Chapters: a sunny afternoon; By the bus stop; twilight; notes from the inside

I thought I'd round out the week by finishing on a poem I wrote a bit more than a year ago. It's really four short poems. The other things I've been posting this week, tend to be things that have just occured to me. I suppose you can tell by the more rustic and perhaps half complete style. It's another play on that feeling in Walt Whitman's writing. The idea of recreating that pondering and calm voice.
Without further adue here is Chapters.

CHAPTERS.

A sunny afternoon.

A girl shaped like a wave, licks an almond flake from her hand. It is the last one and therefore the most unique. The one she will remember. She hesitates to put it over her lips. She lays back in the sun. The sound of the waves in her ear.

By the bus stop.

A boy who feels like the wind waits at the bus stop. He feels like the wind today as he did yesterday, but he did not tell anyone this. This is his own hidden secret. It whispers over the wind. It is not a happy secret. The boy hides underneath a hood. He hides from the wind and at the same time he feels like it. His heart is confused. A small tear floats out of his eye and down onto the road. It stays there and then the wind comes and carries it away.

 

twilight.

It is spring today and the man is buying a pink flower for his sweet heart. It smells very nice. Today is a peaceful day for him. It is a day when the leaves do not blow. It is a day where the sun hides in the grass. It is a day when his world smiles as he walks past it. It is a day when all the world could fit inside of him packed tightly inside his suitcase.

notes from the inside.

See the crumpled and torn manuscript that sways so forlornly as it is carried through the breeze. Did you ever care to follow its trajectory, see the way it reflects the light off its brown surface on its journey. The strange miracles it encounters floating over and above us drifting as only it can, at last free from itself.

The Next Thought

This weeks theme seems to be thoughts and thinking. Since my abundance of time, i suppose I've had a lot of time to reflect. Feel free to comment it might be hard to respond to something so personal, but I'd love to know your thoughts and how you have responded to my poetry and whether you have taken up the goal of doing some freewriting. Trust me it's bloody easy and some of my friends I know (i'm looking at you Chantal) could do to do a bit more freewriting.

So what's the next one about. Well that's it isn't it? I had this idea almost a week ago now. When I was on the way to see a friend and I knew I had to take my iphone out and start typing it in my notepad, the moment it came into my mind. It was an idea I got excited about and I honestly have no idea why...and don't worry there weren't too many people on the road that night, still it was a bit wet, but inspiration waits for no man!

I think we've all had this idea, but I'd be interested to know if anyone has. What comes next? What is the next thought? What takes something to the next level? It's a fascinating question. Particularly in life we look forward to transition and change and I mean literally look forward, because I don't think anyone looks forward to change. But it's that idea of feeling something and yet not quite being there yet. It's that simple thought isn't it and it's the most complex what is going on inside my brain...what is the next thought?

The Next Thought

the next thought
is too delicious to hit upon

too elaborate to explain catch
train.

the next thought is for me mine
the next thought must be perfection
I have a good feeling about the
thought next after that
the next thought is for me

i guess I'll never know what the next
thought is

Something Personal and Naked

Hey all ,

I think you'll notice a bit of similarity between the flowing lines of this poem and the very silly Amalgamum I previously posted. This style of free-flowing thought as poetry, is inspired by Walt Whitman. When I think of Leaves of Grass, which is his only collection of poetry I think of this odd pondering that recalls to mind the title of this very blog. It places you inside this strange narrative conscience. It's interesting to think of narrative voices and poetry. I think personally I have a few different voices. One of them more contemplative and dreamy, the other sarcastic and melancholy. What kind of voices do you find emerge when your write something down? Who is that strange character behind the words.

Imagine yourself in a crowded room. Close your eyes and see the words and hear them coming out. Who says them, someone young? Someone really hot! Or someone cute? Someone with authority, someone who appears hardly there when you look deep into their eyes? Soon you'll readily see how our voice has such a rich character to it. In a way this goes back to my post of how as people we connect signs and symbols together. The same goes with voices.


Anyway, the title of this post, is perhaps unnecessary. I suppose I should apologise. My writing and posting is entirely selfish. I hope your getting some inspiration out of this, but I acknowledge the very personal nature of this blog. It is nice to even have the sense that I can share my thoughts somewhere. So this post in particular is a chance for me to share something deeper. The narrator in this poem is unabashedly me. It's the me, I imagine I'll be years from now. A bit stronger, a bit calmer, but still yearning and wishing and still idealistic. I won't say what it is I'm yearning for, I'll let the poetry do a bit of the talking.

Another interesting piece of context is I wrote this after watching the Little Mermaid. I am somewhat of a disney addict of late and surprisingly I'm finding the films more moving now that I'm older, but without further ado here is my me at my most vulnerable and naked. Here we go!


Naked

What would you do with your last day

I doubt very much you would open shop

And start to sell your wares

Maybe you should

I know that I should find my true love

In some place I’ve always somehow known

But forgotten like the idle

Searches I perform each day that lead to nothing

And then do you know what we might do

With our one day

For isn’t a day all the time in the world really

One day can mean everything in a life

Of years

I can’t really admit what we might attempt

On that day only that we will be close

As close as it is possible for two people

To be so painfully close that the end

Will be too painful more painful than

If there had ever been a beginning

And my heart shall sting and it shall yearn

And in doing so I know the next thought

Though perhaps not inside my same flesh

Must be real for flesh is

Not capable of such depth

As deep as narrow winds this love

And we must go eventually

Must we go