All 6 entries tagged Poetry

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May 30, 2009


Jotted down on the first page of a new blue-covered notebook.

This is my blue book.
Does that mean, then,
that I must always
and only
record my most depressing moments?

Or am I able to
take from it
that serene
offered by the shushing
of the waves
on the beach on a still day?

But, no. It is a royal blue.
A regal, righteous tone
that attends and
This blue
shall command my language,
ushering in the liveried letters
one by one,
to line up in ranks
where they shall fight for my freedom.

February 15, 2009

Phases of Day

Twilight falls, a curtain
Of melancholy settling
Over the vestiges of a summer's day.
The gnats sing in their buzzing
Choirs, and the bats' wings
Applaud them.

The vixen sneaks out of
Her earth, shoulders low,
And shrieks victory to the night,
A vicious, rust tinted
Call, to which
Three cubs cackle their accord.

Stars come out, white
As the owl's wings
On silent winds.
Wise raptor huntsman owns
The night that is his cover.

Moon rises over,
Meadow threads shining below, as the cats
Creep on their battlements
And slink,
Over bridges
That their enemies made.

Dusky dawn arrives at last, twilight's
Other half.
The gnat's puerile music
And a different chorus
Begins. The earth replaces its dictator:

Beast for the dove.

January 14, 2009

Beyond the Blowfish

This poem was a homework from Peter Blegvad, and it had to be written using these rules/constraints:

1. The poem can be of any length, but each line must contain only ten syllables.

2. Each line must contain one of the words Peter read out when we were doing the free-writing exercise in class: blowfish, cuddle, detonate, Cyprus, destiny, anti-semitism, couch, beyond, convulsive, car, bass, demi-god, convex, Alaska, cypher. A word can be repeated or not used at all.

3. The first word of all the lines save the last one must be I, you, he, she, we, or they.

There was also another rule which was that the poem should contain one or several of the phrases that we underlined in our free-writing exercise, but I forgot about this one, as did everyone else, so this will just have to do for now, and maybe I'll write another version later.

Beyond the Blowfish.

I gingerly prod deflated blowfish —

We wait for the moment — damp — detonate!

We see convulsive inflations — small fish —

I, the demi-god, cannot understand:

We say, why did the bass fish not go bang?


I cast the blowfish onto the old couch:

We see our destiny in Alaska.

We climb into the car — convex — bent — squash…

The blowfish twitches out its life — gone now.

January 07, 2009

Free–writing exercise from first seminar with Peter Blegvad

This is a transcript of the free-writing exercise I did in our first poetry seminar with Peter Blegvad. Basically, we were writing down whatever came into our heads as quickly as would could, whilst incorporating words shouted out by Peter whilst we were writing into the "sense" of the piece. I don't quite think I'm prepared to call this piece poetry just yet, but it does nevertheless seem to have vague kind of sense about it, some feeling of a sort of wholeness, so I'm putting it up here simply because of the curiosity it planted in my head. Anyway, here it is:

metal trees with splintered blowfish sides

an explosion of petals fall like lead

dead men walk in icy shoes

and parrots scream out expletives

orang-utan cuddles cameraman

and twitchers shoot down eagle chicks

detonates with a whisper

flashes with sound

light is buried under heavy Cyprus wood

scent of needles pricking memory

amnesia nothing destiny’s approach

somnambulism’s wake-up call

and dream-death of the forgiven soldier

anti-Semitism running rife around

the eyes of children who play

the tv switching from flame to rose

and back to liquidity

ideas slog and blankness couches on the cortex

society’s weight pushing down beyond the pillows

with a convulsive mutter

and gun-mouth rattles car-sides tinting

bass sound in soprano city

singers crunching under feet of empires

who are in legion demi-god and

not separate like cacti in the desert

water swells and boils and rushes over land

the Moses of our millennia

convex perceptions of a man who isn’t real

vanity’s mirror is full of cracks

and mankind’s use has spotted it

Alaska-like with snow-capped peaks

impenetrable to the feeble mind

a winding scree of loose ciphers

jargon gobbledegook trollish rubbish

all belong on a garbage heap

this is where we long to weather

and moulder here till death we meet.

November 19, 2008

Insomnia series

This is a selection of poetry revolving around the theme of insomnia. I was going to place them in chronological order, but then decided to post them in order of personal preference instead.

I still haven't worked out how to stop the stanzas running together yet with this stupid line break format, so yet again the separation of one stanza from another will be marked with an x.



Sleepless nights and adrenalin haze

pass me by as title-less days,

the moon sweeps in, Triumphant arc,

but brings with it not the winsome sleep-dark.

Days and evenings merge all one together,

derelict without touch of soft eider feather.

Pills slip down at once sugar and bitter,

but have no effect on eyelid’s twitch-flicker.

The milky drink’s burning, too hot and yet cold,

then daylight’s sharp beam comes too dazzling, too bold!

Huddle up cat-like, world curling in,

numb mind receives just confusion and din.

Hammers keep beating, blows throbbing my head,

as I crawl to my rack – to that torture – my bed.


The Madness of the Daytime Sleeper

As migraine worsens

so back-ache lessens,

pain relieving fellow pain –

then senses fold into regression

and flashing lights burst on again.


Pills are eaten,

headache beaten,

lights still flicker in my mind.

Thunder claps as brain cells weaken

and I know I must be going blind.


This is the madness of the daytime sleeper,

tales from the memory that never rests,

any minute nap’s a keeper,

but goodness knows, this can’t be best.



Asleep and drowning,

slipping into void.

The laughter clicking

in the fuzz dream-noise.


An indistinct stalker,

blurred and now blind;

I trip and I stumble,

both falling behind.


Panic now, sleep smudged,

sluggish and cold.

The winds of despair,

tear a rip-roaring hole.


Fighting through clouds now,

wade-jumping through treacle,

as I run, hide – await:

tomorrow night’s sequel.

October 09, 2008

Thorn and Rosebud

The formatting of this blog doesn't seem to like it when you put double spacing, so I've had to use x to indicate where there is supposed to be a blank line.

Thorn and Rosebud

The roses climb

out of time

thorns catching

prickles latching

pushing the bud

pushing the rosebud

desperately pushing at the rosebud

to make you mine.


The thorns climb no more,

and the flower blossoms.

- June 2008

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