Today is a special day that I didn’t expect to see: today marks two years of doing this poetry malarkey! And what an amazing two years it’s been.
I’ve gotten to perform with some of the greatest poets in the world and some of my spoken word heroes in some of the most fantastic venues in Scotland and made some amazing friends on the circuit.
Thanks for all your likes, comments and subscriptions over the last two years. Here’s to many more years to come!
So, this past year I feel I’ve managed to go from strength to strength. This is due to the following things:
And finally, on top of this, I mnaged to write, direct and perform my first, full length solo poetry show. And it was received well. I’ve had constructive feedback and know how to work on it. I reckon it may end up hitting up the Edinburgh Fringe next year.
I’d like to thank everyone who had helped, my friends Ross, Isla, Heli and Oliver, Theresa, Dave, David, Gemma, Ricky and everyone else who came to the show or helped or listened to me rant or kept me sane with cups of tea, my sound guy, Graham, and my graphic designer, Ash.
A huge thanks goes to Edinburgh Horror Festival for opportunity to debut this show.
A hundred thank yous go out to the Amanda F*cking Palmer Official Page group for helping with the research for the show.
Further thanks go out to Stage Time Productions for their review of the show (that you can read here!)
And finally, thank you to all of you. You who have been reading and commenting away. Thank you for your support and dedication.
I don’t really know why
I do what or do or why
I put myself through this
One hundred day quest
To write poetry.
And even though
Some of it wasn’t my best,
I can say I put
Myself to the test
And passed and
A hundred poems can
Attest to that.
But you see,
This was something
I never thought I could do,
And when I said
“I write poetry”
I felt I had to prove
Something to myself
And to others because
I didn’t get a BA or Honours
In English or Literature
Or something relevant to this.
I worked my way from the bottom,
Primitively stringing as many
Words together as possible and
Aiming for the stars but
Preparing to miss.
But on the way down
I found some catharsis.
And a million different
Ways to play with words.
I found my life’s
Meaning and definition
In a thesaurus and dictionary
And found my voice
Through trial and error.
And now I can say
The things I want to say
The things I need to say
The things I didn’t know how to say
The things I didn’t know I wanted to say
In a way that let’s my
Incoherent and bipolar mind
Sound somewhat like it’s sane.
You and I have both found
Ourselves asking why I
Chose to go down this path.
I’ve asked myself this question
A hundred times in
A hundred ways and
I’ve arrived at
A hundred different answers
That twist and bend and
Find their way back to
This place.
This place where
I’ve not found myself but
I know I’m getting warmer.
This place where
I know I’m going to keep looking.
I know I’m around here somewhere.
I wore my heart and soul
On my sleeve and vocal chords.
My heart jumped out my throat
And my soul dripped onto the floor
Like invisible rain,
Letting me get out the pent up rage
And depression that has
Inspired and incentivised
My life’s work.
Or at least my work from the past few months,
Because I’ve been writing everyday
For a hundred days.
It feels like a hundred seconds,
And tonight felt like a hundred minutes
As I took my time to tumble and stumble
Over each carefully crafted word and rhyme
That took a hundred hours of my time
To piece together like a jigsaw that
Didn’t want to be solved.
The audience listened but
I don’t know if they heard the
Meanings and cries for help
Dispersed among the one lines
And stanzas of depression-infused
Derivative metaphors.
But I stood on the stage,
And I got to speak.
I spoke like a man too afraid to stop speaking,
Too afraid for the stage lights to fall,
To afraid to lose the moment and
Get lost in the moment.
Adrenaline and benzodiazepine
Running at the same time,
Dancing with each other
To an off-beat rhythm that they’re both playing.
I stood on the stage
And I felt alive.
And it felt fantastic
I’ll pop out for just a drink,
I won’t stay out too long,
If we hit up the karaoke bar
I’ll stay for just a song.
I’ll stay out for just another,
I enjoy the company
And the liquor and the ambience-
Hold on, I need to pee
I’m down to my last twenty pound,
I think that that’s my lot.
The manager’s buying the next round?
Barkeep, what whisky have you got?
Oh god, who bought the tequila?
Why am I drinking gin?
Why are there no Jaegerbombs?
Is the room starting to spin?
I think I’ve lost my wallet,
And I’ve missed the midnight train.
I’ll see you in the office on Monday.
Next Friday, same again?
Question from a work colleague. I went to the pub. I didn’t drink. It was a good evening.
