Friday, 28 May 2010

Sonnet VII

Back by what I'm sure was demand, or at least my imagination of one. I bring my seventh sonnet.
In case any reader is wondering (if there is any reader, for my vanity) there will be other forms of poetry soon, but we all need to practice to become perfect. Soon there will be some verity.


Viper

Bite, into the skin like the snake you are
Not caring for race, religion other
Things are not important you’d just rather
Take a piece of me without any care
For what you drain, blood, life in open air
Like the monster tyrant, deadly wielder
Open your jaw over my slight finger,
And take all that is mine never to share.

Knave, you are no snake not even deadly
But a pain in my side no less, deeper
Marks were given by your double remedy,
Far more scary than thee, in my finger.
Perhaps you are not the snake after all
You are only my own umbrella

Sonnet VI

Part two of my dunday trip in to creativity, an enjoyable tale to its close with this sonnet number 6. This one more to shakespeare's style. I hope you enjoy:

Refilling the pepper pot

This is a task of enormous measure
The general on the hill looks over
All the men he needs to send down under
In search of his valuable treasure-
Freedom, trapped in a bottle. The closure
He feels, sitting at his table never
Jumping the fence with his comrades, weather
Holding strong, constant downpour disclosure

Of the ranks, as the stock runs low. Fill up
The bottles again, the generals cry
We need more quickly. Fill them to the top
No time to whim, or feel guilt, fill them high.
There cries the martial, all done we can stop-
Just these bodies? We’ll soon use them all up.

Sonnet V

Somtimes inspiration can be found at the bottom of a bottle...of pepper nonetheless. This is one of two sonnets I felt made my weekend magical, let me know what you think.


Pepper

A small little thing that tickles the nose
Feels nothing compared to this thunder.
Clap. It is not that feather, nor the hinder
But the deadly snap of the falsehood rose
Prettying the plates, and garnishing those
Tight lipped salads who give nothing colder
Than a dry hello or the time. Pepper
Is not like the ice he waits, moves closer

And strikes that poor waiter right in the nose
Such a start that hot little man can make
In said nose. When does he stop? No one knows
But the waiter, who handles him can fake
No sign, but inside screaming, only prose
Helps the waiter survive pepper the snake.

Number Wonder

Hmm, three the magic number. In china considered lucky, coupled with the colour red (my favourite colour) I’d be set for life.

So what is your lucky number?

What number have you felt a strongest pull towards? We all have one; I just never expected mine to be odd, as I love things to balance.

So why have I had this mammoth of revelations concerning numbers? This pondering of mine hit me as once again I strayed into yet another sleepless night, thinking of my day and life’s great mysteries.

The number, my number is 3. Throughout my life it’s played an essential role and I didn’t notice it, not once. Here is why:

Primary school, in my final year I had three friends, not the closest of chums, but for me it was a start,

It would be three years before I would meet them again by chance, this time we would be reduced to a trio as one left the fold.

In the final phase of secondary education I would be torn between three friendship groups.

During the first three years I would overcome three tyrant bullies.

And of course, Sims 3 is my favourite of the trilogy

Msn, not what one would think of as causing such a deep reflection, but it reflected me perfectly, three favourite friends for so long, a secure feeling it gave me, a tripod of company. Once reduced there is a scrabble to replace the fallen comrade.

The average human is self sufficient, as long as three limbs fully functional, and intact.
A person can live three days without water, and three minutes without air.

My number seems to reflect me very well, I respond to a need, and always have at least one. I do not wish nor want for anything, a strange thing in a teenager.

They say a number reflects us all, what is yours?

Dear Diary

Ha, dear diary, it’s not something I personally keep, but today I felt, was worthy of note.

Last night

Possibly one of my worst attacks of insomnia in months occurred. I don’t think it’s entirely normal to have the head chef of your work place whispering in your ear as you try to sleep, even when he makes great food. Getting six hours sleep, you can imagine when I finally awoke, baggy eyed and sour faced, people were not as fortunate as the reader is, to escape my wrath.

