there.

It is for you ...

(Little cups of Marigold flowers and a simple flame, offered with a prayer on the Ganges)

I am the child was written for my daughter. She is the light of my life, and I am priveliged to have her.

Each stanza represents something that means something to me in our relationship, or something special about her. The last stanza, in particular, tells the story of how she came to be.

When I initially drafted the poem I was trying to describe what she was like and link the qualities to the earth in which we belong. It just didn't work. I then realised that with children, they just are. They are so in tune with the world; not yet influenced by negativity and turmoil that they live as a part of the world, as opposed to alongside it.

The four words in the second line of the first stanza are qualities that she displays every day. I felt that when I thought about these qualities I could imagine a delicate dew drop, dripping, and determined to make an impact on the earth. Children are definitely unwavering in their desire to take on the world.

The next stanza describes the love that that we have for each other, that is shared and communicated through touch. Sometimes, she just warms my heart as she reaches out and strokes my face.

As she breathes, she brings me peace and happiness. Something I have sought for so long. Each breath that she takes, makes me grateful for my own, and gives me hope that the future will be worthwhile.

She dances like nobody is watching, she laughs like she will never have a care in the world. She trusts me implicitly to love and protect her. I can imagine a snowflake would be like this in a gentle breeze.

She calls out without shame. She observes and asks about details that we, as adults, often miss. Her passion for life is like an untamed storm, and I can only hope that quality remains with her forever.

I was so worried I would never meet her. I walked around the Nandi Bull and prayed on the glorious river Ganges. I set forth a lit candle, hoping against all hope that the river would deliver a miracle. One month after my return, she entered my life. That river is a part of her story.

I am the child

I am the dew drop falling from the leaf;
rhythmical, steady, demanding, determined.
Unwavering trickles streaming through the earth.

I am the delicate fingers of the sun;
reaching out, longing to touch,
entangling themselves in your heart.

I am the wind; breathing in, out.
Healing, eliciting hope.
Aloft and tended are the dreams of man.

I am the crisp snowflake;
drifting without concern,
waiting to be held by you.

I am the thunder;
echoing, rejoicing in the world.
An unfurled tempest throughout eternity.

I am the river;
illuminated soulful, miraculous.
Courageously forging a path through the rock.

To be consumed

This poem has been sitting in my little draft book for a while. I have reworked it and given it a title. I could never name it before, as I was worried that the name might betray the person who made me feel this way.

Loneliness is a hacking, domineering emotion, and especially sad when you really shouldn't be alone at all. It eats me up, like the disease consumption, and isn't easily overcome.

I feel that the last line is the strongest, and that the whole poem builds to this moment. The silence of loneliness isn't that quiet at all. It allows your own brain to go into overdrive, and it's all of the terror, sadness and longing that is felt that can get too loud.

Let me know what you think

:)

Consumption

Come and get me
I plead,
I am over here;
lonely.

Please hear me
I repeat.
Your inundating deafness
ravages me.

It is enveloping,
indomitable,
too loud.

Origins of 'The Dead Sea'

This poem is a recent one. I thought that I may as well start here. A few people see the title and instantly read too much into it. I guess some poeple are not sure how to deal with the word 'dead', especially in the title of the poem. However, the poem is not describing death, or dying (or being dead, if we really have to go there). Ironically, it is very much describing being alive. Drudgingly alive. It's the other stuff that's dead, and that's the sad part about it. Emotion, dreams, secrets. Trapped in a life that really isn't what you wanted it to be and feeling down right sorry for yourself that you got caught up in it.

I am particularly proud of the vulture imagery, I really felt that I hit the nail on the head with that one. Depression: a predatory, stalking emotion, that pecks away at your soul.


I have posted this poem first, as it was in writing this that I realised I needed to go back to my original goals. To remember what I wanted out of life in the first place, and take steps in achieving them.

Like I said in my profile, I am particularly interested in feedback, so feel free to comment. If you like what you read here, become a follower, and invite your friends.

:)

The Dead Sea

Ebbing water traces a path to my throat.
Rests, taunts, beckons fear.
Hands rise up, gnarled tree roots clawing at my face.
I am silently overwhelmed.

Merciless current renders me paralysed; stifled.
Caught on on the bough that could not weather the storm.

Sorrow assails with a vulture's precision;
Relentless pecking from the inside,

My dreams are forsaken, rippling echoes; a mishap of time.

The water's reflection beguiles those not yet trapped.

I linger with a futile longing.