Tuesday, October 5, 2010

So, I have no idea about this. I wrote this last night, first thing I've written in a long time. So I don't know if I like it yet at all... But I'm thinking if I do, that it could be part of a longer story about a person, just sort of her story, her life, her reflections. And this could be. Perhaps not the very beginning. But a section. Early on. I have something else I half wrote, that connects to this. Anyway, thoughts? Do I need more practice before I can churn out something decent again? Or is it passable? And what about the continuation of it? :)

Writing comes alive in the dead of the night. The words snake from the brain to the page without hesitation, impossible either to appreciate or ridicule til the following day, all firmed up in the sunshine. That's the thing about daylight, it makes everything so real, and what exists only in concepts and vapours, it bakes into solidity, brings into being. That has its use, of course. Those nights I start to fade away, I'm desperate for the day, to cement me once more into reality. Before it's too late, you understand.

What I'm saying though is that true writing cannot find its form while everything is solid. Furniture. It leaves no place for thoughts to go bumping themselves into words and sentences, then paragraphs and whatever else follows on.

No. True writing takes place in the night.

Not night, not the witching hour or the time for ghosts and spirits and goblins, not that. The night where if at least, not everyone is asleep, they may as well be. Asleep like a fairy tale, like Sleeping Beauty and her castle, longer perhaps. It is not a dead feeling. But the feeling of the world in hibernation... You alone left to watch.

The humans are asleep.

In every place where people usually trample over the silence, strangling it in our synthetic chaos, suddenly the emptiness is bursting through. The night cannot be stopped by asphalt roads and buildings and solitary streetlights, for it comes flooding in on the cool air. It penetrates cities and the walls of their buildings, through to this creaking house, where a lone electric light spills over the room, yellow as melted butter.

But while civilization's monuments still stand, while it futilely declares its presence in gaudy ornaments of light and glowing alarm clocks, it cannot now suppress the earth. The night presses down, and this world is left empty. Alone.

Liberating, the growing stillness sounds with a gong, vibrating through your head - your lungs, as it melts the thoughts frozen by the day.

And slowly, inexorably, the night draws them out, in words. Like a magician pulls scarves from a sleeve. Like children to pied piper. Like rats from a doomed ship.

Oh yes. The night is the time for writing.


Tuesday, June 8, 2010

Without You

This started out as just a silly comment to my sister on Facebook. I did really like it though, but didn't really have anywhere to go with it... So, here's my attempt at turning it into poetry...

Our home fades colder
Every day without you...

Lovelorn and lacklustre,
The spiders spin shadows in the dark of this dying house.
Emptiness piles higher,
Higher, in the corners -


the air,
chokes the last breath
the last
of life.

Vestiges fading, trailing, torn,
tattered curtains silent to the floor -
Listless mourners, these sentinels.
Watching in sorrow.
Decaying with it all.

Are we trapped in it yet, in these frozen depths?
Corpses of the sea -


Come back and save us. For the stillness grows.


Thursday, January 14, 2010

If you're looking for some amazing writing

Well, head on over to sunshine on a rainy day. Miss Rachie is one of the loveliest, not too mention most talented people I have ever had the joy to know, and her writing is absolutely stunning. So is her artwork, but that's another story. It is her personality that shines the most, however, and I am very blessed to have her as a friend. Please take a look. :)


Tuesday, June 2, 2009

unfinished #5480396

That number may be inaccurate, don't quote me on that. Anyhow, this is supposed to be a woman who had an abortion. Not for the reason of unplanned teenage pregnancy, but rather because there is a high chance it would have a disability.
Or other option, as suggested by a friend; because she has AIDS. and yeeah... What do you think?

Mothers have a very special task. Tales of the lengths they will go to in order to protect their children are heartwarming, inspiring, and almost legendary. Veritable proof of human goodness in a world that is all too often cruel and uncaring. A mother's love is revered.

And it is that which makes what I have done the most ultimate of betrayals, the worst of crimes and most decadent violations of this sacred duty.

Shame is not an adequate emotion. I sacrificed the life of my child for my own... what? Peace of mind? That could not be further from the truth.

Because I thought I was not up to the task, that I was not capable of the love and degree of caring necessary?

I feel sick sick sick. The death of my baby demands justice. Take me to court, try me, condemn the perpetrator of this unspeakable crime. What human could be so heartless?

Is it because I thought I lacked stamina, resilience? Because I managed to deceive myself, to somehow be convinced that it was the best course of action? For both of us? That no life for my child was better than a life filled with struggles?

Millions, millions of people face the same thing, and even more debilitating problems, every day and emerge successful and happy, victorious over this disease.

Why couldn't my child have done the same?


Reflection by Death

Yes, it's from the perspective of Death. Nothing like extreme personification. Again, unfinished. A friend's suggestion, which I love, is to reflect on the first person "I" sent to hell, and the first that went to heaven, and the extremes, etc. What is mentioned here isn't necessarily a reflection of my views; that of heaven and hell merely being holding bays for our souls that can fill up, etc. And I believe our souls are of incredible value, not mere waste left over after life is done with them. But that is neither here nor there in this instance. What think ye?

