by Poetry

hills & rivers by Loch Lomond
curling stones surmounting God
& gentle shores teasing infinity are
               but they are not you

I think some part of you
resents that the idea
that I can unearth beauty

               after so long
as a filter – telling me what is
beautiful & what is not –
I still know my own beauties
when I see them

               every rolling wave
& subtle crash of birds slipping
beneath the waters & the distant hiss
of wheels on wet earth
I am becoming aware that beauty
is not your concern

Over the years, I have learned how incredibly easy it is to be inspired, stimulated and set on fire by the unfamiliar. Even just a few hours, or days, in a different environment, with different concerns and different pleasures too, is like a shock to the system. It is easy to create beautiful things, and even easier to admire, the beauty of the unfamiliar. It is considerably more difficult, and perhaps more worthwhile, to unveil the beauties in the everyday things. To admire, perhaps, how the condensation on your car window shapes different patterns depending on whether you leave for work at 7:47 or 8:02. To be stimulated by the hiss of the same tyres on the same road, but the shifting nature of the world around you turns each layered day into a crescendo across the year. To close your eyes and feel the sun on your face with the same pleasure as the rain.

Easy to say; easy to romanticise. Almost impossible to do. But that, I think, is the goal. I think that’s how we survive. Learn to love our shells and our cages. Learn to smile at the cracking whips and the wheeling of hospital gurneys too.

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modern poetry

Henry David’s Haven

Dare I dare, to watch the sun break open against these alien, icy shores? To watch it, rudely, shoulder aside the mist, from those distant, ice-shrouded moors; to push the smog of industry, into the alleyways of these bloody streets? To encompass these footsteps of...

Socialists And Turtles (Dream 12)

Savio’s screaming down in the salt lake dust mines of education; Savio’s screamin’ about broken bodies on broken slave-drivin’ wheels/ burn with embarrassment like it were lickin’ at yer heels/ an’ Jesus moans that if the machine weren’t so fuckin’ odious then he...

Albert Docks – A Poem

So, you guys remember 'Albert Docks'? That mini-trilogy of poetry I did a couple of weeks ago, which has earned me world-wide acclaim and thrown me into the spotlight and I will forever go down in the history books as a rival to Shakespeare, Eliot, Poe and Johnny...

A Very Gentle Suicide

She was smoking by the Irwell when she decided to kill herself and I couldn’t stop her.She decided to buy a house in Marsh Green – in that part near the factory where the locals say they’re from Orrell and not Kitt Green, and take their dogs on long, noose-like walks...