Muse |
Muse |
Looking as if through cotton wool,
âmy eyes roll slow and lethargic, Sponged of their moisture. Red rugs unfold As paths to here and there, Tossing their small swollen fingers With a salty wave, Branching out as blood shoots across The white desert. A nautical drop walks the planks Lining this cracked boat That's dry as sand dust; Collecting in the corner, It sleeps on - There's no man of my dreams. A spike of electricity Shocks the wool stiff And blows my eyes wide! Pain pinches down those scarlet tunnels, Carrying my tiredness to my body, Hunched. My eyes reflect the shine of the big screen And splinter again, Sputtering between blinks. They glaze, Encased in icing sugar Sprinkled like cellophane over my mouth. Breaking under pressure, A small stream prevails But relief is found from a bottle. And then the flood comes.
Originally written 30th March 2020, age 24
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Ideas scurry on by as I try to recapture a strain Of thought quite gone from its spring That it was as if it grew wings and Took flight to fight my addled brain For more thinking and, blinking, I try to recall that juicy pool of philosophy That I had dipped my neural toes into and Followed a notion that puffed out, scratching Its way from my brain, running down my fingers And onto the page, where it remained scribbled Until with a fresh mind and dewy eyes Strangers read again as it lingers, Gnawing at their senses as fur stands, Brushed over, and squeaking it plucks On a cheesy note of a heartstring, Where a zesty end lands, Wrapped in tales and pricked ears That creep quietly by and rest, Waiting for another time to rise, Or to be stroked dead in the pocket of peers. © Copyright 2020
The rain drops, streaming across the window Like stars shots, running across the night's sky; They sparkle on their sides and Dance against the black backdrop, A deep navy canvas that reflects Travelling faces. Through the window, amber lights shine And passing fairies glitter their way As the festive hearts of travellers Flitter at the thought of coming home For that family Christmas, Or altogether fast to a lonely room. A perpetual exhale of exertion Accompanies quiet conversation and Dulls the station call To the blue-lit eyes that consume; Those stimulated moons that Cut down the social to the subdued. Dinner tables fold out for work Or as an extra hand for a can of Carling, Keeping it cool for the night out on the town Or to hold forever for a friend. Crumbs from a late supper decorate the seats, Encrusting its fibres with a crunch. Closed in shut on a cold day, The air conditions exude human odour; The doors revolve as travellers go their natural course, With a burst of rich diets following, Wafting its way through the passengers; Some wrinkling, others staying plain. Stacking the shelves with memories, Overhead and hoarded, No space for bicycles that offer a greener step. The oiled engine rumbles far from electric energy With the hybrid only a puffed idea On this excursion. Tired heads bob along to the rhythm of the Track clacking its tacky tune; A tinny beat that sways its way home. Numb minds and silence Are more than the merrier here; Rain away and wash out the gloom. Copyright © 2019
There's a fire in my heart, And it has ripped us both apart. There's a fire in my soul, And it's burned a dark, ugly hole Right to where the eye used to be That could always perceive your beauty; The way your smile lit up the room, But it melted and now that's gone too. The smell of your hair, The love in the air, The way you held me every night Even after you turned out the light. Remember before I set this fire ablaze, Caught your mirage in the haze; Stared at you until my eyes went coal Stoned and drunk on all that is cold But nothing worked. Instead everything hurt. You were the one who knew me to my core, How to heal all my sores. Save one. The fire that burned so bright that I Couldn't control it. Couldn't hold it. Couldn't quench it. I never meant it. What I said. What I did. How I went. How I hid. There was a fire in my heart, And it ripped us both apart From this life to the next. There was a fire in my soul And it burned a dark, ugly hole Right where the eye used to be, Reflecting the eye that I could see Pointed at my chest And with every heaving breath I screamed. But this time it took me and I went. Because my life was all spent On reaching a recovery that I couldn't achieve Or one that I couldn't see. I should have told you Maybe I can still hold you Still as you shake in the night After you turn out the light. Again. You'll pretend you knew And that there was something too That you noticed About how I never spoke of this. And as you stand in the black Realising I'm never coming back You'll bow your head And whisper instead: "If he could have talked to me We would be looking at an end To a happier story." Copyright © 2019
The train moans on, hissing its angst across the tracks. People penetrate its walls Day in, day out, Dulled by the blowing thrumb Of a job done and gone. The rain hits the window pane; It cries out into the night, A spyglass to the abyss Or early morning bliss; A stage of fear running far, Far, far away from here. Faces blurred and conversations unheard, There move the ants of the business world Inside a millipeed of speed. Copyright © 2019
