Muse |
Muse |
What is night but a shawl over my head, That which tells me to sleep yet I wake instead. My eyes drawn shut like a shop's guard, Then, corrugated, rusty relaxation turns hard. Time has shrunk, for these are the small hours When thoughts spread high shadows stretched as towers. Whirring on, the windmills of my kind Blow the drag of depth from my mind. Still insisting I am closed for business As I expand and retract and turn to resist this Puuuuull, puuuuush, bump From the shoulder of my slump. Retiring beyond the frayed fragments of futile ends Of a dream that smacks of make pretend, Red hot pokers jab at my surprise to find The lock has been sheered clean off, my Business exposed and a thirst for light Stirs in my heavy head a thirst for a fight. But I lose. This time. My mind stirs further still. The words come rhyming and there they mill Fashioning a thinker thread that runs on and down the bed Flowing from the strands that stand and fall from my head. Keeling like a wheeling ghost I rise The shroud lays thinly as mist across a field that lies Under the guise of a clock watching the dot Of a billion stars that blink twice and blot The spot where my eyes roll Round like moon stones that scratch away the sleep toll. Wrapt in stripes that coat my skin, I search for a crystal of whisky to swirl in. The Scottish rain downs my throat to choke my malty tears, Reflecting well on the wasteland of my "golden years". Horrors come to you at night, they say, But I've lost those to a numb drum that caves My resistance to return to rest, My being enveloped in a slumber nest. Broken twigs and stones, and leaves The verses tumbling out, barring the way as eaves Stay stubbornly to keep up appearances of a humble home, I dig a hole for myself in amongst a cotton loam. Removed as a nail from the wood in which it once resided, Comforted and now cursed and reminded That you can't take anything for granted, Even if you once did. Even when lying with the sticky end up, it's pointless. Like the wolf to the moon, insomnia I cuss thus! Originally written October 2020, age 24
0 Comments
The virus is a vicious red Bleeding into the head Harrowing words With COVID curves, Flickering on a social media thread Sewing together an altogether Monstrous end That's loose and unpredictable: You never know to where it might unravel. Who cares: Who lives or dies, Whose eyes may rise With the sun, Whose body's done, Whose journey's lost and won. Mounting figures fall on death ears As they ascend the y axis of R. Any figure is to blame, Who has a name, And wears the trousers of office, Pinned by the press As another "misspoken" term, A rule malleable and as changing As the mood swings Under the push of a parent Where school children still play, Bubbled beyond belief: Was anything ever different? And what of those silent souls, The ones that don't get to grow old, Their bodies torn Within Within the folds of their skin? As their blood runs cold, A vicious red Bites the dust, The fading hue Of a COVID long gone, But that left a suicide note For the body left behind, Stolen in the night, With no more breath to find. The lungs crackle and fracture; A guttural expression of laughter Leaving a friendly face That never got to place A hand on a loved one's arm Before the room grew dark. A friend, a foe, someone you don't know. It's all the same. The vicious red doesn't choose, It doesn't feel, But it is real. Yet the blind ear and the deaf eye Cry about life And having to abstain For one more day, Whilst breathing gluttonously on. The privileged are not patient. The vicious red spreads, Making no distinction. Who is next? You'd better keep your head. Photo by Joel Filipe on Unsplash Originally written October 2020, age 24
I like it when it's sunny, It makes me feel alive; I like it when the trees are green, It means I can survive. But no, the trees are falling down, Too soon has autumn come around, The leaves are dying on the ground, Screaming out; there is no sound. No flutter of the heart as one skips through the dappled shade, Wrapt in the wonder of such beatific rays, Through the embracing green That we all should have seen, On those boughs; my, aren't they strong! Not able to sit among an elder and ponder, Nor to watch the clouds float by on a summer's breeze, When all the while you fly still in the trees. Of all the meaning in these gifts, We instead plump for mere pips, We strip the trunks bare and limit out air, Signing the death warrant before it's been ironed. Originally written in 2015, age 19
