Off Track

Posted on by estlh

Unfortunately, I am no stranger to the middle of the night. At a time when most people are slumbering, I often find sleep elusive. Some nights I will get up and make myself a drink. I sit in the lounge and read or re-watch TV shows in the hope that I will nod off, and eventually, I usually do. But other nights, I find myself hovering somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. Stuck in a state where I am too conscious to be sleeping, but not conscious enough to get up; I am capable of dreaming, but unable to tell what is real from what is fantastic. I keep a notebook beside my bed with my pen in a blank page, so on nights like these I can reach out and start writing without putting on any light. The next morning I will sometimes find on the page unintelligible scribbles, or crazy thoughts that make no sense in the light of day. But every once in a while my scrawl will have a poetic bend and I can make something fanciful from the words that came to me in the middle of the night.

I knew twas not the path to take, yet still I chose to tread
Along the way that beckoned me with flowers of pink and red
I knew twas not the way to go for I had listened well
But still I chose to pay no heed and took my time as well
I dilly dallied up the path and gazed around in awe
Astonished by the blooms I saw – I’d never seen before.
The beauty that surrounded me full took my breath away
I lost some hours in marvelling this exotic display
Another chance soon came my way to get back on the trail
I should have taken from the first, but sense did not prevail
So still I wandered dreamily among the heady scent
Of blossoms green and blossoms blue until the day was spent
The darkened sky swirled fast around and I was thence afraid
And knew I could no more deny the mistake I had made
I knew twas not the path to take, yet I had chose to tread
The path that once distracted me and cost me now my bed.

In the shadow of the volcano pt 2

Posted on by estlh

The people living in Pompeii in 79AD  had no idea they were living next to a Volcano. They didn’t even have a word for volcano, and the earthquakes that occurred before the eruption were not recognised as the warnings that they were. Yet today the people who live and work in this area do so in the full knowledge of what vesuvius is capable of. Towns and cities sprung backup in the area  due in part to the fact that minerals present in the volcanic soil make the area around vesuvius incredibly fertile. Also the hardened lava underneath is porous, meaning the area has it’s own built in natural irrigation system. Hence there has always been an abundance of food and agricultural jobs to provide for those living here. There are even varieties of grape and tomato that grow only in this area and have geographically protected status.

Vesuvius is still very much an active volcano. Over the last few centuries it has erupted in 1660, 1682, 1694, 1698, 1707, 1737, 1760, 1767, 1779, 1794, 1822, 1834, 1839, 1850, 1855, 1861, 1868, 1872, 1906, 1929, and lastly in 1944. With 80 years now having passed since the last eruption, volcanologists agree that  vesuvius is overdue one, and after an extended break this is likely to be quite large. Yet still plenty of people go about their every day lives with the shadow of the volcano looming over them. We only stayed in Pompeii for a week, but already by the end of the stay my initial awe of vesuvius was abating. It was still a spectacular presence in every viewpoint, but it was odd that I became accustomed to the proximity of such destructive potential.

So life just goes on
In the shadow of dire might
Fear long forgotten

In the shadow of the volcano pt 1

Posted on by estlh

On holiday in Pompeii, or indeed anywhere in the bay of Naples, it is hard to ignore the presence of Mount Vesuvius, looming large over the landscape. Although we are all familiar with the eruption of 79AD that destroyed the roman town, there have been many eruptions since. In the last 3 centuries, it has erupted 17 times, the last of these eruptions in 1944; and geologists and volcanologists agree that an eruption is overdue. This, combined with the number of people living in the ‘danger zone’ (approx 3 million), means that vesuvius is considered one of the most dangerous volcanoes in the world. Of course it is monitored 24-7 and there are detailed evacuation plans in place, but on our first night in Pompei, watching the sun set over an actual live volcano, it is hard to describe exactly what I felt. I was promoted to write a haiku.

Mighty Vesuvio
Such destructive power possessed.
Primed. Poised. And patient.

To be young

Posted on by estlh

A few days ago I was having a conversation with someone about attitudes towards young people. Particularly the judgement thrown at them purely for acting like they are young and inexperienced and know less of the world. We have all been there at some point  – we all learn as we travel through life. Admittedly, some of us learn better than others, and sometimes we learn the wrong lessons altogether. But being young is not inherently a bad thing, and is something an individual has absolutely no control over!

This conversation brought to mind a poem I wrote back when I was a youth and was feeling judged for being young. It took a lot of rummaging through old notebooks but I eventually found it. Written when I was just the tender age of 16, here it is

The dying hate us
For we are still being born.
As we laugh and joke
They shake their heads in disapproval;
We are living too much for them.
They love the life they are dying,
why should we live more than they can?

They try to take our life from us
They complain to everyone
And grumble remarks as we pass.
We can do no right.
If we try to live a little bit for them,
To rejuvenate their dying breath,
They do not want to know.
Our life threatens them,
And they are untrusting and suspicious.

Their birth was so long ago,
It is forgotten,
And they cannot understand those
Who live like they’ll die tomorrow.

Life

Posted on by estlh
Image from Vecteezy.com

I hold my life in my hand before me
My outstretched arm aloft in tremulous awe
As I gaze in wonder
At this emotionful entity that sits
In the unsteady palm of my hand.

A gift or a curse to hold such
A fine-spun quiddity?

I do not wish to crush it in my protective greed
I do not wish to put it down lest it roll away, or
To leave it somewhere safe lest I wander too far and lose its light
Yet keeping it safe is a responsibility that overwhelms me
A task I cannot be entrusted.

I would give it you for safe keeping
If you would take it.
If you would unburden me of this needful chain
And guard for me forever
The life I will never lead

The unfulfilled dreams of a coward.

