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Reflections Week…Twenty Four

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Yes this is late, sea fishing has taken over the weekends time. Nothing has been caught that has been plate value, apart from the shrimps, but fish did get caught, then released.

Not wanting to get my notebook covered in black lugworm juice, stinky, I left it at the caravan, but doing this meant missing those ideas that seem to randomly pass through one thoughts. This is usually when I work out the verse for a poem or a good subject to write about, I know they are good because I’m happy with them, that is always remembered, but bugger me if the original thoughts can be recalled when pen is in hand.

This week is no different, my thoughts are constantly working on this weeks poetry subject. Again it is another stinker set by the ‘tutor’, and once again I could see no way to write it. The method that I use is long winded to say the least. The first part of the process is to just dump words onto a page that I feel are connected to the subject. Next is to work out how I want to ‘theme’ the poem, these are also just splurged onto the page, I admit this initial work looks like a monkey has grabbed a flash card set and thrown it down, but somewhere in this process is the birth of the poem.

Once I have gotten the theme sorted then the process moves to what I want to say in it, reflecting and including many of the words from the first process. This then has to be applied to the theme loosely, as the two parts are still separate, joining them will be in the writing of the poem (draft 1).

Now as a beginner writer this is the biggest hurdle, especially in writing poems, is my lack of knowledge of the subject of forms, rhythm and metre that causes me the most anguish. The ‘tutor’ dislikes me talking in this way, but it is how my mind works. Part of my problem is dismissing work as ‘less than’, no matter what the project. Not wanting to fail, I try and force learn the subject, not healthy I know, for example:- I do not understand the modern form of poetry and as such the ‘whole’ of the poem is lost to my mind, which is busy trying to make it fit into the rhyming form that I know as poetry. Hence the unnecessary cramming.

The poetry class is not a formal class so the technical aspects are not taught, the whole process is supposed to be just to express through words – feelings, nothing is incorrect. This does not compute with me. So I agonise for self punishment. I cannot see this changing now, only the expanding the forms I know.

I suppose this in itself is ‘loosening up’ if my writing itself becomes more loose.

But we are not close to that yet.

 

www.awanderthroughthemind.co.uk/reflections-2017

Paper Cuts…#poem#poetry

This weeks #poem#poetry is a bit of a long one, again chosen by the class.

Paper Cuts

You want the control,
come and then hit me.
You want the submission,
come and then beat me.
You wanted my fear,
come and then kick me.

But it’s just paper cuts.

Time stoped the bleeding.
Scrapes stopped the stinging.
And bruises would fade,
where boot contact made.

But it’s just paper cuts.

First I was distraught,
Each time I was caught.
But I became numb,
for beating to come.

But it’s just paper cuts.

My running day ends,
from you and your friends.
When turning from flight,
and starting to fight.

Because it’s just paper cuts.

Along with the pains,
then came the names.
Not delivered with wit,
but hatred and spit.

But it’s just paper cuts.

Name callings public,
your put on display.
Teachers they join in,
with things that they say.

But it’s just paper cuts.

Children start chanting,
the things that all say.
Twisted, contorted,
by end of the day.

But it’s just paper cuts.

My head it would rattle,
when I dared to tattle.
Was told it not matter,
what children did natter.

Because it’s just paper cuts.

Name callings harmless,
the banter just fun.
Snowflakes are harmless,
unless by the ton.

But it’s just paper cuts.

Some wording distorted,
and used to control.
changing their meaning,
destroying their soul.

But it’s just paper cuts.

You alter the tone,
it carries a threat,
Misheard the meaning,
“cause I am upset”?

But it’s just paper cuts.

World seams so slanted,
I’m put in my place.
Can it be better?
depends on your face.

Because it’s just paper cuts.

Your words the damage,
numerous in time.
wounding is mental,
paper cuts, so fine.

But it’s just paper cuts.

One cut is painful,
more than its size.
When you have several,
the pain it will rise.

But it’s just paper cuts.

Cuts that your words leave,
slice into, my soul.
Never quite healing,
there taking their toll.

But it’s just paper cuts.

You keep on slicing,
it’s day after day.
never quite seeing,
what others, will say.

Because it’s just paper cuts.

You weakened my strength,
you’ve taken my hope.
Then it’s all my fault,
I “just conna cope”.

Because it’s just paper cuts.

Not the one hurting,
and feeling the pain.
You can’t conceive it,
the pain in a name.

Because it is just paper cuts.

Inwards it’s turmoil,
viewed outwards as “shy”.
What was expected?
You cut me, I cry!

It’s not just paper cuts!

Bosses, no different,
their stature to prove.
Skilful word twisting,
their ego’s improve.

It’s never just, paper cuts.

Doubt plants a small stone,
in every new cut.
Open wound festers,
as cannot it shut.

It comes with the paper cuts.

Now socially awkward,
not clever with speech.
Your cuttings have taught
me “what I can reach”.

I feel alone with the paper cuts.

I’m now in training,
defending myself.
I have new skillsets,
improving my health.

Enough with the paper cuts!

I will not listen,
and travel your way.
If you don’t like it,
you don’t have to stay.

I’m stopping your paper cuts!

Paper cuts it’s never been,
just one on its own.
Your words of wounding,
are yours now to own.

You get to own your paper cuts.

Used them unknowingly,
in words that I use.
I should know better than,
poke fun and abuse.

I get to own my paper cuts.

What I’m now learning,
as child should be taught.
Socially skilful,
the bully to thwart.

Eradicate the paper cuts.

Now time to end them,
there’s no room for buts.
With skills will defeat
them, end paper cuts!

