anybody write poems?

[enjoythedoingmore]

I'd be interesting in hearing from DL fans who write poems, just to see if there are any out there! I started writing seriously a few years ago (after being an avid reader of poetry for a number of years) and I now find the experience essential. I've even gone as far as producing my own paper copies of books and selling them locally, although I mostly feel like a leper doing so, particularly where I work! That's not entirely fair tbh, but I think because poetry has been stigmatised as dull and difficult (a particular problem in British schools), people tend to stay away or just consider you 'weird' - something I'm not totally unfamiliar with in my trying to bring Lynch into most conversations!

I was fortunate enough to win my first competition last year (with a poem about my dog) and got invited to read my work in Dylan Thomas's house in Swansea (not Laugharne, but his childhood home). A lovely place to visit by the way - you can feel something in the air there at night!

Looking to compare notes I guess. I've studied form quite a bit and work very hard at composition, so hoping to hear from the like-minded out there! If you keep blogs of poems I'd enjoy visiting them.

Mark

[Nightsea]

Mark (and anyone else who would care to read), here is one of mine, from a recent self-published poetry collection, A Garden of Storms. I'm looking to put a digital version of this collection online soon, either through Amazon or some other online book retailer. It's a collection centered around my grandmother's struggle with cancer. The book is half poems, with the other half comprised of daily portraits that I drew of her and the hospice doctors as she received treatment. - Don

*By the way, some poets I admire: Stan Rice (husband of Anne Rice) and David Selby (of Dark Shadows fame).


"No Heartbeat"

Delirious,
I freed the new toothbrush
from its packaging with some difficulty.
In the restroom mirror a sunken-eyed apparition
went through the motions.
It felt good to do a mundane thing.
A ritual that I’d allowed to slide.
For there were other things
more pressing.

As I stepped back into the hospital room
they crowded around her frantically.
“Is she breathing? Wake up!
Go get someone!”

The hospice nurse entered

and placed a stethoscope
to my grandmother’s chest.


“There is no heartbeat.”


Displaced.
My thoughts were homeless then.
And over the course of the next
few seconds. Minutes. Hours. Days. Weeks. Months. Years–
there was hardly ever a time when I didn’t feel
wraith-like.
Like I didn’t inhabit my own body.
As if I only half-existed
and nothing much mattered.

Outside of that cancer ward,
the pale, cold hands of her death-birth
spun my hair into long, unkempt strands
and watered my grey thoughts;

grew them out into a new grey beard.

During the funeral I could still hear
the banshee wail of her breakdown:

“No- Please! No!”

But even the nursing home descent
and funeral pageantry proved less malignant than
incurable doctors.
Absentminded radiation.
A mind-numbing misdiagnosis.
Bloodstained sheets
and
defeated
hope.

Near the end,
when she finally said,
“This isn’t worth it.
I want to go home,”

my sunny memories of mee-maw
were desperate– were in darkness.

Lost.

On the last morning. Her words. Insisted:
“I love you. I love all of you.”

But we knew
and I naively wanted everything,
memories and all,
to be un-lost again.
Why couldn’t we just take her home?
Despite morphine.
Despite shallow, unhinged breaths.
Despite
the world.

Then

it was over.
Except, not really.

Some of me had disappeared.

[enjoythedoingmore]

That's a highly accomplished poem about a very difficult subject. It's a rare skill to write about misery without slipping into self-pity.

I'm sure the book will be a success - who hasn't been affected by cancer.

[Nightsea]

I appreciate it Mark . I've thought about donating a percentage of the proceeds to Emory... a local hospital that does clinical research for many diseases and ailments, including cancer research. I'm not sure if that would be possible with Amazon, but I'll investigate and see what my options are. Yes, unfortunately, we all know loved ones that have been touched by this epidemic.

[hopesfall]

I appreciate it Mark . I've thought about donating a percentage of the proceeds to Emory... a local hospital that does clinical research for many diseases and ailments, including cancer research. I'm not sure if that would be possible with Amazon, but I'll investigate and see what my options are. Yes, unfortunately, we all know loved ones that have been touched by this epidemic.

That's a noble gesture. I, too, enjoyed your poem. Well, perhaps enjoyed isn't the right word, but I hope you know what I mean!

I haven't dabbled in poetry myself since my early twenties, but perhaps I will give it a go one day soon when/if I feel inspired to do so.

[Nightsea]

Thanks hopesfall– and yes, I understand what you mean *HUG. Have you thought about keeping a writing journal? That usually helps me... to always have a means nearby to jot an idea down. It's funny– I'm not sure if you're the same way, but the best ideas often come to me while driving or when I'm about to go to sleep. Sometimes it's not even an idea that's very tangible at first. Sometimes it's a "little fish that leads to a big fish" as David Lynch would say.

While I'm at it, here is another... this one is more lighthearted and was featured on the Word of Mouth poetry website http://www.athenswordofmouth.com):


"A Drop of Honey"

“Bye, honey.”

He said it
with a casual
Southern-sugar-daddy-gentlemanly drawl.
Surely I misheard,
or he misspoke.

Honey.
My mind drifted
and pilfered back through the years,
as if rummaging through a tin
of empty candy wrappers.

Nothing.

No “Baby-doll.”
No “Sweetie-pie.”
Just the one, platonic drop of honey,
newly planted on my cheek-ear
via random phone call;
the sonic equivalent of a reflexive kiss,
that which seldom passes
from one man to another,
even when blood
sticks the two together
amiably.

I... didn’t... know... how... to... feel,
other than embarrassed.
I had rolled around in it.
A meager drop.
Alas, my honey starved soil was human.

Either he misspoke,
or I misheard.
Or he really loved me.