Tag: Creative Writing – Poetry

In what could be a forest, I wander.
My mind gets lost, like a small wild hedgehog.
The path I followed has led me nowhere,
Under the rain, the forest filled with fog.
So many trees, looking alike and I
Remain astray, with no one here for me.
The silence fills the woods, without a cry.
I still stumble, with nowhere else to be.
Suddenly, like the hedgehog, I’ve this need
To protect me. I try to close my eyes,
And thus, I hope no one will see me bleed.
Immediately, I feel panic arise.
          My eyes opening, all at once, this feel,
          This fear vanishes, I know I will heal.

 

The Couch

Do you remember your couch?
The orange one?
The one next to the window?
The one next to the TV?
The one we used to sit on for hours?

It is still here.
But no-one sits on it.
Not anymore.
Not since you are gone.

Image: © Olena Danylovych

Author: Olena Danylovych

Foreword, ‘A Song from Solitude’

This poem was inspired by Byron’s ‘Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage,’ and also follows hero on their travels as they undergo an introspective journey. Unlike Childe Harold, the protagonist of ‘A Song from Solitude’ is a woman, Diana, who finds herself alone after leaving her homeland and consequently being unable to relate to others. Just like Childe Harold is based on Byron’s own personal history, so Diana’s beginnings are reminiscent of my own, though they have been exaggerated for poetic effect.

Though there are many similarities between ‘Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage’ and ‘A Song from Solitude,’ they are ultimately two very different poems. I have relied on the same poetic structure, following the introspective journey of our heroine as she travels through Grasmere and Chamonix, and placing some importance on the literary-historical significance of the locations, as well as on the experience of both picturesque and sublime landscapes. However, my focus rather on the interrelation between writing and social connectivity; whether having an audience inspires writing, or writing inspires an audience, I cannot say, though firmly believe that writing requires an audience (real or imagined). Therefore, writing and connectivity are necessarily linked to Diana’s journey, and influenced by the landscapes she travels through.

I had intended to include multiple references to the ‘Two-Lakes Romanticism’ course as a whole, though at some point the poem developed a life of its own. The most obvious connection is Diana’s itinerary, as it is inspired by our trips to Grasmere and Chamonix. I had also intended for Diana to develop a more equal relation towards Nature throughout the narrative, inspired by Dorothy Wordsworth’s ‘co-presence’ with her surroundings. The ethics of our relationship to Nature is something I had not given much thought to before, and was, for me, an important take-away from the course. However, this point was not developed in depth in the poem. Overall, the poem is inspired by texts we studied, the trips we went on, and what I learned throughout.

A Song from Solitude

1
Oh, Muse, who has inspired many a verse,
Who flies to poets worthier than I,
Yet one who falters, as if under a curse,
When paper, with my pen, I deign to dignify.
Yet come this once, and glean that inward eye,
Help put words the soundless song in me,
Through which one can but little comfort spy,
And though it of a modest value be,
It may yet find its place, not vanish into history.

2
Some time ago, in lands not far from here,
There was a youth who, spurning company,
Would seek the solitude of woods and meres,
Avoiding peers, choosing a lonesome destiny.
For her – for yes, our fable’s heroine’s a she –
There was no home, no one to call a friend;
When as a babe she left her mother-country,
She launched into her journey without end,
And thus she spent her life in other people’s land.

3
Diana she was called, though called by few,
For only loneliness did her those travels bring;
Always a recluse, forever passing through,
Without capacity for mutual understanding.
It was not hatred of her fellow beings
That lead her to deny those clay-cold bonds;
Nor was her solitude particularly freeing,
Nor did the landscapes to her thoughts respond.
Deprived of connectivity, she roamed a vagabond

4
And so it chanced, one day like any other,
When lounging on a bank in sad reflection,
Diana, watching folk and flowers stir,
Was struck with a perceptive apprehension –
The sudden answer to that tireless question
That oft had danced upon her silent lip.
To write, she thought, would bring about redemption;
Providing meaning to that endless drip
Of life that would not stop for her, nor she for it.

5
To Grasmere, then, she followed in the steps
Of those who came before and left their legacy.
In truth, those hills a valued treasure kept:
There was a William, and with him Dorothy,
Who walked those paths, forever spilling poetry;
One was the fount, the other – dutiful receptacle,
Producing art through mutual reciprocity.
And while this practice rendered many sceptical,
There’s something to be said for love and writing, above all.

