Time for Art

The following poem is something I have just started working on. Below is the first section/what I have so far that I feel is worthy of sharing. I would love to get some feedback on it.

We desire ordered art
for something in our life
must be define, even
when we ourselves are not.
Lines to stand at ease, paused
for us, easy to fit
around our daily acts.
We side with structure not
flair, for beauty is an extra
we have no time for. Sleep
is a luxury that
fights for time with pleasure,
the winner decided
for us as art demands
the mind. Barely in tune,
events pass us by as
work takes control of our
processing power. Sitting
we only have a chance
to keep up on our slice
of a social life.

Drama acts out as our
distraction; personal,
shared – a new public good
to calm our working minds.
Individuals lose
as we try to keep in
common, not because we
want to conform but
because we have to stay
in contact with each other.
Suffering silently
we cannot face modern
reality alone.
Art, which should bring us
together, now breaks us
apart. It argues points
which stab our sides as we
try to unwind each day.

Thrills and frills are too much,
language must serve its purpose
or lose its position
in our time. Poetry
can fit our needs, but should it?
Do we design art through
what we need, or what we
see? The uncertainty
makes us seek something easier,
with fewer characters
to consumer and easier
stories to digest. Don’t
blame us for finding
ourselves in this draining
grey space filled with LED’s.
They blind us too, dazzle us
and misinform for fun.
Why can’t we consume?
It is all we’re allowed
access to. With such choice
all we can ever do
is browse and hope we don’t
get rejected. Love

eludes the light of our lines
that we ride in silence,
staring down to survive.



Living in a mind
without the canvas
on which life lays out
is a soulless slog
to realise a part of reality.
When a face is known but not seen,
voice remembered in silence,
smell listed in an instant reaction
as I desire to feel there again;
that is life living in a mind.

Words hold facts, sit there on the line,
with practice we can unpack
their contents and compare
all it has. Senses hold more,
or should. The immeasurable state of things.
A place, face, feeling
which makes a moment
holds the value of art:
I’ve lost the reference point,

in some part of my being.
Facts only; facts of love, touch,
feeling. Limitations welcomed
as a whole part of me. Ostracising
my interpretation, forcing it to stay inside.
A database, with shite GUI,
and situation based search.
Resemblance rides, fitting facts to
bring up the past. Memory for me,
different for you. Desired by me,
normal for you.

Description is scant as pictures
are only words. 1000 times less effective
to express what I want said.
Do I really understand the contours of
your face? The properties of blue,
its factors which I really know.
An incomplete list, less than I could have
yet helping my words be.
Our nights together I know
but can’t replay, a privacy filter
in this open world.

I pray to words, you’ll do me well,
let me speak true as you build
your data bank. Work out how to share
and let others see
as I know life to be.
Then let my mind live
in a world of canvas
to create as life wants others to.

Searching for a natural order of things

Have you heard the willow sing
Of winters drones: bleats in spring,
summers late blue buzz,
crushed October’s leafy dust,
cool trickles that tickle its feather veins,
gulping and drowning in starved sun,
parched from a day long feast.
Its views a million, all the same
between the wash of fates rain.

Seasons ring inside its roots
long after life has shifted,
remembering through resemblance.
Phototropism of us
drawing an age from days of change;
shaped by power
promising more than food.

Like of my Life

The monotonous glitter of passive pixels,
bore my bloodshot addiction,
mouthing snippets of stories
for my soul to seal.
Chunks ripped from reality,
swallowing each relatable taste;
a morsel more to reassure.
Losing life’s full spectrum
to tri-colour trickery,
slumping slowly to inward living:
fronted on what all see.
Share and stare
at uploaded majesty.

Personal Update

Just an update to the blog. I graduated with a first class honours degree in English Literature and shall be undertaking a Masters in the study of Poetry next academic year. I hope to keep the blog going with my own work, and writing more opinion pieces (mainly for myself and anyone who is interested in my wider thoughts on poetry). I may also upload my recent essays for review and discussion.

I currently have 64 sides of original poetry which I have highlighted as worthy of being edited and actually shared with the world. I hope to work through it and post consistently again.

Thank you all for reading.

Sweet of the Earth

Grown in rotting petals,
fed mature malt fire,
subtle seeds of desire,
sprout shunted shoots

which fail to catch hold,
coughing out each new growth:
reluctantly descending downwards.
Brewing concentrated venom,

bile bubbles from the horizon,
breaching red skies, dripping
inner fury outwards, ripping;
labored fruits unable to ripen

tapped off in bottles.
Succulent fermented nectar:
a trickling lifeless reflector,
lighting lusts soulful specter.

Natural Processes

Whisk and weave that dirty breath,
which rushed in stunted steps;
learning to walk once more,
in the age of wine.
Each sound stuck in phlegm,
cough, cough, heavy in
(harsh and true to get through)
wash it down with drink again.
Held down, forced shut,
limbs lost to rage again
opens strides begin.
Wonder with ease,
a freedom to roam,
count, see, be, and
cough no more.
No more, not alone.
Your silence drew the crowd,
to see these first few paces
upon the clouds.
Free – a puppet of security.