A § M
19/6/2017

What I See…#poem#poetry

What I See

Eleven o’clock, the toilet run,
Spots last chance, before morning sun.
I saw a star, that shone bright,
between two trees, as black as night.

As I gazed, upon that star,
something changed, though not that far,
Twas not the mouse, nor the rat,
this was huge, compared to that.

The trees they grew, before my eyes,
their blackness swelled, in moonlit skies.
I looked away, and then looked back,
and once again, the trees grew black.

What I saw, I used to fear,
hide away, and shed a tear.
Not always sight, but sometimes sound,
would have me running, homeward bound.

An open door, a prison cell,
within my head, my own hell.
Spot I had, as my guide,
past the door, to step outside.

Illusions at times, I will be given,
It’s not a curse, and sure not heaven.
I can see things, others cannot,
at first I thought, I’d lost the plot.

But now I wonder, what they mean,
what messages lie, in what I’ve seen.
My mind a lesson, it tries to teach,
the answer, alas, I’ve yet to reach.

The destination,

Unknown,

It lies ahead.

Another day,

Not now,

I’m off to bed!

A § M
14/6/2017

www.awanderthroughthemind.co.uk/writing

Reflections…Week Twenty Three

When you know you have caught a bug.

Not the insect kind, though I do with my son, nor the germ kind, this be the new ‘habit’ kind.

One started the blogging just to write something, Miss Ross’s words have echoed around my mind since High School like a squeaky fan in an air conditioning duct. She said I could, and should write a story as she enjoyed reading mine, she also said I failed to write a beginning and an end, it felt like I had just jumped to the action in the middle and I should put them in. Unfortunately copies have not been kept.

To start, writing was a chore, it was hard work, especially when people started to follow me and like the blogs, this added pressure to write well. Writing well is not something I feel I can do naturally, the structure and form of writing is lost on me, and don’t even ask what a simile, metaphor, adjective or pronoun is. These were never explained to me in a learning style I could follow.

I know oxymoron; somehow one feels like this is saying something about oneself.

Now one looks forward to writing, it’s even become a pleasure. My little note book is carried around and ideas are written down in it, often. But now I know one has caught the writing bug. More specifically the Poetry writing bug.

It is still done within the confines of therapy, but I have just finished my third in as many weeks, tweaking will follow of course. Two of the subjects were set as ‘themes’, and in the little notebook are ideas for more. One knows that the quality will not be of the highest standard, but I don’t care, I want to write another, and that is how one knows one has caught a bug.

As bugs go this has the chance of metamorphosing into something much different than what it is now.

www.awanderthroughthemind.co.uk/reflections-2017

The Meal…#poem#poetry

My first poem since school, I will get better

 

The Meal

It had been raining,
for most of the day.
So off for a meal,
overlooking the bay.

Sea breeze blows softly,
to add a slight chill.
The sea comes in gently,
as it’s quite still.

I could not leave Spot,
alone in the car.
So we sat outside,
we both looked bizar.

Me on a blanket,
Spot on a bed,
people walked on past,
shaking their head.

I chose a burger,
in a wood box.
It felt quite natural,
sitting by rocks.

The chips they were chunky,
brioche the bun.
The clouds started breaking,
showing the sun.

It was now setting,
orange and yellow.
This made the evening,
feel rather mellow.

The castle at Criccieth,
up on the hill.
Below in the village,
it was quite still.

Dylan’s was busy,
on the inside.
The windows they steam up,
the view it did hide.

Who had the best meal?
I’ll let you decide.
But next time we go there,
we’ll be outside.

A § M
6/6/2017

 

www.awanderthroughthemind.co.uk/writing

Reflections…Week Twenty One

canstockphoto8630797Burnt noggin day down by the canal.

It was the Etruria canal festival this weekend and as we had a good time last year we went again today. The weather started as a usual child typical Saturday, overcast and looking like rain later, but the sun came out just after we had lunch, and promptly cooked us. I usually wear a hat when out but forgot today for some unknown reason, and the sun cream was left on the side. Well prepared we were not.

I took the camera with me but I knew from last year it would really get used tomorrow on the return trip with Spot, specifically to take the photos; and hopefully some usable video. As usual my notebook will be travelling with me for blog inspirations as they happen, and a shirt, and a big hat, maybe some suncream to scare it away, the sun that is, it works in the back garden at home. I am hoping to get some ideas or at least notes for the poetry class here as well.

The creative writing/poetry class was a bust this week, even the lady who runs it failed to show. I did not write a poem,  however  a shopping list of words connected to my theme has been created, I will continue to work on the construction of a poem from this list as I go on. But not wanting to show up ’empty handed’, as it were, a poem by Wilfred Owen was printed off and take along.

The theme for this week was – a loss of a person, the poem was told to me, and my class, at school by a substitute teacher we had for two weeks. He also told us how clever Hitler was on his use of language and its manipulation of it in his speeches, a theme that seems to be reoccurring these days too.

This is a moving poem, that still has a pattern of rhyming my brain can follow, so here it is – one for every 14 year old…

Dulce et Decorum Est by Wilfred Owen

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.—
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

You see in a way this has been locked into my long term memory,  a poem that follows a format I can follow, it is about horrific subject matter, but still it follows a known format of rhyming the end words.

The  skill of wordsmithing he possessed is awe-inspiring, and although I forgot the poem itself, I never forgot the subject matter and the search for it online was easy. The words may have become distant, but the power of the words have remained with me till this day.

One day I will write a poem or a written piece that will have a lasting effect such as this one, yes the bar is set high; but nobody has said one cannot use a pair of ladders to get over it.

www.awanderthroughthemind.co.uk/reflections-2017