Long time no speak

Had a sort of 'sabbatical' from writing my poetry on the blog.
Been at Edinburgh Fringe, Latitude, staying in Scotland and going to London to see Dr Faustus and have an explore of Camden market (again).
But I am back and with a vengeance and will be posting new poetry directly on to the blog in the next few days.
Thanks for watching.

I dream.

I dream of culture.
I dream of weaving a pattern of train tracks across the land.
I picture it perfectly in my psyche.
Visiting all the vague and picturesque places.
Seeing all the quant little villages painted in lurid hues.
Not only ingesting it through my eyes but examining it on my tongue.
I dream of the long list of intellectual lovers, I will leave in my wake.
One name left at every city.
Gutentag, auf wiedersehen.
Bonjour, au revoir.
Hola, buenos noches.
I dream of seeing the world and living my life not just reading and reciting from a book.
"Oh you must go here! The book tells me its marvellous'.
I close my eyes and I think of anything but England.
Mundane and morose.
I dream of staring down from a plane.
Viewing the world from above like a map.
Pin pointed like a diagram.
Illustrated but not real.
I see myself wading into an aquamarine sea with pale white beaches.
Then I wake up.
The sea is brown.
The beaches murky.
The same old shit every day.
Good morning, England.
Goodbye, dreams.

Not waving but drowning by Stevie Smith.

My younger brother is on a camping/beach holiday with his friends at the moment and so mother oddly enough decided to quote to me this morning a poem by Stevie Smith.
She said to me (not about herself but just thinking of the beach), 'I was much too far out all my life. And not waving but drowning.'
I read through the poem myself after she quoted it to me, (her thinking it was Sylvia Path who wrote it) and absolutely loved it.
I don't know about you, readers, but I know how it feels to feel out of depth, too far in and not sure where to 'swim' to next. Crying for help from others but not directly. Not waving but drowning.
Its made me end up in a lot of sticky situations.
Read through the poem yourself. It is beautiful.

Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he's dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.

Grit your teeth and smile.

Pounding the pavement.

An out of body experience.

Feeling like a higher being is controlling your legs.

Joints rotating.

Legs forced forward.

Mechanically moving.

How does one know that your body is organic?

That blood flows beneath the skin.

That muscles contract under flesh.

Not oil flowing through pipes, fueling the machine within.

Not cogs and gears rotating.

Open up your skin and show the red oil circulating.

Remember the choreographed and practiced gestures stored in your memory.

A wave of the hand.

A nod of the head.

Monotonous and machine driven conversation.

An exchange of meaningless words.

'How are you?', an apathetic gesture, with no care behind it. 

Automated and emotionless.

Grit your teeth and smile.

The robotic casing around you shows the world you are human.

Yet the cogs and gears inside analyze the truth.

I carry your heart with me by E.E. Cummings

I'm a big fan of E.E. Cummings and his beautifully, moving poetry. I've read this particular poem many a time in my chunky anthrology of E.E. Cummings, but came across it again most recently when forced to watch a romantic comedy called 'In Her Shoes'. The film itself is about two sisters who are very different, one very promiscuous and not career driven and the other the complete opposite. Although their relationship was tempestuous, one sister (Cameron Diaz) read this poem to her sister at her wedding.
Which brings me to this poems theme; love. Some people would argue that this was a love poem, something to read to your lover or spouse.
But if we are to argue that this is a love poem, one would ask what type of love?
Eros: a passionate love that one could define as lust?
Phillia: a love defined by friendship?
Storge: a strong affection that a parent may feel for a child?

This poem is truly a love poem because it can relate to the all the different types of love.
The first time I read this poem, I was so moved, I cried. Because you can read it and relate to any of your meaningful friendships or relationships.

I carry your heart with me (I carry it in

my heart) I am never without it (anywhere

I go you go, my dear; and whatever is done

by only me is your doing, my darling)

I fear

no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) I want

no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)

and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant

and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows

higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

I carry your heart (I carry it in my heart).

I see the human race as pigs.

I see the human race as pigs.

Infantile and judgmental.

With one desire; to consume all.

Scurrying in the dirt.

Competitiveness is the key.

Rolling in the mud, dirtying themselves with sins and wrong-doings.

Ruthless and revolting, delving for the scraps of humanity.

Pink and bloated, sleeping in a tarnished tin tent.

Ultimately, their lives are for the abattoir.

Cannibalistic, one might say, to consume ones own race.

Much like the pigs, we will all return to the dirt from whence we came.

A girl.

I stare across the train carriage and I see a girl.

She is wearing black lace from head to toe.

As if in mourning.

She is not old enough to know misery.

A pile of books upon her lap.

Battered books from second hand shops.

She is a pretentious, poetry reader.

Quoting from Donne, Plath, Duffy and Armitage.

She scans through the pages of literature, taking notes in her journal.

She is deep in thought.

She bites her lip.

Who is she trying to impress with this facade of a front?

She picks up the phone and speaks in low dulcet tones.

Of friends she has seen.

Of places she has been.

I gaze at this girl and list the things I dislike of her.

She is -

Too pretty

Too poised

Too practised

Too pretentious

A pretence intelligence to seem impressive.

I stare and as the fields fly past, I see I am gazing at glass.

A reflection of myself.