I have essays and exams to work on at the moment, so expect me to end up posting here when I ought to be working (like right now). The poem ‘Sibling’, by the way, was written in approximately ten minutes. I’d like to believe my creative writing teacher when she said there was no such thing as inspiration and that poetry was all hard work…but that was the fruit of inspiration. In fact, most of my poetry is like that- quickly written and hardly edited. I look back over it constantly but usually can’t bring myself to edit it. It’s usually pretty stark when it’s just come out of my own head…which makes me sound a tad conceited.

I did remake Sibling, but I showed both the new and old versions to friends and they appreciated the original much more. So the current version is essentially unchanged from the original. 

My mother went to New York, and she bought me a glitter globe.
It said “ROCKFELLER CENTER” around the edge.
When she returned, she presented it to me.
“Here you are, son.” she said.

Beholden, entrusted to my care, was a small world within a stare.
Casting out his arms, the golden man and his ring, carries a quill, about to sing,
Awestruck by his encompassed lens; a view that shifts and shapes and blends;
Caressed by pink unsteady waves, or covered up: now it’s a cave,
Pockmarked by spirals and loops, imprinted by those giant troops.
Or does he despair, and cry, “a waste”- there’s garish children, painted on his base.
Turn it upside-down and spin; flip his world around again.
Now there couldn’t be a frown; floating flakes, around and down.
They dance in most chaotic style, and with him nestle, for a floating while.
The globe now bends the space behind my mantelpiece,
Until I pick him up and shake him, and wonder what he sees.

Here you are, son, said my mother.
A statue in your hand.

Hooray!

I’d like to send my continuing wishes to anyone who has enjoyed reading anything on my blog, especially if it’s helped you or made your day just a little brighter. Thank you, and good luck.

Additionally, I could even thank my own blog myself. So many wretched emotions and feelings I’ve offloaded into my work over the past year; I’m sure I’ve avoided some serious trauma from keeping this blog going. It reminds me of why I started in the first place; tragic and stressful times in school, confused with identity and my feelings for other people (well, just one person really)…writing poetry, little bursts of emotion, was all I could do to keep going. Now, it continues to aid me and help me to struggle through life, no matter what it throws at me.

The blog is also something I’ve taken great pride in doing and looking back at my poetry cemented on this site gives me a real sense of accomplishment. They’re just a few words, a few sentences with a few too many commas and a few too many hits of the Enter key; but I’m sure you understand that at least to me they’re a lot more than that.

Here’s to more poetry, prose, reviews, and maybe a little drama- it’s all looking pretty interesting still!

Thank you, again, for reading.

Lee.

[AN: The first sentence of this post looks really confusing if you look at it in a particular way.

I mean, three days isn't a year.]

I looked up that morning, with objective
striking through my morning walk, through
any riffs and thought rambles, my eyebrows
furrowed; an unbecoming suave smile
on baby, dreamy eyes and distant face.
All the while, a familiar weight:
Stomaching.

Finally, food inside and balled fists,
I enter the expected theatre.
Not here, or at least,
Not in her usual seat.
Didn’t come today? Sick? Or decided to sit with friends.
And all my shadows go.
All my guts relax.

I smile a familiar smile, and true is my relaxation,
As I listen and write to a melodic, American, cantering voice.
Not even listening. Probably that little blond head there.
I take from all the intelligent waffle-
Charlie Marlow, Powell and Barall-

If we were meant to fall over one another,
First, you have to bump into me,
My love.

Injecting the base with leads:
Protests. A dialogue.
Accepted. It calms.
Growling like a dog, spinning the disc,
inside, a systematic debate.
This is safe. Is this safe? Yes, this is safe,
and so on.

Silence. Surprising contentment.
No complaints.
Humming innocently, undetecting.
A moment’s strain-
STOP-
Zero times zero zero zero zero zero one A-
Again.

A spinning worldly light,
Is on my desk tonight.
It slips from tray to tray,
And spins around all day.

No- halt. The motion stops.
Stuffy Mary looms,
Cumbersome Coleridge Calls…

Hold it in the middle,
Save it from a drop,
Else you’ll bruise and damage,
Your compact spinning top.

What a smile. I see my face.
An honour, honour to compose.
Here behind me softness waits;
I contemplate a slight repose.

Such a perfect circle,
A wonder how it gleams.
I couldn’t have the fingers,
How the cutter cut the seams.

What a merry warbling,
far removed from that old rot.
And yet, old duty; pressure calls.
Imagine the exam room:
The scratches fill the halls.
The smooth invigilator,
The lack of breath or pause.
Back to work.

———————-

[Written January 25 2011.]

[St. Patrick's Day 2011, removed the first verse; the following. It's too confusing:

What is the effect
of pulling weights on ears
to drag us to our texts?
Further into the morn,
the granites scratch
our very lobes
and pull the sockets,
to upset their cry for darkness.
Self-educate in pleasure:
You enjoy this.

Even though it wasn’t my priority, the recent weeks have not been devoid of poetry; indeed, as you’ll see above, the stress even drove me to write it. Stress is a marvelous thing as it is a terrible one; the aftermath and free time in-between it is strangely productive. Now that exams and such are over I’ve spent rather too much time lazing around and sleeping.

Point is, I now have the free time again to get some creativity going and start posting again. I got a fantastic new Yamaha keyboard for Christmas that’s starting to get my juices flowing.

Here’s to a new year of Inspiring In Brief!

Lee

By bodies and salt is the snow now roughly edged away,
A slush-like remainder clings for life by some uncrunched kerbs.
The city rises above the park’s path, between the gates,
And I see the storming figures in scattered swarms in its unclean tributaries.
Here too there are trees – uniform in squares between squares, with cut-back branches,
And every curve of path is marked by rumbling fridges, imperative signs,
Morning faces, brushing business.
Images, images; too changeable to be treated with the same caution and consent,
But only briskness, passing; only the destination.
Everyone; onward, onward, onward.