Today’s headline in
“Let’s Blame The Millennials Daily”,
Aka The Internet,
The people,
Aka the privileged few pricks who
Pissed away the economy,
Have decided that my generation
Has brought on the untimely death of
The Table.
Yes, that’s right,
Due to sheer laziness
The millennial has now rendered
Fine carpentry a redundant industry.
They say it’s because we need everything
Put in front of us as though it’s obvious
And this is why the table is dying.
We’re a generation of laptops and lapdogs
And laptrays on which we display
Our meagre diets of ramen, avocado and IPA
As we sit in front of TVs watching indie cartoons and superhero movies
With subtitles on because
Millennials are so lazy
We don’t even listen to what we’re watching.
As a Millennial who
Does not identify as a Millennial
Due to the sheer stigma,
I would like to counter this argument.
Maybe if the economy was stable,
Buying a good table would be easy.
If good wood would be cheaper,
We’d spent less time in Ikea
Buying flatpack backpacks to
Carry our lives around as we
Rent our way through life.
I have seen too many tabletop games
Played on wooden floors and carefully angled doors
Which proves we want what we can’t afford or have.
Maybe it’s your determination for
Deforestation which had added limitations
To the wood industry and consequently tables.
But once again, we’re young and wrong
You’re old and right-wing,
And you’d rather have status quo
Over cash flowing to your children.
But one day, you will learn
Your argument is much like the table I don’t have:
No leg to stand on.
Question from my flatmate
Thank you for calling,
How can I help?
I’m sorry, I don’t have that information,
Can I take some of your information?
I can try to make an informed decision
I can try to draw a logical conclusion
I can try to-
I’m sorry?
Well no I don’t know,
I need to know more
Before I can find out who knows
What you’re supposed to know,
So if you could let me know
A little more about-
I’m just the receptionist,
I’m just the front desk,
I’m trying to do my best
But I need to know the rest
Of your information, I can’t guess
Or things could become a mess
So if I could just-
If you-
Could you-
Can I-
Would you-
Ma’am if-
I need-
SHUT UP AND LET ME HELP YOU.
I need your name,
Your address,
Your contact telephone number,
Your email address,
Blood type,
Mother’s maiden name,
The fourth and seventh number of your bank card.
Thank you,
Was that so hard?
You want help?
I need help,
Professional help,
Psychiatric help
Because of customers like you.
It’s people like you
That make me want to
Change the ‘S’ to an ‘N’ in customer.
It’s people like you
That make me want to
Put a motor on my stapler and go on a rampage.
It’s people like you-
I’m sorry,
Did you just say ‘sorry’?
You’re the first person to ever say sorry.
I’m not saying sorry.
I’m sorry you feel that way.
I’m sorry but-
Sorry?
I’m sorry,
You have the wrong number.
Question from Felicia W. from Facebook
Over two-hundred
From the world and internet,
And friends and strangers.
I have enough for
Two and a half challenges
But it’s not enough.
I don’t plan to stop
So when it comes to questions,
Never stop asking.
Question from Peter G from Facebook
It’s like climbing a mountain of paper,
Or more appropriately, a mountain range
Because there’s a whole range of topics
But they all feel the same and I’m
Trudging through these snow drafts and
Getting colder in an uphill struggle because
I’m never peaking or reaching the
Tops of my potential because it’s a
Pinball tabletop plateau. That’s to say,
It’s feels like I’m falling flat on an incline and
Bouncing around ideas but nonetheless
Doing the same things over and over again.
I’m becoming snowblind and I
Can’t see the line between disillusion and mirage
And when it looks like I’m making tracks
I’m not smiling it’s just my face
Beginning to crack from the pressure and
Altitude and magnitude of the situation.
I’m seeing the same metaphors and visions
Dressed in different expositions but I know
They’re the same. It’s just repetition
Of ideas and images because I left
My originality behind twenty days ago
Because it ran out and I couldn’t carry
The excess weight of the emptiness around
And sometimes it feels like
I’m not even on the mountain anymore
Because I feel buried, like I’m underground,
Like I’m in hell like Persephone,
Five months after the kidnap.
Almost giving up on her
Fruitless endeavours and tired of
Repeating herself over and over.
Just waiting out for a
Bright new day and waiting for
The sun to come out and melt
All the misery away and
Finally manage to make and feel something
New.
Today’s question comes from a chat with a flyerer on the Royal Mile who was interested in what I do.
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!
Mxcellany - Poetry, Music, Art 