This week in my creative writing workshop we did about performance poetry. I found it absolutely inspiring, I can't imagine having the guts to go up onto a stage and spill your secrets, in the form of metaphors, stories and similes, out to a crowd; it must take a very special kind of courage to… Continue reading Performance poetry, and how brave their writers are.
Early Chaos. It starts with an older brother: earth soil, sandstone and chalk. What they, we, know. Then a person unknown, travelling on comet dust - Wild 3. Another: martian soil, kicked up by the tracks of a mars rover, but sharing the same blood. Shattering like Gale, a person out of stars from deep… Continue reading Martian child.
I think of your fingers sometimes, flicking over pages, working over my words. Eyes absorbing things I never say out loud. I write to you in dreamlight, without you ever knowing, shuddering at the thought of a romantic poem.
Well, to start off, thanks to wordpress and its text formats being extremely strict, the poem is not publishing how I want it to look and how it looks on Word so... This is how it actually looks. My idea for this poem came about from looking at news headlines, thinking about writing about something… Continue reading Words on ‘Holes in the countryside’.
The hum, I hear from a distant quiet, a solitary stir. The depths are cracking, tremendous breaks, in my ears. A gentle brush, from the barley and wheat, rippling. A hollow explosion, a collapsing of things, engulfing. It tickles at your fingers, an excited, soft touch. The chasms are opening, dragging out like the pre-tsunami.… Continue reading Holes in the countryside.
So I saw a few people on my Facebook doing this a while ago and I thought it was a cool thing to let people indirectly know more about you, because I do think that your music taste says a lot about you... So, here goes nothing (this isn't in any order) 1. Fleetwood Mac… Continue reading A little thing to get to know me by: my top 10 albums.
Trekking along the path, avoiding nettles, thistles and spots of wet grass, a Father looks back. A daughter caught in a square inch forest of long grass, a stray branch whipping away the green towers. A walk that was taken every week. Saturday mornings in the presence of the river, the fields, the sky. Those… Continue reading Weekly Poetry: An Autobiography of Countryside Walks.