6
Yet, while their words were powerful and clear,
Not even they could truthfully communicate
The beauty and the wonder of Grasmere –
Those rolling hills, those trails, which all create
Impressions of protection. Diana stood within
That luscious nest, surveying Heaven’s gate,
Which was the closest to divinity she’d been,
A place of peaceful reign, of love incarnate;
Enraptured and transfixed, she fell to earth prostrate.

7
Yet she was not alone! Though from her infancy
She had not had affinity with any other,
She now was found, treated with empathy.
A kindly soul, a shepherd, wanderer, brother,
Was crossing those soft hills and saw her falter,
And though he used to walk a lonely way,
He now was found, no more alone than her.
Together they walked home in fading day,
In such a happiness, that none can truly say.

8
Yet Diane’s journey had only just begun,
For she still wished to write a worthy tale,
A mighty pilgrimage, a story to be sung.
There were still things to see, and mounts to scale;
Ferocious landscapes, crags, and plunging vales.
She would not stay, not for the world, nor him
Who ere had saved her. She left the dales
That gave her many comforts, on a whim,
And for the Alps she set, leaving her sole companion.

9
Far in the distance she had seen those peaks,
That now did tower and press upon her head,
And yet, resolved, she climbed to Chamonix,
Obsessed with all the histories it held;
Here Wordsworth came, and Mary Shelley tread,
All equally impressed by palaces of stone,
The icy pinnacles that to the Heavens spread
And wither every heart, and chill each bone.
Against those heights, who could not help but feel alone?

10
While Grasmere’s dales with soft embrace surround you,
The alpine tracks compel you to the top,
Where nothing lives, and solitude reigns true;
Only yourself, the emptiness, the drop –
Enough for any mortal to give up.
All Nature’s appalling magnificence
Did not expand her soul – near made it stop.
Aware of her small insignificance,
Diane descended, yearning for mortal, mutual existence.

11
So she, who never knew a friend or home,
Who used to wander lonely, land to land,
And destined felt to cross the world alone,
Had found someplace to make her final stand.
She went at once to those green, Northern lands,
Those gentle views, and enveloping hills
Where there awaited that lone, patient friend.
Ascending Alps had brought her little thrill,
While great, warmth and connection are far greater still.

12
It may not be a shock to some, that I
Am she, Diane, the self-same wanderer,
The one who travelled wide, and low, and high,
And after seeking danger and adventure,
Has deemed relation as the foremost treasure.
I shall not climb those isolating summits,
When friends and gentle hills inspire me more;
To Grasmere’s welcome hug I now submit,
Which, with this song, I hope never to forget.

“Finding Happiness”

After the Myth of Sisyphus

Pushing,
Restless to climb,
Doomed to absurdity,
To toil at an ungrateful task,
Before having to watch it all,
Her struggles and her pains
Reduced in an instant
To nothing.

Alone,
Down again she goes.
The men who pass by mock her,
Claiming she is being punished for her arrogance.
Bit off more than she can chew, serves her right!
Maybe… But then why would she go back
To her lifelong companion
Willingly?

And again,
Refusing to defect.
Or maybe striving to satisfy her spite
In the sharp unkindness of the stone, in its strain on her body?
When with an empty gaze, she follows its roll down the hill,
Does she like the racket it makes?
Relishing in the din perhaps as
In music?

Oh, by the Gods,
The greedy ache to comfort her!
To let her rest under my shadowy wings,
And stop the everlasting curse from destroying her.
But no, nothing shall be done. For on the fool’s face, I recognize it. Under the sun’s gash and the blast’s whipping, as she descends for the…
Howmanyeth time? There lies, unaltered
Yet flickering,
A smile.

Images: © Blanche Darbord

Glass ship of Goodbyes

I took the sadness from my heart;
I took a bottle by its neck.
A storm was raging in the clouds;
A cloud came carrying all my hurt.

I took a locket from my chest;
I took a bottle by its neck.
The waves still swam beneath my feet,
Its wails slicing my beating breast.

I took a letter soft with dew;
I slit the bottle by its neck.
And in the bottle sadly placed,
My words of lasting love to you.

A storm was raging in the clouds;
A cloud came down upon the sea.
And in the mourning waters went,
My letter, floating in your shrouds.

 

The Delusional Philosopher

A wise man reads,
His white beard long
Beneath his chin.

He reads of sun and moon,
Of oceans dried too soon.
He reads of lost ships
and long-forgotten crypts.

A young, ignorant boy,
Who cannot read
And never touched a book:
He runs under the sun,
Sleeps under the moon,
And sails on sparkling seas.
The old man,
Wise as he was,
Wrote about the world.

