Category: #PoeticAnswers

#PoeticAnswers 51 – What Happens To Your Heart When You Go To Sleep?

The heart keeps going,
Awake and wired like
A caffeinated child.

The heart rests
Takes a moment away from the race
And takes life at it’s own pace.

We don’t sleep when we sleep
Our brains don’t shut off,
Our heart keeps pumping blood,
Our lungs keep breathing
And maybe that’s why
We’re still tired in the morning.
Because rest is a lie and
Our bodies keep going.
We think we’re dead to the world
But we’ve never been more alive.

Our brain dreams,
Processing thoughts and actions
Like a machine,
Like a computer with the screen turned off,
Creating images and flickering lights,
Playing tricks on our minds and retinas like
A limited edition, one-of-a-kind movie
In a cinema screening that no one saw,
Except for a projectionist in a dark room.

And our heart is the soundtrack,
Heart strings and pulsing drum beats,
Slow and steady
But swelling to crescendo,
Racing to action
A veritable ventricle
drum and bass underscore,
Returning to legato then coming to rest.

And, like any true heart,
The protagonist in the story,
Arriving on dampened horseback,
Head- and heartstrong,
The knight in shining armour
Chasing nightmares and negative thoughts away,
Then riding into the sunset,
Reminding you to love yourself

Question from Amanda P. from Facebook

#PoeticAnswers 50 – Is There An Art To Being A Stage Technician?

Yes.

Allow me to shed some light,
Hear me out on this matter,
There is as much artistry backstage
As there is on the stage.

Sonic, scenic and visual artists
Set the scene and the score
And illuminate the microcosms
Of stage and screen while
Remaining unseen and unheard
While building walls of sound and
Tapestries of light and
Entirely illusory worlds.

Because it’s a big-top circus
And we’re the juggler, and trapeze, and the balancing act
Performing behind the scenes.
Getting everything ready before
The clowns enter the stage.
Playing God,
Controlling the light they walk in,
Adding the music and sound to the mundanity,
Cueing them into life.

We are valid true artists.
Hiding in shadows,
Lighting the way
Making the music,
But staying out of the spotlight.
Forever alone in black space,
Making every day our magnum opus
While no one pays attention
To the man behind the curtain.

Question from ‘A Curious Follower’ from WordPress!

#PoeticAnswers 49 – Why Aren’t You Listening to Smash Mouth’s “All Star” Right Now?

Somebody once told me
That this song was the
Greatest Song in The World.
I believed them,
At the time, I wasn’t exactly
The sharpest tool in the shed.

I now realise I was wrong,
And the only people who believed it
Might as well have had their
Finger and their thumb in
Their ears, blocking out
All other opinions and
Never experienced real music.

YouTube is suffocating,
The parodies start coming
And they don’t stop coming,
With more samples than
Costco on a Saturday
And more covers than
The bedding section of IKEA

It’s spreading like a virus,
It’s spreading like an STD,
Infecting ears and brains
Like stereo herpes
Like cold sores on my inner ear,
An uncomfortable nuisance
Causing rage and discomfort
Proving that all that glitters
is not golden.

It needs to stop
I need to get away from this place
Things need to change.
We could all use a little change.
I’ll change the DVD to Shrek 2
And hope for the best.

Question from Michael Clark, and now I’ve got this song stuck in my head.

#PoeticAnswers 48 – Why Don’t You Have Any Pictures On Your Phone?

If memories were as easy to
Delete as the photographs on my phone,
I probably wouldn’t be happy.
Losing the past becomes as
Horrifically easy as
Just an uncoordinated finger.

New Age amnesia
Has become my downfall
Dyspraxia and tremors
Leave me shaking with anger
As precious memories
Of concerts, friends and my dog
Disappear into the digital aether.

Technology is supposed to make things easier,
An extension of ourselves
Keeping the memories that overflow
In a safe space.
But time and time again, my phone has
Proved it is just as fucked up and broken as me.

Or on the rare occasion that
An android update has not annihilated my fragile memory,
I have only myself and Google to blame.
The delete icon next to the upload icon
Without an option to cancel
Feels like a challenge for my broken hands.