Today

Fuelled with an awful nights non sleep, coupled with some maths revision and a plateful of guilt for causing misery to my best friend I looked forward with a heavy heart to a four hour gruelling shift. Yes I’m a teenager; we complain a lot, bear with me.

The life of a lowly waiter

Expected guests : 76
Expected stress :10/10

Hungry guests :12
My day :11/10


From the chef teaching to me how to do fancy prep with vegtables, to Drinking coffee while eating chips and my favourate kind of chicken (southern fried if anyone need know) I agree withthe statistics.
The statistics say it all really. The hardest part of my shift was refilling the salt and pepper pots which to be fair, should not be attempted by the faint hearted, or those who can’t handle their pepper.

But this mind bogglingly painful task of pepper sniffing gave me a revelation. So many possibilities opened up to me as my nasal passages felt more than just chilly peppered air flood them. It was inspiration, of no ordinary kind. It was the kind inspired by experience; to me, the best kind.

The future?

Will I write another dear diary? Who knows? Ask more interesting questions like will it snow in the arctic tomorrow, will the polar bears eat well tonight.
All I know for certain is, there are poems to be written and articles in the future, all you have to do is wait for me to draw enough breath to write them.

Article One


  • The fall of Icarus, not always thought of as serene. If you have a keen eye, the same applies to all art. For centuries there has been discord over the two simple, yet fundamental arguments; ‘what defines art?’ and ‘what makes good art?’ We all have different opinions; it’s only natural on a topic so varied.

    I remember a great writer once telling me this via email; ‘art is only good if it produces an emotional response,’ – Jeff Clark-Meads. Wonderful words of wisdom, ones I took to heart as I began my own career.

    It turns out, that creating the perfect piece of art it is not so simple like the perfect gourmet meal; a splash of aesthetic sauce, a dash of intelligence behind your words, and a generous peppering of the perfect craftsmanship. The final ingredient I’ve discovered to my own misfortune many-a-time. It takes a very long time to perfect naturally.

    Each of these three elements are mandatory to the perfect art, like a healthy diet, if you keep it balanced you create the perfect life, at least where your health is concerned, so why not do the same for your art?


    Backtrack
    But again, here I am talking about the perfect art; I’ve jumped the gun again! What justifies itself as art? I could give you a million things that are art or otherwise, that would be a waste of my time and yours.

    When conferencing with two very skilled scholars today I discovered ‘art’’ had more connotations than I ever dared dream; and might I add that’s pretty deep! The first gave me wonderful advice that only the truest piece of good advice I would never have thought of, one that will reflect in my future work if I’m lucky.

    She told me ‘ Joseph, there are three things that make ‘perfect art’ and art is not art without them’ and she went on to explain the three key ingredients to me, I was so blown away I even had to ask to be explained without the big words, a first I might add.

    The second, seasoned by the experience and more knowledge than I could ever contain explained that though these principles are important, art comes in more than just a written form, it is reflected by other forms of art. This I admit confused me for several hours. But finally I deduced that all forms of art, visual, audio even literary rely on one another purely fro existence, the purest symbiotic thing in existence.

    A Brief History On second thought, do they exist so harmoniously? Over the centuries particularly during the renascence we see the written word almost eclipsed my visual art, i.e. paintings, drawings, and so forth. If those few veterans of the written word had given in, I’d not be here to express my view now, to them, though long dead, I pledge my thanks.
    Shakespeare, where would we be toady without dear Will? The answer; crawling upon the face of the earth barely managing hello, our world leaders only half as smooth in their greased up talks, maybe not all good things come from great men then…
    But still it was he who brought back the written word to its height of glory, so powerful were his words, that they are still used and taught today.

    Art forms have been in a struggle for power since they were first created, in my opinion as cave drawings. Since then they have been crying out to survive scared to be sniffed out, like each of us without our lives.


    Art to Me

    Whole heartedly I agree with my lecturers, the three components, Aestheticism, intelligence and craftsmanship are the basic life breath and heartbeat to art.
    To apply it to what I know best; poetry:
    Blind emotion will never prove It’s fullest effect
    • Any art form must be carefully seasoned, i.e. it needs a balance of emotion, intelligence and to be streamlined, much like a car.
    • All art, no matter what, is created for a purpose, anyone who says different is full of ----

    Though now we talk of applying intelligence, should we turn it in to a maze?

