I sat down this morning to put some of my recent happenings into writing. For some strange reason, I thought that it was a good idea to write a poem.
Unfortunately, I’m not much of a poet. I don’t consider myself a particularly good prose write either, but I reckon I can write better paragraphs than stanzas (you can see some previous efforts here and here).
I started off with just a list of single words. It made an interesting list, but I couldn’t get very far with making lines out of each of the words. I was sitting in front of my computer at the time and I realised that I had many songs that matched up with each of the words on my list. So I did some searching and came up with a list of appropriate songs to match the story of my life this year. Now, some of the songs aren’t necessarily a great match but their titles are. Don’t read too much into any of them but I was hoping that it might read out (ie spoken) reasonably well.
I’ve linked to a last.fm page for each of the songs if you are interested in who they are by or what they might sound like, so feel free to click onwards if you feel the need.
So without any further introductory nonsense, here’s my first ever poetical playlist:
j j j
What does the man do when the whole world collapses?
There was a foundation, now gone
Sure and sturdy it was, unmovable and firm
Now nothing more than vapour
For years it had been built upon
Room by room, brick upon brick
With the slab covered by builder’s guarantee
He took care with every extension
But was it just imagined? Was it ever really there?
His own wishful thinking made flesh?
Or piece by piece, day by day was that flesh eaten away
Until the world was left on dirt
So now he is holding up the walls, fighting the shifting sands
That fight all that is left
“My house still stands”, he screams to any who would hear
“For how long?”, he keeps to himself
Those who could be holding up the walls, inside and out
Are now the demolition contractors
“It is far too late to stop”, they say
And they make plans for the fall
So all alone, he watches the walls come crashing down
The house once loved, now despised
Crocodile tears shed for the demise of that grand old place
And the remains of the one who would not leave
j j j
It was poor art, the drawing of a child
A figure of a man
Feet spread apart, his arms open wide
Tears rolling down his face
Not a stick man but still just flat
No hair to speak of
Thick neck and small empty eyes
A line for a mouth. Pointing down.
Would I be weeping if it were me?
Left flat in the notebook
No way of sharing my distress. All alone.
Forgotten by the one who put me there
And what of that artist, with juvenile skills?
His own work imperfect
Did he leave to be with the Masters?
Surrounding himself with perfection.
Does he know how much he is like his man?
Mute to the world
Like a child with no language to share
It was he who drew the tears.
j j j