This first poem was first written I think last year when I was writing 200mph; when I could write a good poem and throw it to one side and write another and go get drunk and depressed and laugh my head off. Was a funny time. So I've collected 14 poems so far and edited them. Potentially they are supposed to be the best I've written, but I'm not sure. Still need my friends to read them.
The second poem I wrote 2 days ago while listening to music and probably watching tele. I was just putting words together, didn't change anything because I didn't feel like it, but the main thing was the rhythm because it was meant to be a lyric or something.
My poems can be personal sometimes, and sometimes I don't like this. Confessional poetry sounds too self-centrered. I'd read stuff about war and politics and changing the world, and I've got a poems about how I'm feeling. "feelin' fine." But I recently read William Blake and Philip Larkin (since I have their books, that I kept from school haha). Also read some Bob Dylan lyrics. And I have a variety of themes, inc. 'Our Nuclear Future' and 'Modern Life' (don't know if I put them on this blog), and three Postmodern experimental poems called 'Hypertext Production' 'An Examination of Earth' and 'Cubism.' The latter I'm quite proud of.
Last Note: Please Sponsor me on my bike ride for charit across Death Valley, Nevada: http://www.justgiving.com/michaelholloway
A Glance
At a glance, I am plain,
All salted and personal, the starving soldier,
Up against the wall, the small faceless joke,
It is impossible to tell when she is coming;
The fridge is empty, an aging imposter.
Our weary desire for people
Wears us out;
Everyone’s qualified, the impossible children,
Constant drivel, the outcry of incidents.
My friends, left alone,
Red-faced, she faces again;
She works the world, curled into herself.
Lit from underneath
I headed up generation to generation,
Perhaps our grace graces us all.
The half-decided days wanes into itself like women.
And me, tea-bags for eyes,
The slow baptised dog.
Untitled poem (written in about 20 minutes)
I am sitting here dreaming I
Was in another place different to here,
I’m staring at this painting seeing
Turn brightly I am a
Knight in shining armour,
There aint much use in calling
Out names forgiven forgotten
Outside I am a broken
Washing machine,
There aint much use in writing
Things are useless to me now,
The echo of our righteous
Plays on the negative
I am the rightful joker,
The mother tells the time like a clock
And these deaths couldn’t have been kinder,
I am here I have been shot down,
Someone screams to their mother
And I am not yet invented,
Now the days are boxed in
And it’s dark and it’s old in this North end of town,
And I’ll play this in A-minor.
1 comment:
The journey is clearly depicted; the poem begins with a statement of separateness but as the poem flows past remembrances the speaker comes to the realisation that love still exists somewhere between us.
As the tenses change the simple two line stanzas reflect the movement of the relationship and hope for its future, whilst the broken and disjointed sentence structure further depict the laws governing the common host of erotic love.
Or did I miss the point? Heheh
Kid! On July 1, a few international artists (Me, another American writer, a Croatian poet/artist, and a Peruvian poet/writer - they are all mad!) will be touring Europe promoting our material and meeting other said artists. Our first stop is Britain - then on to mainland Europe. The Croatian will be filming EVERYTHING for a documentary entitled "Unheard Voices" - running snippets on YouTube. There is a new wave Renaissance of Artist trapped in the shadow of Corporate Literary Dictation. We want to expose these great artist to the world. Wanna come along for the ride?
Post a Comment