He woke in the spring.
He did not feel beautiful.
He cried and took wing.
His chrysalis gone,
Warm summer grass became bed,
Clinging on, he slept.
Leaves fell with autumn,
The grass wilted and skies greyed,
He was left homeless.
Tired, he sought refuge.
A crevice, a bed of stone.
Then the winter came.
Question from Lucero I. from Facebook
#PoeticAnswers 28 – So, What Do You Do?
I work for the Government.
It sounds a lot cooler than it actually is.
I work in Government finance and
Administrate Government grants
To help local councils develop their
Green and low-carbon infrastructure
To help promote the uptake of
Active travel and electric vehicles.
I play video games.
It sounds a lot cooler than it actually is.
Essentially, I just sit around
On my arse all day,
Pushing buttons and fiddling with joysticks,
Reminding myself of my previous,
And slightly more devious,
Sex life.
I play musical instruments.
It sounds a lot cooler than it actually is.
Piano, accordion, ukulele and banjo
Amongst a few others which,
In conjunction with my vape and my
What can only be described as “questionable” facial hair,
And the wafro which encompasses and cushions my skull,
Effectively makes me the world’s ultimate hipster.
I write poetry.
It sounds a lot cooler than it actually is.
It does nothing for the hipster stereotype
That I established in the previous stanza,
Nor does it make me sound like any less
Of an absolute wanker,
The only way I could possibly be worse
Is if I could actually afford a Macbook.
I see a therapist.
It sounds a lot cooler than it actually is.
It’s mostly just talking about
What I’ve been doing and
Why I’ve not been to see them in two months,
Which leads to further conversations about
My relationships, or apparent lack of them,
Resulting in deep-sea dives into my personality.
I suffer from bipolar disorder.
It sounds a lot cooler than it actually is.
It’s like a low-budget rollercoaster,
Only ever hitting highs and lows
Or somewhere in between,
Making me see things that can’t actually be seen.
Making unscheduled stops in places I don’t know,
Driving me off the rails like a runaway train.
I self-harm.
It sounds a lot cooler than it actually is.
I lock myself away emotionally and physically,
Hiding inside the shattered remains of my
Already fractured mind.
Smoking, bruising, purging, cutting,
Using my body as a punching bag
To knock some sense into myself.
I spend a lot of time thinking about suicide.
It sounds a lot cooler than it actually is.
Wondering why it would be better
To let my helter-skelter life
Plummet off the edge of the waterfall
At the end of my shallow-water life.
It’s the result of nihilism instilled by
Self-doubt, mental health, and life choices.
And having to work for the Government.
Question from Lisa T. from Facebook
Be taken back by a teacher,
An adept modern-day magician,
Performing and informing of
The importances of yesteryear.
Immerse yourself in the books of yesterday,
Let each word carefully stack and build,
Let your imagination craft and succumb
To this portal to the old world.
Take the time to listen,
Let the old rhythm take control
Dance to the sway of Sinatra or Holliday
Appreciate the class and the moment.
Start up the engine
Of an eighties icon.
Drive back to the future
With an old man complaining about your children.
You could sacrifice your life for companionship,
Journey with a stranger
And learn the insanity of the truth
While doctoring the timestream.
Think harder than you’ve ever thunk before,
Take the time to remember your life.
Enjoy the comedy, learn from the misery,
But do not let yourself get trapped in the past.
Or give in to inevitability.
You can choose to run forward to the future
Or just choose to stand still,
And let time slowly pass you by.
Question from Michael C. from Facebook.
I love you a number that’s incalculable.
It may sound unfathomable,
Bordering on inconceivable,
But a number is not believable.
Because love is immeasurable,
But if this answer isn’t pleasurable,
Placing a value is not applicable
Trying would only be despicable.
Sweetie, you are adorable
Even when you’re inconsolable
But I can’t say something numerical
Because that would be heretical.
Darling, please be flexible.
It really isn’t personal.
Please don’t hold me responsible
For this answer diabolical.
I’m sorry it isn’t palatable,
This doesn’t make us incompatible.
But I don’t have an example
Of a value that is ample.
I’m not acting feeble,
You’re being unbelievable,
This situation’s laughable,
Here’s an answer that is passable:
I love you a number that’s incalculable
It may sound unfathomable,
Bordering on inconceivable,
But one hundred sounds believable.
Question from Kirsty E. from Facebook.
I understand it’s confusing,
But due to recent changes
To their life and lifestyle
The Doctor will now be using
This bathroom instead of that one.
Oh my God, Dave, that’s so racist.
You can’t say that anymore.
Smurfs are people and hey can be here,
There’s no place for this level of xenophobia.
It’s the twenty-first century now.
He has tried his damn best,
He has been sticking to a strict regime
Of diet and exercise.
Addiction is a serious issue,
Cookie, you are not a monster
Stop judging people by the colour
Of their skin, fur, or exoskeleton.
Stop judging people by their
Problems, gender, or species.
Blue people are people too.
Question from Kate K.
Text, call,
Pick up the phone,
Be there however you can.
Make sure they’re safe
Ask a question,
Take a breath.
Move the pills,
Move the drink,
Move the knives.
Keep 999 on speed dial
Distract,
React,
Be appropriate,
Cool them down,
Keep them warm.
Let them be human,
Let them breathe,
Let them cry,
Remember this isn’t about you.
Hold them close, give them space,
Give them what they need that makes them feel safe.
Remind them someone is always there.
If you can’t be present, be a presence.
Let them know they’re never alone.
Question from Megan C.
Because they have an image of you
Based on statue from ancient times.
When women were a delicate flower,
They needed protected or saved.
When they were rescued, they were enslaved
And treated like a trophy or property.