    No of course not!

    When this though springs up on me, as it has done several times today, I picture a rose, and how I can not for the life of me draw one. It is far too intricate, but it is nonetheless beautiful, which is an unquestionable fact by anyone.
    Painting takes layers of paint, not only one and it is complete for the gallery, writing a novel or a poem can take up to 100 redrafts and rewrites, as some people, including myself could tell you.
    In the famous words of T.S Elliot – ‘there will be time for a hundred visions and revisions,’ true words, both intelligent and beautiful.

    Other Poets That Have Awed Me
    Seamus Heaney, of course his recollections of the years and his vivid ideas on many topics show intelligence boldly and elegant craftsmanship.

    Sylvia Plath, My favourite poet, and has been for some time now, her works such as ‘Words’, ‘Lady Lazarus’ and ‘Cut’ never pass me by without a moment of wonder.

    Emily Dickinson, She was a highly interesting influence to my work, combining all three elements in to a ballad meter, gave her elegance, the intelligence flowed as naturally as her emotion sparking words, which I soaked up with the bread of my soul.

    And finally, one I was reacquainted with today, W.H Auden, after many years this bad boy steps in, with The Fall of Icarus, and formed the solid basis of my first article; the poem, though not the only one, based on a picture.
    A Quick summary
    Finally let me wrap this up, you’ve been a great reader for surviving my long rant, and at the very least I hope you have gained something from all this.

    I’ve been writing for over a decade now, and already from writing this I feel a new enrichment that I hope will reflect in my future work, Art is what you make of it, but it is only art if it is perfect. Art is good, if you can incorporate everything, as if it’s a meal you never wish to forget.

    So, there it is: art on a plate!

    I hope to see you all very soon.

Last Of The Month

It has certainly been an action packed month here, what about for you?

This blog is really a thank you to whoever has taken the time to read even one of my blogs and a promise that i'll produce as long as I have somthing to say.

In the comming weeks I will be reading 'Writting Poems' by Peter Samson, it looks interesting, highly recommended.

Untill then what to leave you with, hmmmmm.

List of poems to research:

Sylvia Plath
Mad Girl's Love Song
Tulips
Cut
The Applicant

Emily Dickinson
various poems between 200 - 500

Philip Larkin'

recommend me some!

Seamus Heaney
Personal Heliocon
Mid Term Break
The Early Purges

Christina Rosseti
various poems

Enjoy your list, Next month I promsie there will be new and more wonderful things, in the periphery feel free to leave commetns and request somthing, I'm always happy to provide.

Monthly Forum


This by good recommendation will be posted every month for everyone to have their own say on poetry. It would be rude of me to jabber on about myself, despite being about to talk the hind legs off a donkey.

Here you are free to post your thoughts on poetry in general, the name and author of a poem you particularly enjoy or even request things from me! It’s all up to you.

So, what are you waiting for? Get posting.

Honest Scrap



Ok wow. Simply starting a new blog and being warmly welcomed wasn’t enough for you all; you had to give me an award. In short, I’m honoured and gladly accept, Thank you Amle and Astrid Paramita I’m always going to be in awe of you both and will follow your lead for a long époque to come I hope.

So as my first award, there was a lot of confusion in accepting this, I’ve never excelled in computers, I just fix the buggers. I also hear I need to make ten he-hem ‘confessions’ though they are described as ten random facts, butter it up however you please.

Let’s see what I can come up with…….

I will occasionally listen to Baby got back – Mack Daddy (household favourite) despite not having a huge preference to the size of behind in question.

I find spelling difficult; I always have for some unknown reason.

I’m still fascinated by ‘real writers,’ whose ranks I one day hope to join.

I write better when talking to people, which I discovered when working on my novel.

I’m writing a novel, hard to believe, but for now it’s on hold for poetry.

Whenever a good or dark idea comes over me involved with writing I twitch (It’s not always stress) and with a good idea the twitch usually disappears once the idea is either complete or forgotten.