All pladedge goes to pot, The faffith efur is lost. “Clattop,” goes the clock, Its eowy is in maletok. “Hakket-hakket, hakkat-hakkat,” The smub man is neromas, Watching the qubob as it climbs The tsattle to the jimblime. It takes everlasol efur to try, To even begin the almon mellorwy, Eessee the qubob, they would succicle, And fosdrol over whether to enqirricle. Where does the poddlewich come from? To toreeparry the almothon. Come back to the past, It is the almossiplom to last. Ask, to every stranger qubob, “seccus?” Only to receive a stinging swattle, plus, A rude return to the smube time, The “Clattop” of the jimblime. Hear the little metal sing high, And hear a lettle kettle sigh, No need to wonder why, Just watch the qubob as it climbs. All pladedge goes to pot, The faffith efur is lost. “Clattop,” goes the clock, Its eowy is in maletok. Key: Nonsense words and their meanings: Now read the poem again; does your interpretation change? Pladedge - Overly organised Faffith - Over thinking Efur - Pointless effort Clattop - Clunking noise Eowy - quiet singing Maletok - not really a tune (random sounds) Hakket/Hakkat - Coughing Smub - absent smugness Smube - contented smugness Neromas - Somewhere nearby, sitting down Qubob - Long-legged spider-like animal Tsattle - Swinging clock pendulum Jimblime - Clock face Everlasol - Everlasting ever so much Almon - challenging Almothon - long-lasting difficult challenge Almossiplom - Impossible problem Mellowrwy - difficult task Eessee - Whoever sees Succicle - Tinkling laugh/giggle Fosdrol - Internally debate Enquirricle - Enquire in disbelief Poddlewich - Odd idea/thought Toreeparry - To consider attempting at Seccuss - What gender are you? (Question) Swattle - Smack/Swat Lettle - Kindly borrowed Originally written in 2011, age 15
Rising as the body breathes, In and out the leaves Like a winding thought Taking flight To a soaring height. Scattered as seeds on a furrowed cloud Shimmering by on a pure thought Carried innocent as the grass blows Unassuming, unquestioning, Unconditional Beauty. Arrow heads shower the sky, Darting Between the parting of a breeze Swirling through the air with ease To a song of peace. In perpetual motion, A centrifugal notion unfolds the mind Blossoming in fluid iron filings Undulating on a moorish wave. Slate against the sky, fragmented; A grey hue, cracked like rock Ribboned with lichen stars In a mosaic formation That crumbles still, eternal. The eyes of this storm Glisten black as the night falls On the lungs bursting out in bark Branching further into the dark, It settles as dusk dies into the soil. Originally written June 2020, age 24
Opal eyes see through and yet perceive nothing. Like anti-glare on glasses, The words read bounce off, Deflected, and thoughts dejected. Shooting through the pupil and seeping out the corners, Dropping, Lifeless, Onto the keyboard. The motor is about to stall, Yet everything has gone automatic. Routine? What about auto-pilot. Glazed but not the sugar kind, But of another world: Spaced Out. Shut in. Clocked out. Locked down. Freedom is a distant friend: Trips to the coast, Walking to work, Taking the train. Smiles stretch the skin At the horse’s mouth, Now long and drawn, And about to inflate with wonting, Wishes of chewing the fat, Dreaming of a picnic on the grass. What does your family look like? Pixel block heads bobbing, Zooming, Skipping, Flicking like a camera lens In and out of focus. A far cry from Minecraft, Wishing I could dig my way out, Scratching at the walls inside my brain, Incessantly blinking for what I see to make sense. Groundhog Day has come. Round and round we go. There’s no stepping off the merry-go-round; Unless you want to stop breathing. All aboard the mind game Carousel, Spinning inside the walls of thought, Like a pin ball stuck circling the drain. With an hour of whispered air To remind you that life was once easy, The penny drops. The sun dawns every day And shines on our salty cheeks, Calling us to rise. A challenge. A call of nature. We hear a distant plea from the new growth of Spring And an Earth that inhales for the first time in decades. Some insist on sucking up the sun, Basking in baked sand, Rubbing shoulders with each other, And sharing the siren. Sacrifice is the privilege of few It seems. Lockdown fatigue takes its toll; A knell for those who are old. Reform the researcher. Run. Round and round the park. Feel the breeze, hear the leaves, and smell the sweat Trickling down your own heart, Beating on. Beating strong. Running the distance is like climbing out of a hole. Rallying those out of reach, Stretching my tongue, Meeting eyes not seen in a while. While my free friend has to stay at home, I look into the pensieve and Drop back into the lives of other eyes, Whose existence as colours on my computer canvas Is a lifeline. A rope not to hang from, But to ascend, Back onto the land line; Finding a ship docked, Ready to sail from the locked And toward the clocked in, Breaking out. Originally written June 2020, age 24