I can feel your criticism already,
Why didn’t you back them up,
Why didn’t you set it up automatically?
It was, but because my phone is me,
It was too much and caused frequent crashes.
Now, my phone has as much memories as I do.
And the moral of the story is
Fuck Android.

This question and poem come are based on an early draft of a poem called “Digital Amnesia”

#PoeticAnswers 47 – Will You Leave The Door Open?

Will you leave the door open
After all I’ve done?
Will you forget and forgive,
Or does a single moment
Hold more power than
A lifetime of happiness?

Will you lock the door?
Will you define me
By my indescretions?
Will you confine yourself
To our bedroom and
Leave me out in the cold?

Will you put the chain on the door
And wrap it around your heart?
Will you feel like you need to
Protect yourself from me?
Once you’re safe,
Will you let me defend myself?

Will you leave the door open
After all is said and done?
Will you leave the door open
And let me redecorate our bedroom with apologies?
Will you leave the door open?
Will you still be there?

Today’s question was overheard on the streets of Edinburgh. Thank you, stranger.

#PoeticAnswers 46 – Is It Bedtime Yet?

I want to say yes,
But it’s only two-thirty.
Ten hours to go.

Sorry, not quite yet.
We need you to do something,
It shouldn’t take long.

The buses don’t run,
You’ll need to walk home, sorry.
Should take an hour.

Home at last, bedtime.
What’s that noise? No, it can’t be.
It’s time to get up.

I ask myself this every day.  

#PoeticAnswers 45 – Do You Think Snails Are Horrified by Hermit Crabs?

I was honestly suprised to discover
That this is a genuine thing.
I think it’s easy to forget that
The circle of life extends to those
Beneath the waves,
Where the seaweed is greener
And aquatic creatures roam and take control.

A humble sea snail,
A quiet, reserved soul
Gently and slowly meanders among
The coral and sponges.
He says hello to his friends,
And all creatures are his friends
Because he has no anemones.

But despite all his friends,
He is often alone
When he retreats into his home
There is no room for company
So he leaves himself exposed.
Unsuspecting and trusting,
Taking life at his own pace.

One day he passed away.
A clownfish suggested that
“It was his tide”.
The pun went unappreciated.
All the sea creatures went to his “fineral”.
Apart from the clownfish.
They weren’t allowed due to inappropriate humor.

But it was a beautiful ceremony,
Angelfish sang a heavenly requiem.
They say the sea is so salty
Because of the tears of fish at funerals for snails.
This is probably not the case,
But a funeral is not the time to argue semantics.
He fell out his shell and was buried in the reef.

A few days later,
A homeless hermit crab was
Gently and slowly meandering among
The coral and sponges.
No friends, no anemones,
Perfectly cold and alone.
Until he saw sad, empty shell.

He knocked once, and then twice
Thought to himself
“This shell looks nice”
He retreated inside,
It wasn’t too big,
But this could be home.
He slept on the seabed, safe and warm.

But then uproar commenced.
The sea creatures were incensed
By a mighty rage for their fallen comrade.
“This shell isn’t yours!”
A voice cried,
“How can you be so shellfish?”
Everyone turned to the clownfish and stared in disgust.

But then the waters turned still,
A voice came from the reef,
Quiet and reserved,
It was beyond belief,
The ghost of the snail said, “We’ll I’ll be damned”
“Friends, don’t be cruel to this poor, little crab,
“Did I teach you nothing in my time on the sand?”

“I’m now one with the waves and don’t need my home,
This crab’s just like me, don’t let him feel alone
Sweet little crab, if you come out of your shell,
You’ll become friends with these fishfolk,
They really are swell!”
The sea creatures felt ashamed and extended their fins,
The old snail was right, they let the crab in.

The ghost fell away into silence
And the sea came alive.
Some wondered why the ghost of the snail
Chose to speak in rhyme because it wasn’t like him,
But they mostly came together to welcome
The lonely hermit crab,
Realising that the real horror is prejudice.