Because people want you to:
Be skinny, be curvy,
Be representative of male ideology
Succumb to atypical sexist idolatry
“Because that’s how you’re supposed to be”
But girl, you are not set in stone.
You are flesh and blood,
You were born naked,
So make your skin your tapestry,
And let your body be your home.
Build it and break it and
Paint it and decorate it however you want,
Because it’s yours and no one else’s.
Let no one else tell you
How to run your body.
Love is free so be free
Take the time to love yourself
And anyone else you damn well please
In any way you damn well please.
Be what you want to be,
Drop out of school or take the degree,
Be free, be the next Joan of Arc or Marie Curie,
Because without brilliant women, where would we be?
Without computers, without Kevlar, without basic telecommunication,
We’d still be Victorian, so be victorious
In arts, finance, technology or science.
Be the next Amanda Palmer or Lise Meitner,
The next Ellen MacArthur or Otep Shamaya,
Musician or physicist,
Athlete or writer,
And do not let anything get in your way
But if anything tries, just know you are stronger.
You do not have to
Make his sandwiches, his home or his baby.
You don’t not have to
Be a nurse, be quiet or be a secretary.
You don’t have to be anything you don’t want to be.
Because nonconformity does not affect femininity.
This is not feminist propaganda,
This is an affirmation of humanity.
No one can tell you how to be a girl,
But if they try, just remember:
They’re the one with the problem,
Not you.
Question from Jaymie B. from Facebook
Letters.
Carefully chosen and crafted
Like the bricks and cornices
Of a mighty religious building.
Arranged with precision and diligence,
Forming shape and definition.
Meaning.
Granting concept and context to you.
Something to aspire to,
Something that gives you definition,
A guiding purpose
Like a familiar light that leads you back home.
Power.
A name can be called upon
In times of love or trouble,
Bringing light or fear.
Or pleasure.
As they scream out your name
In lieu of their God.
Beginnings,
Because a name is a product of being born,
A nuanced newness, symbolic of birth and rebirth
The first step into building yourself
Or embracing the you you never knew.
A new chance at reality and physicality,
Your personal Genesis.
In my room,
I have a portal to another world
And a solar system on my shelf.
A personal Eden
Built of recycled trees
And knowledge devoid of sin.
From whirlwind romances
To hideous creatures,
From nightmareish circuses
To heavenly prisons,
I have scoured, sought and salvaged
To create the greatest collection of all.
I am the Tolkein dragon of today,
But I don’t wear my leather-bound armour
And my treasure isn’t made of gold.
A modern day book-wyrm,
Fiercely protective and inherently selfish
When it comes to my “babies”.
They are more than just trophies,
They don’t just hang on my wall
Like a perverse, forgotten decoration.
Despite the landscape of spines
And the paperback mountains that litter the floor
I do pick up my portable adventures to the unknown.
I have dared to cross Charybdis,
And traversed the mountains of Transylvania,
I have sought sanctuary in the halls of Notre-Dame,
And battled basilisks and defeated death.
Stared down demon clowns and walked into the wild,
And despite the fear and danger, I always want more.
My vast wealth is now only measurable
In Penguin Classics and First Editions.
My desire for creativity without being creative
Has resulted in always wanting more,
A prison with bars made of pages,
A literal literary addiction.
So my wings, claws and eyes
Are always open wide,
Hunting for the next treasure
For my private and precious collection.
My hunger is ravenous, my thirst is unquenched.
No bookshop is safe.
Question from Audrey J. from Facebook
I never accomplished
What I set out to do with my life.
I’ve been in a series of
Mistimed and unplanned misadventures
Which have led me to this
Period of questioning.
When I was a child,
If you had asked me
What I wanted to be when I grew up,
I would have said
“Astronaut or dinosaur”.
Given I’m not yet extinct,
I have failed in becoming a dinosaur.
And I’ll never be an astronaut,
Just because of who I am as a person.
I failed my four year old self,
And I’ve failed every other self that I’ve been.
But this does not make me a failure.
My car crash of a life
Was defined by an actual car crash.
One 2003 Ford Focus
And a series of somersaults
Helped put me on the path that
I now walk on.
I still need a walking stick in the winter.
But in that fell swoop,
I lost all confidence in myself,
My A in Higher Drama
Suddenly meant nothing.
Confidence was a thing of the past,
Years of youth theatre,
Learning support,
And occupational therapy,
Were undone.
I never stood on a stage for 5 years,
But I found strength through music,
Hiding behind a music stand and a viola,
Hiding under the stage in the pit.
Or staying behind the scenes,
Because no one pays attention
to the man behind the curtain.
But in my mind,
I was nothing,
I was a failure to myself,
A failure to my parents,
A failure to my suicide attempts
And the voices in my head
Only served as a bitter reminder to that.
I spent too long wondering
What am I doing, will I ever be something,
What will I accomplish, am I just nothing?
But what’s the use in wondering
When you can’t watch and wait for the future?
Because when you run from your past
You can only go forward.
If you had told me
That at age 25
I’d have a career in theatre,
I would have never believed you.
Because I always thought theatre was a hobby,
But people actually call me for my help and designs for
Lighting and sound.
If you had told me
That at age 25
I’d be on a stage performing,
I would have never believed you.
But now I’m pouring my soul and surrealism
Into performance poems that
People actually like.
If you had told me
That at age 25
I might not be the killing type,
I would have never believed you.
But thirty-two hospitalisations for
Suicidal behaviour later,
I’m still here.
Maybe I’m not an actor,
A dinosaur or an astronaut,
And maybe I won’t die before thirty.
But life doesn’t always go the way we plan.
Sometimes it’s better.
Mxcellany - Poetry, Music, Art 