A hand around the waist Makes a longing feeling quelled, A belonging feeling swelled; Oh what it is to be wanted, Desired, admired, and all those sweet Yearnings of the heart that rise and fall With reminders from romantic films, Tearful music so expressive, dolce, and Cantabile are like made up words, Meaning nothing at all, but the tone Means the world. Tell me you love me One more time. Wild imaginings once dreamed in a teenage Mind. The gap all too easy to fall behind. Fantasy men marching in their black jeans and loose ties, shoddy but cute to the eye. The school girl thrill. The chase all but a ruse Or a rush to get a kiss at the price of an ego Too under-developed to call mature. Boys in their blazers, too unsure of their own aspirations to call on any relation with you. A dream of Disney: the handsome and the royal Are not real. Dream on or forget that yearning. Bury yourself in your learning. Music unites the soul of one healing And the other cold; Waiting for the moment, So many deemed wrong. Unknown to the other as parts of the unwritten song. Words unsaid yet uttered as projections, A something never quite explained. Or explainable. Retrospection is the only looking glass To hear the true music, united in Time. The clock ticks on in tempo, The evenings roll on in separate lines, Parallel and unheard, silent aberrations of the Fledgling thoughts. Flying away to learn to Think. The words used in their artful form, The music of communication, intonation still Lingers. A thinker remembers impressions; Expressions from a year gone by. Who knew you would remember me, And I, so frustratingly forget my fantasies, Since condemning them as such, Giving me nothing but a silent wish, Sentenced to dream and imagine the impossible. But here you find me, revive me, and, Upon the wave that dives ever deeper, We become each other's keeper. Originally written in 2018, age 22
Question-mark-arched, Over the world's knowledge, folly, and self-destruction. Where we can lose ourselves and find Truth in our online image; A mirage of an offline being. Seeing for the first time the wealth of Information, innovation, and creation; Becoming more than we ever wanted to be. Dreaming of a new life in space Whilst driving to work with our children, Strapped in for school. Our minds distracted and diffracted In a web of many plaforms. Connected yet disconnected with external lies, Why drive? Why not sit at home, On the phone, and text and surf your way to Business. The richness of sharing, caring, but Scaring and daring to offend, praises and insults blend into one; Those that discard acceptability and appropriateness from their inbox, Protected behind glass and miles of lightning-fast broadband. To use or not to use; to abuse or not to use. One cannot be done without the other. Flawed by those users who abuse us Across the space we love, like, and comment on. Humanity and humility reflected like a mirror, And amplified through speakers across the years; Archives that gather no dust But get lost like us in the labyrinth of the web. The Internet Enigma. © Copyright Samantha Ford 2018
The black water, pooled, like a pot of ink
Of unwritten words; a pit of dark reflections Of the night sky in broken glass; steely, galvanised by the stars; A distant memory of past destruction. A stream of blood crying out All those lost at sea, in a forgotten time in an unknown future. Fragmented and shattered, The surface shifts in shards, like tectonic plates in the deep. Broken waves lapping on and over, On and over again, as purple lips lick the sides, Tasting the frozen dirt, which reveals white jagged teeth; water crystals far from ecstasy. The black waters, dull and lulled into quiet, Spills its secrets to the rocks, Splashed and dashed to the still air, Spray falls as ice among the ruined, Landing among the shipwrecked and gnarled branches of old; Twisted in their wisdom of such bygones. Down dribbles the black water, Down the narrow shallows, unable to breath Or be any more than passing strangers to the passing Stranger crossing over and away from harm; Calm in ignorance of the black water beneath. Its presence not known nor minded; Silent and ever-flowing, ever-growing in momentum To an unknown end. Ebbing into bends, ebbing in two As the lip splits, with a guttural scream From a nearby drain, draining out its story To find a new end downstream. The split lip bleeds and tears a new path, Alone on the road to a dead end. The black water moves on, leaving the dead behind, Rolling onwards, curling its head in and under, In and under again, gliding along its own glazed impressions, Expressions of the cold unspoken. The sky cries over the black water, Dripping its misery into the shallows. Vanity and dignity but a whispered question. Swollen with sorrow, the black water groans; Bloated, it sinks deeper and into the river. Lost to another force. A special edition this month is the product of a collaboration between Samantha Ford and Darren Gibson, Master's Composition student from the University of Salford. Darren Gibson's atmospheric music brings to life the poetry of Samantha Ford, telling the story of ancient origins that has a modern moral at its core. The musical prose is based on the legend of Finn MacCool and the creation of the Giants Causeway and Isle of Man. Watch the video and read the poem below. Of Strong Mind (poem) Stones crowd the shoreline before venturing out, Like pebbles on a beach licked by the sea; Their voyage yet to begin from the Irish coast, Across the grey glass that twinkles in the dawning sun, To form a passage to a land where the Red Man lives. The sea glass shatters in sunlight and the promise of a new day. Finn MacCool smooths his hand over the cliffs, As the giant brushes away the moss clinging to the rough rock face, Like a stroke over his own weathered features. He then grasps a boulder nearby and begins work, Placing them one after another, Again and again and again, As steps out to sea. The stones warm to the passing of time, As Finn MacCool lays a causeway from his homeland shore of Co Antrim, Forming a passage