The correct term for this is commensalism
I like to think of it as a
Bizarre ritual of inheritance
And a symbol of hope and new life
On the ocean floor.
This means the snail is not horrified but accepting of change,
And we can all learn from the sea creatures.

Apart from the clownfish.
They’re just inappropriate and insensitive.

Question from Taylor D. from Facebook

#PoeticAnswers 44 – Do You Really Think Writing Poetry Can Change The World?

One pen can change a piece of paper.
It’s style may seem insignificant,
But every stroke, every line, every word,
Was put there for a reason.

One person can change a mind,
Planting words and thoughts like seeds,
Which grow into flowers of awareness
That people take the time to notice.

One poem can change an audience,
Maybe not everyone and maybe not all at once,
But there’s a collective ear and a collective thought
As this information is absorbed .

I can talk about the things we try not to,
From feminism to religion
To rape culture and xenophobia
And I have the right to.
But that means I have a responsibility,
A responsibility to let you know that
These things are not okay,
And I might not be the catalyst
But I can be the alchemist,
The herald, and psychiatrist
Experimenting, preaching, advising
On how change the world.

I never said it would happen overnight,
I never said I would do it on my own,
So join me and bust a rhyme, take the time
To write your heart and mind out and then
Plaster your presence on the streets and on the internet.

Take your slam poetry,
Make it battering ram poetry ,
A poetry crash, poetry smashing
Injustice and stigma.
Like a thousand fists in the face of adversity,

Make a difference,
Make ripples in oceans of deep thought
Until you have enough friends and force to
Make a tidal wave of revolution to crash down on
Those who do not seek to address opression.

Take your prose, haikus and sonnets
Stand up and use words as weapons
Because ten thousand voices
Reciting ten thousand poems
Could change the world.

Question from Michael Clark from Facebook

#PoeticAnswers 43 – How Did You Discover Amanda Palmer?

This romance happened by chance,
A brief introduction in a theatre class,

We were working on a production of
“A Midsummer Night’s Dream”,
Which was slowly turning into a nightmare
Due to the director’s tendency to be laissez-faire
And the actors didn’t seem to care
As actors tend to do.

My friend and ally,
Let’s call her Lucy because,
Well, that was her name.
She played Puck and Lysander
Spoke with virtue and candour
And she was not down with this chaos-

But that’s another story,
I might tell that one later-

But we clicked and connected,
Our personalities blended,
I was Oberon to her Puck,
Although I wish I had the luck
To be Hermia to her Lysander,
I really should have asked her-

Sorry I got distracted,
But you see, this girl impacted
My life in such a way during this
Awful, awful play,
And she introduced me to the sound
Of the Queen of the Boston underground.

(You’re welcome to complain,
But I just needed a rhyme).

My eyes were opened to beauty and truth
After awkwardly being sent “Delilah” by Bluetooth,
Then ‘A is for Accident’ and then ‘Yes Virginia’
Starting with the songs that were nearly vanilla,
Before ascending to madness with ‘Missed Me’ and ‘Backstabber’
All thanks this bodacious, genderfluid Lysander.

And though we’ve drifted apart, I still have Amanda.
She’s a constant, vibrant, talented reminder
Of the past and a force saying things will be better
Forming groups on Facebook, providing a shelter
For the outcasts and artists, the mad and fantastic
From across the Pacific, South Seas and Atlantic.

If these rhymes have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended:

I’ve got this girl, Shakespeare and you to blame,
For all this support and love and I have no shame
When I commit these awful crimes of rhyme.
So darling, if you have the time,
Give me your hands, if we be friends,
And Amanda shall restore amends.

Question from Delaney A.

#PoeticAnswers 42 – Is My Autism Showing?

Is my autism showing?
I feel like it is.
But unfortunately it doesn’t fit
In my shirt or jeans.
It just spills out uncontrollably
Like a nosebleed when you get nervous,
That happens to other people, right?
The tension builds up in your head,
And the pressure becomes too intense
And then it doesn’t know how to come out
Except as a volcanic eruption of red and mucus and-

I’m sorry you don’t want to hear about that
Sometimes I don’t know
What it’s appropriate to say or when.
And every now and then
Surrealist and existential garbage
Falls out my mouth like
Teeth in a bad dream,
A non-stop avalanche of confused and contrived
Word-like noises that have some semblance
Of an order that
Hopefully makes sense.

