Suspended normality

Konica12572

 

 

 

That moment when

for reasons unexplained
a train halts in
darkness.

People wonder where
they are, but
nothing can be seen
outside.

The view has donned
night’s veil.
Gone indistinct.

 

We peer from
well-lit carriages
at an enigmatic blank.

Vague unease
stirs slightly
behind masks of
unconcern.

 

Normality suspended
leaves new doubt
round journey plans
or calculated times.

 

Certain faces look constrained
as if exposed
to scrutinising stares.

While others talk
with neighbours, now
and humanise the silence.

 

 

Alone

I gaze
at my reflection’s
odd distortion

set across
the window’s glass.

 

 

Envisaging a limbo

where this situation
turns into an
afterlife:

 

Our spirits trapped
through metal cells.

Unendingly.

 

 

What pointless fate.

 

To maybe
find oneself

surrounded.

 

By
some

throng

 

of decayed
souls.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Like
mine.

 

 

 


 

(1981)

 


 

 

 

Hi guys!

 

Older prose has morphed toward poetry again, in editing.
But past work is still categorised according to its original form.

 

(My health problems are so dominant at present, I was worried about managing any blogging this weekend.

I’ve attended two hospitals and a medical walk-in centre in the space of four days.

The infected thumb and finger on my writing hand will not clear up.
Hard to do the simplest things, and the pain is bad.

Have also been losing my vision due to migraines.
Plus a cold, viral outbreak, and the usual mass of M.E./CFS/ pancreatic symptoms.
The stress of illness affects mental health as well. Anxiety especially.)

 

Sorry to be missing out on other people’s posts, being too unwell for much activity on WordPress, recently.

 

Art on the blog is mine: I hope you like it?

Comments are always very welcome!

Thank you for reading.

 

 

 


(anxiety / art / blog / blogging / depression / fiction /life / mental health / painting / poem / poetry / thoughts / writing)

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Concealed source

 

scan 5

 

 

 

Can we always detect
our own motives?

 

While reading, I suddenly
roused myself.

Closed that text
without knowing why.

 

Rising from the chair
I slipped off shoes
preparing
to do press-ups.

 

(Then, sensing food
still overfilled
my stomach

such exertions
were postponed.)

 

Walking through the kitchen, next
to scan a dull grey
sky for light

I swing outside, a moment
by one arm.

A water droplet passes, near
(even though
we’d not had rain).

But looking at pale concrete
shows no moisture
where it fell.

 

Reversing motion
brought me back
within.

 

Retracing steps
I find
the front room door
remains ajar

displaying
both abandoned shoes.

Which lay like
dark twins
crouching there.

Long shaped from use
and bent mid sole
preserving moulded stress
as if
intent

to run away
themselves.

 

 

So far
my break had seemed
a waste.

 

Yet now
perhaps
this restlessness
exposed
its concealed source?

 

When

instead of reopening
the book

my hand grasped
a notepad
with pencil attached

and
I finally

started

 

to

write.

 

 

 


 

(1981)

 


 

 

Hi guys!

 

Hope you are well?

 

Added to my usual health problems are
an infected thumb, on my writing hand.
Plus a fever.

Hardly able to concentrate, let alone go out.

Being too ill for WordPress, I’ve missed finding interesting posts and commenting.

 

The piece above started as prose: but poetry asserted itself again, during editing.

Due to brain fog I’m not sure if it works?

 

Trying really hard to keep up my regular Sunday blogging schedule.

(Even the weather has given me problems, as I spent many hours today with my computer shut down due to thunderstorms.)

 

Comments are VERY welcome!

(Any art on the blog is mine.)

 

Thank you all for reading!

 

 


 

( anxiety / art / blog / blogging / depression / drawing / fiction / life /mental health / poetry / reading / thoughts / writing )

Fearsome horizon

Konica128515

Like some echoing internal voice
this urge grips me.

To force my way upward,
conquering fear.

 

Lying in the shallows; that daunting horizon beckons.
Beyond these annoying insects, skittering across surfaces.

 

I’ve seen others, also, drive against the shore.
Though quickly cease, when sensing eyes fixed on them.

 

Destiny calls. And yet I feel
too paltry a means, for any great end.

Just an ordinary specimen of our kind.
My boldness could even cause offence.

As might confessing strange desires
which make their bearer tremble.