His wise words are
“philosophical”, “timeless”
                         – We say

Yes, they are timeless,
Truthful by fantasies,
Ignorant of life.

 

The Promise of Stones

In the New Land waited
A man
Sitting before an ageing
Ocean wide.
“Wait for me,” she had said.
“I shall come back,”
She had promised.

But the ocean turned to mist
And the man’s eyes turned to foam,
And he wailed across the sea,
A last solitary plea.

The ocean that would carry
His love was, oh, so empty.
Lo! She would not come
If he had but dirt to pawn!

So, above the cliffs,
For her he chose,
A garden of whens
A forest of ifs.

And on that land across the sea,
Rich with uncertain certainty,
He carved treasures into the stone;
He carved his future in a home.

But lo! ‘Twas not a house he built,
‘Twas a castle that proudly stood,
Lofty towers eyeing the waves,
Strong stones with bliss to save.

And, across the carved ramparts,
History wore its mighty crown,
Mysterious monoliths
Majestic obelisks
Stood in harmony
In this kingdom by the sea,
Waiting. Waiting for its queen.

For hours, days, and years,
He worked and toiled,
Worked with hands alone
And alone built a castle tall.

How… remains a mystery,
Its knowledge buried in the sea.

Yet, today there remains,
This kingdom by the sea.
‘Tis named Coral Castle
And stands, waiting still.

Author: Anonymous

under this mascara
under this face
where am I?

under this shyness
under this act
what am I?

am I anything
other than that?

am I anything
but a face and a hat?

you are what you eat
say those who eat best

you think, therefore you are
say those who think best

so what am I?
…this?

Image: © Creative Commons, license link here

Author: Laure Cepl

 

Doll locked in a closet, longing alone

for the one who’ll save her.

Dull are the days for the fair maiden of ivory skin,

spinning around, trying to find angles in a full moon shaped room.

High in that tower, deep is her sorrow.

The Lady they call Rapunzel.

 

Red lips, out of her velvet mouth come sounds of the

rarest beauty. Errant in this waste night and day, I may have lost

my way. Riding astray from the path,

her voice awaked and guided me.

I stared at this fortress. No entrance, damsel in distress.

I called her: “Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair!”

 

Mild voice, “Milady” she called me, “climb up to meet me.”

And she let down her long-braided hair.

They were garnished with flowers – violets, violets everywhere.

Once I got up there, I found my Sappho. “Oh, my dear,

give me love!” She cried, “for I have been so lonely.”

“Music”, she breathed, “let’s make music” she whispered in my ear.

 

Far away they will hear us, our delightful symphony.

On her grand piano, we get lost in the sheets,

I let her play her favorite sonata in F minor,

chords, arpeggios and rubatos – her fingers run free on my keyboard.

Every touch makes all the wires vibrate in me,

a whole note followed by a rest – a sigh.

 

Solitude shared, four hands duo every night,

for seven months, seven weeks and seven days,

we have learnt to play each other’s melody.

Our metronomes are fully in tune, emotions in crescendo,

I follow the motive, pitch variations, we broke the sordina.

This song still resonates in my heart, after all these years.

 

Lamentations, alas, you came back. I climbed the

ladder too many times, once I had to fall.

You listened to what they said. How such a delicate ear

could pay attention to the cacophony of their voices?

Remember, it is they who put you in that tower,

cursed, they judged, banished the masterpiece you were.

 

Since, “sweet flower”, scared of blooming you pushed me down that stage,

cutting our bond with scissors, watching me

sink. In the brambles, blind I still ramble,

playing requiems yearning for a Muse lost long ago.

That is what she taught me about Music. If you take out her heart,

Only art survives.

 

Image: Lighthouse at Stora Bält (Anton Melbye, 1846). Source – CC License

Author: Antonino Mangiaracina

No hut, in life and fear, except reason;
And yet men voted other ways, by choice;
They turned themselves in painters each season,
Their never-ending lines cover the voice.
A whispering blank canvas with a truth
Too hard to hear is coated in lies;
The bright colours pursue mercy and youth,
Delusions all, since everybody dies.
It may appear untrue, but all is real;
Afraid is every man of the unknown;
So he shapes what he sees to his ideal,
As beliefs builded not to feel alone.
People must learn luxuries are no need
And put an end to rules we never agreed.

Image: “Footprint” by Conal Gallagher. Source – CC License

Author: Guy Da Costa

Christmas Spirit

I am not a poet and never will be.
I lack rhythm. My rhymes are poor and so is my poetry.
Scroll back up or down to the last or next prodigy.
Although you shouldn’t, you keep watching into me.
Outside I wrote my cleverest mandalas in pee
Spring blew them away. We could not agree.