When typing, I either have the issue of typing some works backwards or not being able to hit double letters.

I can’t punctuate properly!

I become attached to people too much, though I seem to have made only 2 lifelong friends who I hope to never lose, by that I mean NEVER. But I’m sure more are developing as I write this, so don’t feel discounted, I know who you are!

I’m addicted to emoticons, msn is a bad habit but it’s the only place in the world have friends.

I’m so limited for people to recommend, otherwise there would be a million other people. But still the two mentioned above have proven their salt as veteran writers, one day, I too will join them; I hope…

First Poem Sonnet IV

By Request, for having such loyal friends and hopefully a fan or two, I have produced my fourth sonnet for you all to see. I found it particularly difficult to write especially once I hit the volta, but it was worth it in my opinion.
For Edith, who simply hid her ability to draw, which in my opinion comes second to none.


Sleeping Talents

Can I be blamed for the magic’s passing?
And the dying of my light? If all my
Talent washes away, will I still fly?
The stroke of my pencil erased, wearing
At me with hungry eyes, my hopes tearing.
It bled away in the dead of night, say
My dreams and her accomplice, the day.
The moon tells different, she is saying

It’s not stolen, you just packed it safe dear,
Your dreams have fooled you, the day has lied.
You’ve lost nothing this night not the power
To smile, or bring it to others, the creed
Of we artists of the night to rear
Our heads and smile upon all we made.

I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it.

Hello Everyone!

So, this is my first blog here. It's not what you would call my 'first leap' in to blogging, and certainly not my last. Here I hope to promote some poetry, share a few thoughts with you all and who knows what else? So let's start with a little about me, see where we progress:

An Aside about Me

Not exactly interesting to most of you, I know, but we all have to take our 'first steps' somewhere, I choose mine here.
I've always been a firm lover of poetry, impressing my teachers at the age of 8 writing what resembled a child’s version of a sonnet seemed to spark off my love or the art form.

What makes good art? I'll come to that another day...

It's taken over ten years to progress to where I am today; amature with big dreams. For the interval of those ten long years I tried to make it as a novel writer, I will go back to that one day, once I've learned the trade of poetry.

Taking this forwards from the age of eight; now thirteen, poetry played its second hint of its lust for my hand; the school Eisteddfod (for those of you non welsh readers it's a huge competition over a multitude of events to find out who is really 'the best of the best'.) After my loss in the year six Eisteddfod, I had decided I was not up to the illustrious role of the poet; however, I played the game once more. Just to clarify this competition was between around 800 students from ages 11 -16 in theory, I stood no chance. But tell that to my bards chair sitting downstairs, one of the happiest moments of my life, certainly the proudest.

You see, I don't endorse competitions, or traditions, but being true to my heritage, no matter where I roam I will always feel hiraeth - longing for that one part of my heritage, where if I ever gain the confidence to enter, the Eisteddfod.

Sentiments aside, we swiftly move on; hopefully you're still awake!

One year ago, my thirst, or the thirst of Athena decided it needed quenching. I began to write again.

I admit with my hands in the air, with very little prior knowledge of poetry it was a struggle, especially as I had no idea where to turn or how to improve. Nevertheless, if you're worthy, the opportunity finds you. It came in the form of My English teacher, whom I'll not name; I fondly nickname her to myself, the angel of death, for her wonderful, if not slightly overenthusiastic lessons on Sylvia Plath. Still this title which I bestow upon her (in my mind only) is not malicious, to me it is affectionate, and it reflects her outwards appearance with the dark nature she caresses. Over all, she is a wonderful teacher and an inspiration, and is officially one of the best teachers I've been privileged with.

Let’s finish with my official teacher of poetry, once again female, and maybe one day I will disclose her Identity to you all, though never her contact details (sorry, too much professional respect). This saint of teachers in my opinion has earned the right to whatever she asks of me or any other poet to produce, knowing poetry inside out and backwards and donating her knowledge and influence in to my work. I will always be incepted to her.

For now I will leave this as brief, there will be more in future I hope, if people choose to continue reading. And remember, I'm here for you all.

Thanks!