 

At least duller species, sharing the depths, notice no tensions.
Bivalves and crustaceans, forage vile morsels, unaware.

(One suspects they’d eagerly spread gossip about us
all around the sea.)

 

Legends claim those lands, before me, were
once overpowered by mother ocean.

 

Previously, I dashed myself on mud or rocks
without success.

But here the sand is soft
while slopes are low.

 

Thus, unsure what lurks behind defiant bounds
to inhabited waters

I make ready
for a new attempt.

 

 

First, short prayers, request good fortune
from a goddess.

(Our lady
of the shining gills.)

 

Then, deciding time’s now ripe.
I’ll use the next large wave.

 

 

My tail is poised.

 

My fins begin
their beat.

 

 

 

 


 

(1979)

 


 

( Hi guys!

This piece imagines an impulse driving ancient aquatic creatures to occupy dry land.
Recast with human-type thoughts.

Not my usual thing: but part of the collected past work I’m gradually blogging on here, to avoid its loss, via illness, age and death.

Certain poetising tendencies crept in, again, during editing.

 

Comments are always very welcome!

Any art on the blog is mine: I hope you like it?

 

Thank you for reading.)

 


 

( anxiety / art / blog / blogging / culture / drawing / fiction / humor / life / mental health / poetry / thoughts / writing )

A reject

 

14

 

 

 

 

Drizzle coated everything in soft spray.

Beneath tall lamps, pavements shone.
Lit by amber reflections.

 

Removing his wet glasses changed the view to an impressionistic haze.
Which seemed more comforting than stark reality.

Pocketing his spectacles, he carried on without them.
The area was quiet.
Occasionally a bush would rake its branch tips over his jacket, if he came too close.

He thought about those already in bed, at this hour. Behind thousands of facades across the town.
Unknown minds, many possessed by dreams.
While he wandered around, unseen.
A restless, forlorn, spirit.

 

 

But, later, nearing the corner to his own street, excited chatter, laughter, and screams, revealed a cluster of young girls, hidden in shadows.
Amid large, overgrown hedges.

He crossed the road, rather than intrude upon their space.

 

“Look: there goes that queer!”  Shouted a female voice.

“Yeah, that’s him,” came the response, “I hates him!”

“Hey you! She’s talkin’ to you!”  Called another.
“Loony!”

 

He kept walking.

What could be done?
This was the life he knew.
Friendless. Depressed. Abused. Alone.

Some unexplained stigma appeared to mark him a reject.
The 22-year-old virgin, who’d never been on a date.
Each new humiliation scratched an unhealed wound.

Feeling mired in shame, he fumbled for door keys.

 

The dark hallway retained a reassuring warmth.

 

Wearily he climbed, up creaking stairs, toward his room.

His cell?

 

 

His retreat.

 

 

 

 


 

(1978)

 


 

( Hi guys!

It’s deeply disappointing to me, after having failed to find love, how
easily haters are attracted.
Even now, though old and ill, I still draw hate.
Often without knowing why.

 


 

Starting blogging, I dreamed of becoming popular. For the first time…

Oh well.

Two years later, getting a single comment remains the highlight of my week.

 

Maybe you could leave one, and cheer me up?
LOL!

(No pressure!)

 

 

Thank you for reading.)

 

 

(PS: Not so much morphing to poetry, from the prose, in this post.)

 


 

( anxiety / art / blog / blogging / depression / fiction / life / loneliness / mental health / poetry / photography / thoughts / writing )

 

 

Ethereal

 

Konica12455-1

 

 

 

November’s night had cast a spell

when low mist wrapped the valley’s trees
its gentle grasp

ethereal.

 

Though their tops still bulged
from this pale shroud
as if curious sea monster
heads
surveyed some shallow bay

well silvered by
strong
full moon’s light.

 

 

The whole place set
quite deep in peace.

While my breath
merged fast
with freezing air.

 

I passed across
one small iron bridge
which trembled faintly
under weight.

Below rose
muffled trickling sounds
where the rain-starved stream
sent remnant water
moving
down its narrow cleft.

 

 

Nature’s cold
reversion to
an eerie calm
evoked a quieter age.

Here I felt no urge for speech
but, rather,
sensed
our finitude
before eternity.

 

Envisaging
oblivion

approaching at
slow
steady pace.

Invisible
yet pitiless.

 

 

Once reaching slightly
higher ground
I looked back on
that spectral scene.