Tracks and remains are deeper in the snow
And better kissers under the mistletoe.
It is Christmas and I have to let you know
That with all this fondue you should pray to a crow.
Your car has drowned and they’d help your child grow
In a world of funny fumes and they will never have to row.

As you join your hands thinking about Crow-Jesus
You ask yourself why Santa and his circus
Offer life while they’re as sterile as a cactus.
Black feathers snuggle to Mount Olympus
The crystals who now sleep in a hot bubbly mattress.
You alone and happy saved the whole world and us.

Snow is dying so I get in my car
And waste some gas hoping to outlive
The Greatest Addressee banned from any bar.
I sit, change my seat again, drink and try to dry heave
my pale songs of pee, bad even with a guitar.
I forgot to put on my licence what to believe.

Snow melts and I want to be drunk Penguins.

---

From Ludlow to Eternity

I have never been fond of fancied worlds
So imagine how I feel about the outside one.
On the way from Ludlow to Eternity
My shoes went flat between
Dixville Notch and Millsfield
Because I kicked a cat. He cried booze and moonshine.

My nails started bleeding and my feet
were shrinking. I fell and the hairy sky
swam in red feathers hanged by its handy ankle.
I ate a lot of plums hence my blues could see
A veteran elephant and a bold donkey.
Concerned by my situation, they cut my legs off.

The elephant threw me on his back.
His feet wounded by grey feathers
weighing heavily on the ground.
He was protective and carried me
To an even older elephant cemetery.
He crawled in a hole. I drilled the donkey.

They would talk loudly about circles and lines and repeat again.
I met all their donkey-friends that would guide me to Eternity.
My mechanic arm would stretch and once I saw a ditch.
They were so obnoxious and never noticed the gap.
Instead of a final leap, I beheaded this jackass
with anecdotal facts and only seventy dollars per year.

Laying on the ground I met a companion. His name was
Thunder Jr. and he brought me to Eternity.
As I waved him away, I understood that there will always be
an elephant waiting for a cemetery,
and in the shrewdest snow lost in the crowd another donkey.
Yet, I am still legless, hopeless and lonely.

Image: © Corey Raymond Heimlich

Author: Corey Raymond Heimlich

Dude, this guy is straight up cre-cre…

All this got me like hey yo, this fool for real?

Dat one crazy gringo bra

oye ese güey está bien loco…qué desmadre

 

I’ve dabbled in everything, from real estate to reality TV,

I even founded a university giving phony degrees.

I’m not racist I own a few Harlem brownstones,

Can’t wait to take the White House and the joystick of drones.

 

I’m fed up with all this political correctness,

I’m white and I’m proud and you know it’s infectious.

I’m not afraid to call it by its name,

It’s Islamic terrorism and Muslims are to blame.

 

White men with ties, now that’s whom to trust,

We’re Christian and righteous and can turn you to dust.

I kill it with charm and law and order,

I’ll build a great wall along the Mexican Border.

 

Brought up by my bootstraps, I’m a working-class hero,

I’ll make everything great again, starting from zero.

All politicians lie, it’s part of this business,

I’ll make sure everyone has a tremendous Christmas.

 

Twitter them this and twitter them back,

Shovel them shit just make sure it’s whack.

I might add that I love a good artichoke,

The world isn’t warming it’s a ludicrous hoax.

 

Doesn’t my daughter have a “nice figure?”

I just wish her knockers were a little bit bigger.

I love women for everything they’re worth,

I mean at the end of the day, I don’t think I could give birth.

 

Did I leave anything out? sometimes I get sloppy,

 The Mexicans at my hotels make great chicken teriyaki.

The media lies about me, it’s very unfair,

I’m the president for all Americans, I got here fair and square.

 

Of course, I’m all for the LGBTQ,

It’s a nice club they’ve got, I just wish it were true.

Of course Black Lives Matter, I listen to Tupac,

His star’s next to mine on Hollywood’s sidewalk.

 

And one last thing about the KKK,

I don’t see a problem and I don’t wear a toupee.

Putin and I will be the best of buds,

We’ll rid the world of these terrible thugs.

 

Can you believe it they voted for me?

We’ll be lucky to be left with a pile of debris.

What’s wrong with me this sounds like Dr. Seuss,

A Grinch and a conman is on the loose.

 

It is with great sadness that I bid you adieu,

I must head downtown for an important rendezvous.

Pondering all I’ve said from the top of Trump Tower,

I plan my next tweet over a tremendous whiskey sour.