Tag: writing

#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.

#PoeticAnswers 41 – What Do You Think About When You’re Alone In Your Car?

I make the same journey every day and every day it’s different.

Memories and thoughts pass like cars on a busy highway,
Never stopping, just always moving
Rushing like they would rather move along
And be safe at home,
Away from the stop and start trouble and
Hustle and bustle of Edinburgh traffic.

Sometimes,
My mind travels far and wide,
Clocking in more miles than this
Little Volkswagen Beetle that
Crawls along at a steady pace
In the rat race of ife.
I think about what could have been what should have been and everything in between.
Like, what if I was related to the queen or
What if I asked out that colleague on a date,
What if they asked me out on a date,
Would either of us say yes,
Would it just be a regret?
Would I rather be invisible or psychic,
Are both powers essentially the same,
Have I just lost the game?”
And other conundrums and questions that
Sometimes have answers or are best left alone,
And blow away with the MacDonalds wrappers on the floor as I open my car door.

Sometimes,
I think about the mistakes that I made and the mistakes that I’m making.
Putting myself in a state of worry for twenty minutes
As I ponder and wonder
“What if my colleagues find out I’m autistic?
Is my autism showing or did I hide it?
Is it obvious that I’m always in a panic?
Can they see I’m not properly medicated?
Are my thoughts racing because of the mania,
Or just because I’m driving faster?
Am I driving faster because of the mania,
Or because my thoughts are racing?
Did I skip that red light?
Is that police car waiting for me?
Is that police car going to my house?”
Then I realise that I’m
Trapped in a carbon and fibreglass coffin,
Strapped in for my own safety,
With only my tears and fears for company.

Until I open the door,
And feel the rain and wind
Wrap around me like a familiar cold comfort.
Watch the rubbish fall out and fall apart,
And then I breathe again and go home

Question from Megan C. from Facebook

#PoeticAnswers 39 – What Would Someone Who Loves Themself Do?

They would know that it’s okay
To love themself.
Because the lines of
Self-care and narcissism
Do not intersect.

They would give themself
What they need.
Be mindful of their own survival,
Eat, sleep, breathe and repeat,
Remember how to live their own life
And be care full.

They would give themself
Protection.
Not in the sense of fighting,
But knowing and preserving friendships
And cutting out those who seek to
Wipe the warmth and smile from your soul.

They would give themself
Forgiveness.
We don’t need to be hard on ourselves,
Between the hurt of hailstorms and gravity dragging us down,
We don’t need do any worse to ourselves.
The world is hard enough on us already.

Invest time and money in themself
And appreciate in value..
Plant seeds of positive thoughts
And let them grow.
And know that it’s all perfectly okay.

Question from Victoria T. from Facebook

#PoeticAnswers 38 – How Do You Put Pen to Paper and Create Pages of Art from a Single Question?

It’s a game,
You don’t play to win
You don’t play to lose
You just play.
It’s word play.

Toying around with the
Definition and etymology
Examining the psychology
Of the written and spoken word.

Playing with literary lego blocks
With Daddy Dictionary
And Mummy Thesaurus.
Building up, breaking down,
Tripping over my words and making a mess.

What rhymes, what emotes,
What persuades, what compels.
Every word has a meaning,
And the words that explain that meaning
Also have a meaning.

I set up interracial marriages
Between Nouns and Adjectives,
Sometimes the most unlikely of couples
Can be the greatest relationship they’ve ever had.

I play the adventurer exploring the infinity
Behind the infinitesimal.
It’s like finding the story
Behind each grain of sand
That helped build the desert.

There are words behind everything.
Every song, every photo, every story.
Those words are there for a reason.
And we don’t know if they were there or it was all accidental.

And those are the stories I want to tell.

Question from ‘A Curious Follower’ from my WordPress Contact Box!  Ooh, mysterious!

#PoeticAnswers 37 – When Love Is Gone, Where Does It Go?

We thought it was a mutual agreement
When we were taking our hearts back.

Words fell like knives,
Sharp, precise, and exact,
Cutting the weights away from our souls.
Why waste our time letting love go to waste?

Your tears turned your eyes
Into stained-glass windows,
Tinted, tainted and crystalline
Never letting us see each other.
Or the truth.

I never broke your heart,
It was always kept safe,
Cushioned with silk and cottonbuds
And locked away in a box.
I was too afraid to break it,
So I never looked at it.