Which witch is which? Three times, they sing: A prophecy of Cawdor, Glamis and King. So here begins The war of mind; A battle lost and won, I find. Two friends are foes Not yet revealed, A force of fate for both is sealed. Macbeth is dressed In robes of Cawdor; He wishes, with the witches, he’d spoken more. He informs his Lady: A letter, she does read, And creates dark thoughts of a treacherous deed. The King is welcomed To the castle of Macbeth; Unknowingly, to his death. A warm celebration Is hosted and given, Where to his destination: hell or heaven? In the dead nature of night Macbeth does stir, A dagger he sees, it seems to lure. Pointing the way To the sleeping King Duncan; The guards too are drugged and drunken. Macbeth approaches And there rings a bell; “Duncan, do not rise, for it is a knell!” Investigation begins. Others are blamed. Those who flee: Malcolm and Donalbain. Macbeth gets his prize, He has achieved his ambition, But is losing his mind; something is missing. His friend, being betrayed, Is now his foe, The one known as Banquo. Macbeth orders him dead, In a threatened spite, But his plans are somewhat slight. Fleance, the son Of the convicted man Flees the ground of the ruled Scotland. Macbeth is haunted By the ghost of his friend; The damage is done; it shall not mend. The Lady suffers: She has lost her mind, Her hands are of blood and suicide. Unstable Macbeth, Fears the suspicion from Macduff, The lust for security is more than enough. He finds the sisters, The witches under the moon, That once told him his great fortune. To Macbeth and his fears, They do confirm all, That his death will be from no man of woman-born. Macbeth goes forth, An order is made: Macduff’s wife and children are swiftly slain. Word soon reaches, Macduff fights back, They two meet in hand-to-hand combat. Macbeth is confident And so, fights with ease, But his mind is dead and does not foresee. Macduff then reveals: “I am not of woman-born” Macbeth has lost and Macduff has won. He announces that he was ‘Untimely ripp’d’ from his Mother’s womb. Macbeth is dead and the prediction proves true. Photo by Matt Riches on Unsplash Originally written in 2011, age 15
Sweet Princess; Lime and cream, Dreams in fortune; Light and clean. See petals dance, Sway and frolic, Swirl in vines of green, And the water trickling from a stream. Now, birds fly, Dive in time: Music swings As they sing High notes, On low branches; Berries ripe and roses pink. Think the time: Right and bright, Fresh grass With the dew In blue crystals; Twinkle and sparkle. Flutter here, Butterfly : “mon papillon,” Destiny awaits, In four leaves; Clover and Buttercup: Chorus in the meadow, New and mellow; Spring has begun. Photo by henry perks on Unsplash Originally written January 2011, age 16
Flying in a reflected sky Engulfed with cotton clouds. The whir of the engine Like a soft hum of a sustained note. Snakes lie on the sand, Washed, in their way, By the tide. Landing again, and surrounded By flowers and buds on bushes, That avenue the straight road On the way to Cardiff. Through the Grand Gates of Toll. To step on the Welsh ground; Earth; continue to the city. Passing fields of grass, Shining in the sun. Old bark; gnarled, on a Thunder Tree Standing tall, hosting mistletoe. Urban, out-skirt houses Display their best garments, Hanging on lines suspended. Sectional fields come in Waves with the occasional flat. Manes of horses flare, Billowed by that passing of us. Empty bottles thrown and hidden Beneath twigs and dust. Parallel. A conveyor belt For cars and us; On the way to Cardiff. Widen lines to accommodate, Travellers on the road. The Eiffel Tower of a network Supporter amidst barren shrubbery, Keeping the conversations going. Home to shops and cars And building standing Grandioso, lining the streets, On the way to Cardiff? We are here. Photo by Mike Erskine on Unsplash Originally written in 2012, age 16
It is something we are born in, we are seen in,
Something we believe in to fit in, But it's not culture that's our song, It's the love we feel all along, To belong, to bond, With those who make us feel secure, More mature, if we agree with what they say, What they pray for and what they lay down their lives for. How they see the world and feel the world, How their story-telling unfurls; The books that tell us how to live, When others hear it like a sieve; As it goes through, they can't accept that, Can't see how anyone can accept that, What they're told is the truth, But isn't that how we always learn, me and you? Why don't we choose to be open, To remain unspoken, just as a token; As our appreciation to others' beliefs? Understanding evolves and so must our values move on, But those who want to stay? Don't get up and get in their way, Let them remain in the comfort. Something we all strive for And try for; something we would die for, Or, rather, stay alive for. Culture is what you choose to be, How you choose to see, to believe, How you choose to live. Be brave ad embrace The new or be just as brave and cradle that which Has been told to you, given as truth, And do now what you've heard said, that: When you're older, you'll respect culture.
Originally written in 2015, age 19; edited 2020, age 24
|
AuthorSamantha is a doctoral researcher researching the power of figurative language in advertising, social media, and mobile technology. Copyright © 2022
Categories
All
Archives
June 2022
|