Then followed
a familiar route
through dismal
charmless streets.

 

 

It was by now
extremely late,
thus, craving sleep
I hurried home.

Regretful

since suspecting

there

(just giving way
to habit)

I’d resume

 

my
empty
life.

 

 

 

 


 

(1978)

 


 

(Hi guys!

My old prose got poetised again, during editing.
Please let me know if you think this works, as a poem?
(Illness and depression make it hard to trust my own judgement.)

Art on the blog is mine: I hope you like it?

Comments are always VERY welcome!

Thank you for reading.)

 


 

( anxiety / art / beauty / blog / blogging / depression / life / mental health / painting / poem / poetry / thoughts / writing )

Needing art

Konica128513-1

 

 

Some dreams seem more
alive than life.

But once that sleep escapes
I’m back
unwillingly awake again.

Since neighbour’s music blasted out.
Their noise destroying
rest.

 

The chair looks sharp
through morning light
quite rigidly austere.

While on the bed
I read
my name in forms
and notice
how those two words
used officially
feel blank
or incomplete.

 

“It’s loneliness.
Mere state of mind.”
I say to lift morale.

As questions spring from questions
after rising with unease.

Why is being insufficient?
Are such problems spiritual?

Hence needing art
because existing’s
simply not enough.

Though if one had achieved all goals
might boredom slowly grow?

 

Yet when this seeker
seeks himself

beyond

these anxious
thoughts.

 

The destination
lies
within.

 

I cannot
even
leave.

 

 

 


 

(1978)

 


 

( Hi guys!

My prose has gone and poetised itself, again.

I wrote about this in:

The strange magic of blogging

(Past works are categorised according to their original form,
rather than how they’ve ended up.
Apologies for any confusion.)

Wary of resisting creative processes (especially after enduring 13 years unable to write poems) I am “going with the flow”, even if boundaries get blurred.

 

Any art on the blog is mine:  hope you like it?

Comments are always VERY welcome!

Thank you for reading.)

 


 

( anxiety / art / blog / blogging / depression / drawing / life / mental health / poem / poetry / reading / thoughts / writing )

Sighting fate

 

Konica1247

 

 

Time lacks teeth
yet none escape its bite.

 

With fate in mind
I gaze across the city.

Lonely thoughts emerge
transform
and fade.
As melancholy strikes
this futile life.

 

Climbing from a pit
takes will.
But mine seems numbed.

 

Instead of walking round in darkness
wandering our local streets
I choose a hunt upon my bookcase
trawling information’s hoard.

Haunted by potential, though:
I fret at wanting
paths beyond
an unrelieved obscurity.

Left hoping inspiration’s source
may seed new neural space.

 

Later
drifting sleepwards saw
vague visions formed
behind closed eyes
grow clearer
when I heard loud gulls

then trod through sand.

A landscape where
rough grass soon thinned
between low dunes
with places one might rest
more sheltered
warmer
under setting sun.

 

Calmer now
once listening
to those
rhythmic
breaking waves.

 

There I sat
imagining
some future sight:

 

of white bone
fanned by coastal air.

 

While

farther on

along
that beach

 

lay

my old skull

half-buried.

 

Still
facing

the sea.

 

 


 

(1974)

 


 

(Well guys, here we go again:

In editing my teenage prose, the poetising process took over, once more.

Wary of resisting creative forces, I let things happen.

 

Any art on the blog is mine: I hope you like it?

Comments are always very welcome!

Thank you for reading.)

 


 

( anxiety / art / blog / books / depression / drawing / life / mental health / poem / poetry / reading  / thoughts / writing )

 

Dreaming words

scan 8

 

 

After wishing verse would

emerge
again

thrown whole
by a pen-nibs edge
with ease.

Alight in mind
like shapes
which were somehow
seen if
I closed my eyes
before they had
been drawn.

When this hand felt
guided on
during artwork
once.

Yet I soon mislaid
any gift
then veered so far
beyond its path

found
blocked from
all return.

 

(But
never did forget
the loss.)

 

 

Only signs
(no colours)
lead me now.

Across more barren
years I search for
them
impatiently.

Though trying  just
at trusting
maybe through
the haze might
come a few that
stay here
long enough

while
my ink still
flows.

 

Until
such point
one can merely
wait

and hope
not count upon

those
dreaming
words

(unbidden)

to
arrive.