At the end of the universe

Posted on by estlh

When people read poetry they interpret it in their own way. I know from comments made to me about my own poetry that if I write a poem about one thing, some people will read it as being about something else entirely. And that is fine. Like any art form, people view it through the lens of their own personal life experience and preferences; it means different things to each of us. That is one of the reasons that I often write a little intro to my poems on this blog – to explain a bit about what I was thinking or feeling when I wrote the poem. But sometimes I don’t want to share that much of myself, and sometimes I just want to throw a poem out there and see how it is interpreted without any hints from me. Today’s poem is not straight forward for me to explain so I’m just going to throw it out there. Comments are encouraged!

Weep with me for the forgotten boy who lies quiet at the end of the universe.

Exiled.

Expelled with such force that he can never find his way home.

And all for a misunderstanding that can never now be explained.

So instead he lies in quiet contemplation

of the injustice of existence.

Wishing he had at least done something worthy of eternal exclusion.

 

At the end of the universe all is clear.

He can look back at what could have been –

The sheer potential afforded to those who so oft neglect it

chasing after instancy instead.

Oh to be once again in the opportune abundance of those at the centre.

 

The tears deluged once, but that stream has now run dry

Futile waters washed away no part of his pain.

His resigned heart long torn in two.

Naive and trusting he yearned at the start for a vindication that never came

Reliant on the honesty of another with naught to gain from confession

and much to lose.

 

So alone he waits.

All angered out

self pity over

indulgent hope abandoned

Surrounded by stardust and cosmic redundancy

 

Weep with me for the forgotten boy who dies quiet at the end of the universe.

 

Coffee & Cake

Posted on by estlh

Writing poetry can be a funny business. Inspiration can come from all sorts of places, and often a few lines will come to me when I am in the middle of doing something entirely unconnected to writing. This is why I am never more than a few feet from a notebook, and if one cannot be reached then the voice recorder on my phone comes in useful. At night I make sure my notebook is on the bedside table open on a blank page so if inspiration strikes in the night I can jot it down without turning on the light, (and just hope I can interpret the scrawl in the morning!) When it comes to actually sitting down and writing one of my favourite places to do this is in a coffee shop. With a sweet treat and a hot drink I can sit and write to my hearts content. And when the words are not flowing I can people watch and let my imagination tell me the stories of those around me. At times I will write something from scratch, but often I will use one of my notebooks or voice notes as a starting point. But just because I originally wrote a few lines or phrases inspired by X or Y, that does not mean the poem I actually write has anything to do with X or Y. It is not at all uncommon for the poem I end up with to have very little to do with what I was inspired by in the first place, and for the poem I write to comes as a bit of a surprise. Often something innocuous and unextraordinary can lead to a deeply personal poem. Poetry can sometimes feel a bit like opening myself up and letting my bare soul fall on the page, which is why not everything I write gets shared!

Coffee and cake, paper and pen

Thoughts pouring out of my head once again

Into the light of the stark black and white

No longer hidden from my own sight.

Forced to acknowledge what I would ignore

I knew this would happen – it’s happened before

I try to write fiction, to make myself smile

But unpleasant truths escape all the while

Sat in my seat watching people unwind

While I pour out the disquiet of my mind

And yet though this poem was not my intent

The words express all that inside me is pent

Releasing the tension, unwinding the coil

Freeing the ire that within my head boils

And so by the time I at last drain my cup

Unburdened, I pack up my pen and stand up.

True Friend

Posted on by estlh

Everyone needs at least one true friend who can always speak the truth to them, good or bad. Who can tell them they’re making a mistake, either by doing something they shouldn’t or not doing something they really should. Of course it is entirely up to us whether we actually listen to our true friends! The “them” in this poem are definitely not friends!

They told me once to try again, I asked Them why I should
I liked what I had done this time, They said it was not good
I asked Them what was wrong with it I loved it done my way
But this was met with tutting and yet They wouldn’t say

So I refused to try again, proud of my first attempt
It came from a true, honest place - I questioned Their intent
But They would not accept my choice, They would not let it lie
They wailed and cried and pestered me to have another try.

Yet I feared if I gave in, that if I let Them win
A lifetime of enslavement and servitude would begin
For once they had the best of me would They then let it go?
Or tighten hence their grip on me? I really didn’t know

But something told me to beware, to not let Them dictate
Even the least of my designs I should myself create.
So I stood firm, dug in my heels, They turned away from me
No more acknowledging my work, pretending not to see.

And I, no more so self assured began to wonder now
Was the beauty in mine eye real or feigned somehow
As I began to doubt myself a true friend came along
And questioned why my tongue was stilled, he no more heard my song.

I am no good I told him, my confidence curtailed.
But he would speak the truth to me - my ego did avail
And so I paid Them no more heed, I ceased to play along
I showed the world what I had done, once more sang my own song

Now free once more to be myself, to plan and to create
I rose above Their tired attacks their nebulous dictates
And stronger now I found the wings I’d never known before
And from that true friends confidence up to the stars I soar

 

Show me again

Posted on by estlh

Show me again the tree beneath whose boughs we one time laid
While dappled sunshine warmed our skin and daring plans were made
Sit with me once again beneath the knarled and ancient limbs
And reminisce those sunny hours until the daylight dims

Show me again the river wide upon whose banks we lay
While summers breeze blew over us and we whiled the day away
Lie with me once again among the luscious burn side grass
And hand in mine gaze heavenward to watch the white clouds pass

Show me again the tenderness which caught for you my heart
The gentle touch and whispered words your true love did impart
Hold me once more in loving arms, my head against your chest
And marvel with me at how our life most truly has been blest.