When you put white light through a prism,
It creates and exposes all the colours
On the visible spectrum.
Autism exists in this spectrum.
It might not be obvious
You might not see it
And maybe that’s because you’re colourblind
Or more likely
You don’t know what it looks like.
So it merges into the tail-end of
Indigo-violet, near invisible to you because
We’re not on the same wavelength.
But I see it all the time,
Like a near ultraviolet ghost
Using me as a host
And others like me.
Pretending to be a cape,
Letting me pretend to be a superhero
As if somehow I have superpowers.

Sometimes, I don’t really understand
Anything at all.
We all have a brain that’s bespoke
But I’ve got some manufacturing defects.
I’m wired like a sentient bomb
Too afraid to go off because
I don’t know what I’ll do.
I make and mix up my
Metaphors and malaphors
And I use the same lines and similes
Like a man who can
Make and mix up his
Metaphors and malaphors
Because I like patterns,
I see the patterns in daily life and
Have a carefully constructed routine,
Making my life on an assembly line,
Staying consistent and clichéd.

But it’s a losing battle,
This is an ever changing world
And things break and evolve and devolve
And I can’t prepare for that.
My mental preparation is effectively
To stay in a constant state of anxiety,
Living in a permanent panic attack,
Staying on edge with a brain that’s ready to crack,
Taking beta-blockers and antidepressants
To hide the frustration and confusion
And stop the compulsion to do something
Stupid.

But everything I do
Is stupid,
I’m clumsy and wrestle
And tumble and stumble
Over things like a
Drunk in a dark room
Hallucinating that it’s a minefield,
Falling over shadows and shapes
That aren’t actually there,
Hitting my head on walls and my hands
As they flail like a fish out of water
Clutching for something
Or someone to lean on because
I’ve needed additional support all my life.
School work assistance
Not because I didn’t know what I was doing
But because I didn’t know how to
Verbalise it.
Or even write it down.
I couldn’t hold a pencil and write until I was ten.
Because my brain wouldn’t work that
Because my hands couldn’t comprehend
How to work a piece of wood and lead
Because I’m stupid.

And everything I do
Is stupid.
I keep a firm grip on my childhood
Because it’s a coping mechanism.
Unchanging and consistent,
Using stories and Disney movies
As a hoping mechanism,
Playing Yu-Gi-Oh cards by myself
Because it’s a safe way to fight my demons
Because it just makes sense.
I don’t expect you to understand.
But I grew feeling different,
And these were the things I could relate to,
These are the things that let me feel normal.
Because there was so much that didn’t.

I am not stupid,
The occupational therapist told me
I am not stupid.
That my brain is special,
It’s like having a superpower.
But my brain is supposed to have a superpower,
Then I will play at being the superhero.
Like a pseudo-savant
Playing words and emotions
Like I’m playing piano
Hitting all the right notes,
Solving problems and curious incidents
Like a synth pop Sherlock,

I’ve spent eighteen years
Fighting my lack of confidence
And lack of coordination
With elaborate orchestrations.
Playing viola and violin,
Piano and organ,
Ukulele and accordion,
Banjo, guitar, saxophone,
Drums, harp and computers,
And words.
Going from page to stage,
Performing as another person,
Playing pretend until I became able to
Play myself.
That may have came out wrong.
But as I try to tell you my story,
I’ll be brutally honest as I wrestle
And tumble and stumble with my words
As I become more and more exposed
As I realise it’s becoming too real
And I start to panic and become manic
And words start to fall out my mouth
Like teeth in a bad dream
And my nose starts to bleed and
I don’t know anymore.

How can something invisible
Make me feel so exposed?
I hate change but it’s all I want for me
So, when I ask if my autism is showing,
It’s because it feels as obvious as
A part of glasses or a broken leg,
A debilitating disability
Dressing as a superhero
But the cape’s staplegunned to my shoulders.
I never wanted this.

Question from yesterday’s poem.