 

 

 

 

(2017)

 


 

In “The strange magic of blogging” I wrote about how my daily notes ( “Lostness” ) kept morphing: poetising themselves, during the editing process.

But above is the first verse to arise spontaneously for 13 years.
It may not be my best, yet at least I can now “come out”
as no longer (quite) an “ex poet”?

Thus, unexpectedly, WordPress brought me back to poetry, after all.

 


 

( Art on the blog is mine. I hope you like it.

Comments are very welcome!

Thank you for reading.)

 


 

( anxiety / art / beauty / blog / blogging / depression / life / lostness / mental health / poem / poetry / thoughts / writing )

 

 

Fun with Comments!

 

scan 3

 

 

                Lostness   ( 107 )

 

 

Have you ever found comments more enjoyable than a text?

Or been drawn by the threads below news website articles?

 

Lacking any previous online voice, I opened a reader account in 2012.
Reacting around current events, and seeing my responses appear in public for the first time, seemed quite exciting.

Though many people’s debating skills hardly rose above playground levels
(fast communication allowed expression ahead of sober consideration)
there was fun to be had!

Especially under pieces which were fairly lightweight.

 


 

 

Here are a few examples of mine, from those days, with their related topics in brackets.

 

( Please note: these tongue-in-cheek remarks should not be taken seriously!)

 

1) ( Weekend “zombie walks”)

“I wouldn’t be seen dead looking like that!”

 

2) ( Complaints over paganism being taught at school)

“Perhaps certain sacrifices may be required, in the cause of inclusion?”

 

3) ( On the spread of veganism)  “Resistance is fruitile!”

 

4) ( Embarrassment when gay porn got accidentally shown behind a newscaster)

“Nice to watch him bend over backwards to apologise!”

 

5) ( The theory dinosaur flatulence contributed to climate change)

“This sounds like a lot of hot air!”

 

6) ( Discussing female sexuality)

“I thought the quickest way to arouse a woman was telling her there’s a shoe sale on?”

 


 

 

But comment threads soon sank into digital obscurity.

So, fearing frivolous new interests leading me astray
while all my past creative work lay neglected and unseen,
I gave up such commenting.

A severe health crisis during 2014-2015 increased my sense of urgency to finally publish something.

Yet it took until 2017 before I felt able to commence blogging.

(And, 2 years later, I’m still struggling.)

 

 

Now, however, I would advise anyone unsure about getting started:

Don’t be hesitant, like me,
or you might also regret
delaying your experience of WordPress!”

 

 

 

 


 

( Art on the blog is mine: I hope you like it?

Comments are very welcome!

Thank you for reading. )

 


 

( art / blog / blogging / fun / humor / humour / life / lostness / mental health / news / reading / thoughts / writing )

 

This captive mind

scan 9

Lostness    ( 106 )

 

 

Back at the doctor’s waiting room, again.

Below its clock’s slow tick
this captive mind starts
wandering.

 

As
an essay title
pops into my head:
“The control delusion”

(on how little power
we really have).

 

And being straightaway
distracted
by one open magazine
discussing female
tribal menstrual synchrony.

“Did their men then go off hunting?”
quips an inner comic voice.
( He undermines all tact
hence best I let the topic drop.)

Another page exclaimed:
“religious symbols banned!”

(I’d rather be prewarned
about who’d want me sent
to hell.)

 

 

Next my mental jaunt
asked
whether excess information
might cause some
feeling faintly jaded
when around the fully known?

 

Or if beliefs which shed humility
should thus appear less credible.
Though dogma seeks submission
from our soul.

(And doctrines often act ungenerous
post-victory: suppressing
even grief among
opponents overthrown.)

Perhaps a rigid faith demands
acceptance too extreme?

 

 

Then these thoughts switched onto
“Dragon slaying”
as a metaphor of
anxious fights against
the ancient “reptile” brain that
generated automatic stress…

 

 

But suddenly
she calls my name
(long past appointment time).

 

Soon I step inside
the door and
pause there

standing quite
subdued to
face

her smile’s
lit eyes:

 

a new GP
so
beautiful

I struggle with
remembering

what

it was

I came
here for.

 

 

 

( 2012 )


 

( Art on the blog is mine: I hope you like it?

Comments are very welcome!

Thank you all for reading.)

 


 

( anxiety / art / beauty / blog / blogging / culture / depression / life / lostness / mental health / poem / poetry / thoughts )