I am reluctant, you know. I am as much bound by this nature as you are by me. I am feared, despised by most. Eternally alone. Your fleeting presence is of no interference with this inescapable darkness, with me for one instant, already grey, the glow and warmth of life banished, left to another. The inheritance for yet one more of your kind.

They call it the cycle of life, the old giving way for the new with death and birth in turn, but while life indeed is recycled, what of those passed into death? Carted to their respective destinations, growing ever fuller. A faulty production line with no output for discarded material, which continues to accumulate. What then, when these final sites are at maximum capacity? Where then shall your souls find to stay, crowded and confused?

I wonder, sometimes. You see, I have of lot of it – time. I am governed by it also, but in a different way to you. Time is the customer bringing you to me, and I am the cashier, the register, all in one. Checking you out. You no longer belong to the store of the living. I am the go-between, the mediator, to what is beyond.

And what importance are you to me? None. I should be as disinterested in you as the cleaner resigned to his menial position, relegated to mopping floors that will only be stained again shortly, and his work begins again. But you intrigue me. My brief contact with you in this void place has sparked my curiosity. With no access to life except as its exeunt, I can’t resist the desire to know more about this whole experience.

Here, then, is my confession.

I am the gateway to heaven and hell. Funny, that some would question their very existence, for without those docking bays, why, I would your holding place once you have passed from life, something I am so vastly inadequately equipped for that it is laughable. Perhaps if you could catch a glimpse of what lies beyond, you would not be so afraid of me, for it is the uncertainty I bring that causes you so much fear, is it not? You humans are desperate to know, know, know, to control. You must understand before you can accept an idea, and yet at times you so easily accept what others tell you... A confounding species, indeed.

For, even if you could see that I am merely a passage into heaven and hell, that doesn't mean that you would believe. You believe what you wish to, ultimately, regardless of the facts that lie before you. Your minds are far more powerful that the majority of you will ever comprehend.

I am intrigued, then,


Monday, May 25, 2009

Passage of the Night Wind... as Poetry o.O

So, I'm testing a theory. A teacher told me this was almost like poetry. I split up sentences and paragraphs into lines and stanzas. Now, could you read this as (good) poetry? Since a lot of the time that seems to be a major difference between poetry and prose. Also, it would mean that I could enter a certain competition twice, once with another piece of prose, and then with this masquerading as poetry... Hahahah. Indulge me.

The wind wafts, gentle,
but firmly chilling,
An unwitting reminder to those hapless, earth-bound creatures
of her uncaring nature.
She may,
take a fondness to a thing, a being,
a place,
But she is as fickle as any of the gods of old.
She knows nothing of feelings. Emotions are
as pretty trinkets to her, and she carries them away with her
without the burden they bring humans.
Trite dealings of mankind - what are they to her?
She holds no interest in these matters,
weaving throughout and about these,
Monumental occasions, with a laugh,
Light as the tinkling of bells,
Felt more than heard. [more felt than heard?]

A thing of beauty, that sound, but
with a harsh edge, the cold
steel of a blade gleaming
as it is drawn from its sheath,
with bloodlust.
She is none the less beautiful for this hint at terror,
For, after all,
True beauty,
In all its unbridled intensity can only strike
Some nameless Fear into those, its beholders.
Lucky or luckless?
One is hard-pressed to say.

She glides swiftly at times, at others roaring
in brutal, reckless force
Across the oceans,
All untethered might, but despite this, there remains still
an undeniable femininity about her.
Those aggrieved, having fallen prey to a woman's wits, perhaps betrayed
and slighted, bitter lovers,
may sullenly tell that she consummates that female trait,
that cruel, calculated manipulation,
bending others to her will on
nothing more than a whim.
Yet such a notion being brought to her attention would receive
no more
than a passing disdain; human thoughts and ideals,

She has reached the distant stars, skimmed the
rippling ink waves, coiffed the ash
clouds; she has danced in the shadows and the darkest of nights.
Amongst the treacherous rocks, leaping
with the salt spray,
she has leant her voice to the sirens' song,
alluring, bewitching, deadly.

She has no need of humility, no need for pride.
She does not boast - jealousy is a concept
of no bearing or use for her. She simply knows
all that she is
and embraces it.
Nothing more is necessary.

She hurtles on, breathes through each new terrain in turn,
uncaringly, unceasingly.
For so has she, the night wind, done for all time,
and so she shall until its end.


Sunday, May 24, 2009

Not looking forward to this, really.

Today, once I have hopefully survived and waded through the deluge of homework I find myself facing, I aim to take on "Faded Paint and Butterfly Wings" once more, armed to the teeth with all your helpful advice and critique. Thank you very much and I hope to put a revision version up once that is done. Feel free to help out some more now, and then as well, even if just with Title ideas, etc. I can't do this without you!