of stone stretching to the Scottish coast, Where a Red Man stands; His blazing hair wired to the clouds as rain runs to the shore, Wetting the once warm stones of Finn MacCool’s labour. The rocks cool on impact as a foot slams into its face; Fire worms quiver in the highland air, Sprouting fearfully from the legs of the Red Man; Legs as chiselled as the contours of the Scottish cliffs, Which serves as his pedestal. The sky explodes in an electric flash, Setting afire the shore surrounding Finn’s giant causeway; Finn MacCool looks up into the bulging eyes of the scarlet Benandonner, The Red Man, A flaming head among the dark storm that partly cloaks him and Rumbles in guttural gasps. The Red Man, The Benandonner, The warrior giant, Catches the next shot of searing lightning, Crushing the thunderbolt between his tree-trunk fingers To a flat disc-world of energy; keeping it in his pocket. “Away. You,” he bellows. “Away. You. Nàmhaid <nowid>. Enemy”, The grave challenge roars from his thick throat. Finn MacCool sees through burning eyes to the smouldering heart of Benandonner And knows he will not prevail on the giant’s own Scottish grounds. Denied passage, MacCool turns and flees homeward; The stones quaking beneath him with every intake of breath That draws sharp jabs to his side as he runs for his life, Pursued by the Red Man. MacCool prays his partner, Oonagh, Will be home at fort Cullamore To help him escape the belligerent Benandonner. The wind aids Finn’s swift passage along the causeway to Cullamore, Where he finds Oonagh, wisely waiting. Upon hearing Finn’s hurried words requesting weapons to fight, She goes away; Returning with a white sheet, Billowing in the brewing Scottish storm; Its soft fibres dancing with intent and, When wrapped around Finn’s quivering body, Settle on his shoulders in a cunning calm, Like warm, reassuring hands that reflect his wife’s smile. “Brawn alone will not defeat the Red Man; Only strength of mind can conquer the giant”, She soothes, as Finn follows her arm’s motion To a room beyond, behind a curtain, Where he waits with shallow breath. The door to Cullamore rattles in its hinges, Its beams breaking under the force of Benandonner’s fist. The handle bows to its owner, Opening to reveal a resolute Oonagh, Who welcomes Benandonner in with a quiet knowing. For all the demands for Finn, the Red Man does not bend her; She stands as strong as the stones from whence the causeway came. Warming to her resolve, she asks Benandonner to wait While Finn returns from hunting on the hill, Leading the Red Man inside, Who still seethes and heaves To the rhythm of a rock fall with every exhale. A sharp selection of heavy hammers hang from the Cullamore walls; Oonagh introduces them as toys for their Finn-child, Although they were truly ornamental and gargantuan in mass, Far beyond anything Finn or Benandonner could hope to wield. The giant uncertainly shivers as he questions his own strength In a fight against Finn. Oonagh moves on; The kitchen fire burns bright Upon the entrance of The Red Man, Reflectively sparking a familiar hue of his hair into the room. Throwing shadow-flames onto the walls, The fire flickers and spits at the giant’s intrusion. Oonagh’s deception takes another turn; She serves Benandonner a bread loaf her husband eats daily, Slipping inside it an iron bar to Solidify the surface from soft bread To a block that, with one bite, Knocks the roots of the Red Man’s teeth From their mouth craters, causing them to Fall like rounded marble to the tiled floor. He yells in agony as Oonagh apologises in innocence; She takes an ordinary loaf To a curtain that wavers in quickening breath. It pulls back, breaking the shield to the room beyond, Revealing Finn wrapped in a swaddling sheet of white, Cooing as a baby waiting to be fed. He grabs the bread and bites through the aerated dough. Peering between tears, the Red Man’s eyes rest on the Finn-child, Wondering what monster Finn must be to have A child of this size born to him; A child that eats iron bread like gliding through hot butter; That has the muscles of a warrior, That can carry, never yielding, bulbous, heavy-ended hammers In childish play. How fearful must Finn MacCool be, Unbelievably, the father of such brawn From a child just born. “Finn is soon to return from hunting” Oonagh gazes onwards at the child and no further. When all she hears is the fire dimming in the grate, The rock fall heaving gone from the quaking Cullamore fort, She looks up to find no sign of The Red Man, Save his teeth resting like tombstones On the kitchen tiles. The Red Man runs, And escapes to return to Scotland and, In his haste and fear, Claws at the cliff as he reaches the shore, Gathering parts of the coast, Throwing it back onto the causeway, Severing his passage to Ireland, To Finn MacCool, Forming the Isle of Man And a reminder of a Giant deception From a woman, Not of brawn, But of strong mind. © Copyright Samantha Ford and Darren Gibson 2018
Sing, as stars shine. Twinkle. Sigh, as the breeze blows. Breathe. Cupped beaks, Brown waistcoats with Iridescent blues, Fluorescent as purples are On the back of blackbirds, Or in the eye of a raven. Calls from all directions. A full turn; clockwise. To the sun. Notice the polyrhythm, Textures of nature. The voice of the mother; Creation is splendid In the late afternoon. Dance, as trees move. Sway. Laugh, as children do. My little chirrup! Originally written in 2012, age 16
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AuthorSamantha is a doctoral researcher researching the power of figurative language in advertising, social media, and mobile technology. Copyright © 2022
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