When you gave back my heart,
It was used and half empty.
Cracked and fractured,
Love leaking like
Tears too scared to fall.
Too afraid to be lost forever.

You always said
You could get drunk from me.
And though that may have been the case,
You didn’t like the taste.
I was the worst thing for you.

But you were my addict
And I didn’t want to be alone.
So we saw the world through rose-tinted glasses
Not knowing love and codependency
Were the same colour.

We never poured ourselves out to one another,
Maybe if we had, things would have been better.
Experience and taste each other,
Getting a flavour of sweet reality and real emotion,
Taking the time to find out what love is supposed to be.

Or maybe it would only make things worse.
Trapped in a vicious circle of reliance,
Wasting each other, taking us for granted.
Drinking to make ourselves feel better
Until we were both empty.

Until we were two glass hearts,
Afraid to beat because
Trying to love each other
Would only make us break.

When love is gone, it goes to waste.
But love wasn’t there.
We just wasted away instead.

Question from Katja P. from Facebook, and Arcade Fire.

#PoeticAnswers 35 – Are Vampires Halal?

I understand your thought process
Due to the blood-letting
But due to religious tones, I confess
The subject matter could be upsetting

Traditional vampires bite straight in the throat.
Modern vampires are somewhat irregular;
Going to blood banks, tampons or even goats
As opposed to going straight for the jugular

The religious process of prayer,
And the method of draining the blood,
Does not truly follow the requisites of a vampire.
Due to similarities of Islamic and Christian faith, I doubt they would try, even if they could.

Vampirism is not halal but if this is not satisfactory,
There is but one near exception, her name is Erzsébet Báthory.

Question from my good friend, Isla M. 

#PoeticAnswers 34 – What Do We Have To Eat?

Spaghetti Bolognese: 

A Poetic Recipe for Disaster

You will need:
Positive thoughts,
To be yourself
And denial to garnish.

You will also need:
A tin of chopped tomatoes
Passata,
A red onion,
A red pepper,
Mushrooms,
(If you can get a red mushroom
You can keep the theme going,)
Vegetarian mince (Almost definitely Quorn)
A beef Oxo cube
Black pepper, basil, oregano
And red wine.
Because it’s good for the soul.

Step One:
Have a glass of wine.

Step Two:
Have another glass of wine.

Step Three:
Begin by sautéing your
Onion, pepper and mushrooms.
Realise you have not cut your
Onion, pepper and mushrooms.
Realise you don’t know what
Sauté actually means,
Cut your fingers several times as you
Hastily attempt to cut the
Onion, pepper and mushrooms
Then throw the bloody mess
Into a pot with some red wine.

Step Four:
In a different pot,
Take your Quorn mince,
That beef Oxo cube,
And that pinch of denial
And throw them all together.

Step Five
Hate yourself.
Almost as much as you hate your girlfriend
For making you cut meat out of your diet,
But mostly hate yourself for trying to make it taste the same.
Tell yourself it tastes the same if you close your eyes.
Cry into the pot to give your dry ingredients something to stop them burning
And to add some salt to season.

Step Six:
You haven’t had a glass of wine in a while
Have a glass of wine.

Step Seven:
Halfway through cooking
And thinking everything is okay
And thinking you’re a competent human,
Realise you did not put spaghetti in the ingredients list,
And descend into a perturbing, pasta induced panic.
Take the cold still waters of you soul,
Place on your head and let your rage boil.
Accept this is futile,
Boil a kettle,
Take the kettle out of the pan
Hit yourself with the pan,
Fill the pan with water and place over heat
And question your education and life choices
That have led to this moment.

Step Eight:
Take your slightly alcoholic
And now mostly burnt vegetables
And throw in the passata and tinned tomatoes.
Season to taste.
Discover it tastes awful.
Add more wine.
Attempt to season further,
Throw literally everything in your herb collection
Into this raging ragu
Cry so much that it literally only tastes of
Your salty tears and wine.

Step Nine:
Add the pot of
Meat substitute and denial into the mix.

Step Ten
Empathise with your pasta,
You are currently as drained as your pasta
Both physically and emotionally.
Watch the water drain away
Into the dark void.
Wonder to yourself:
“How did it come to this?”

Step Eleven:
Be disgusted.
With everything.
Observe the mess that you’ve made,
Realise this is a perfect metaphor for your life.

Finally:
Give up,
Order Domino’s
Have another glass of wine.

Question from Justine F. from Facebook