NaPoWriMo - April 24th

April is National Poetry Writing Month. In celebration of poets everywhere, and to encourage those who are just embarking on their literary journey, I will be posting poetry (not mine) each day for the month of April. Please take a look and enjoy this special art.

Collin Tobin

Bio:

Collin is a native of the Boston, MA area, who graduated with a B.A in English, and an M.A. in Teaching at Lander University in South Carolina. While there, he earned the 1997 Southern Literary Festival's first prize in poetry. He is back in New England and enjoying life with his beautiful wife Gina and his two girls, Abby and Rachel. He intensely enjoys writing poetry, but also fiction, and is fearlessly working on his second unpublished novel.

Ash

I stood by your elbow at the front door
While you chatted with our neighbor
Your idle conversation swirled above my head
And an early summer breeze
Lazily tangled with your cigarette smoke
Pulled it through the door's screen
Diced it into little squares
Reassembled it on the other side
Again, and again, and again
A rehearsal of magic

The back and forth
Soothing swell of motherly gossip
Lulled me
As I leaned against you
And you leaned your still young, slim arm
Against the door
The warmth of the sun
And your warm hip
Kept me there for long minutes
As your cigarette ash elongated, stooped
In this shared torpor
As if nodding off
Then broke

The ash fell on my own arm
I forgot to scream I think
As I dumbly stared in horror
At the ash's still glowing red center
As if witnessing the delivery
Of a newborn devil

You jumped back
And extinguished it in a slap

Years later
You asked that I pour
The boxed up three pounds
Of your own cool ash
Into your favorite lake
I don't even have that now

Which is why I wish
That cigarette cinder had been brighter, hotter
Burned deeper
To leave behind the shiny cup of a scar
That I could touch, console
While lost in thought

 

NaPoWriMo - April 19th

April is National Poetry Writing Month. In celebration of poets everywhere, and to encourage those who are just embarking on their literary journey, I will be posting poetry (not mine) each day for the month of April. Please take a look and enjoy this special art.

Robert Heath 

E-mail: contact@carpe-somnium.com
Website: http://www.carpe-somnium.com
Twitter: @RobHeath1969
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100003492794082

What can I say; this bit is harder to write than the poems themselves!!

Forty something project manager in the engineering sector by day and in the very early hours, before work, a dream of being a writer. Avid reader. Keen Allotment grower. Proud family man. Happy. Living with my long term partner. Two great kids.

I am a recovered heroin addict who lost a good portion of his twenties to drugs. Having redeemed myself somewhat I am now in the position of being happy enough to try again for the only personnel dream I have ever had, that of being a writer.

As a man I am massively influenced by my late father, who taught me how to read and therefore how to learn, and my partner and our children, who taught me how to be free.

As a fiction writer and a poet I am influenced by the greats as I see them – Kafka, Dickens, Bret Easton Ellis, Hubert Selby, Cormack McCarthy, William Faulkner, William Burroughs, Phillip Larkin, W H Auden, Adrian Mitchell, Brian Patten, Roger McGough and myriad more – people who could paint the inside of your mind with words. I like to think in some small way, I am following in their footsteps, or at least trying to.

I have to date won an online short story competition and had several pieces of poetry published in various magazines. As well as posting my debut novel on Authonomy which is Harper Collins online slush-pile.

For me poetry represents freedom to explore and explain – Poetry is distilled prose, the frozen second immortalised in a handful of words whose power lies in their form and construction as well as their given meaning.

Poetry is the very heart of the writer – the mirror to the inner self.

EVERYTHING’S BLUE IN THIS WORLD

I’d say Christmas and birthdays are the worst.
It’s like a hollow pull in your guts.

Eight years ago....................
And I don’t seem to have even moved.

Bernard helps.
Though he locks most of it away.
Sometimes a sherry or two will set his eyes bright
And he’ll reach for his hankie and mutter something about dust.

In the mornings I awake and wonder why I can’t just sleep
In dreams I see her as she was
In the day......
....well, you can’t hide from it can you

It’s in everything
The lack of her laughter
The silence at mealtimes
The slush in your groin when the news talks of another
The stupid way people are with you.

I know she’s dead
Some think, because her room is just the same
That I’ve gone a little mad.

They talk of moving on
And how time heals.

But I have nowhere to go,
Just here and the clocks tick
Just the guardian of a memory.

don’t eat as much cake anymore
used to make my own but
The taste’s gone.
And as for the garden,
It’s lucky if it sees attention once a month.

We just sit around I suppose.
We like to watch telly
And, on Sundays we put on faces and play bowls.
I hate the quiet
I hate the (w) hole in me
I hate this endless drift.

I think I’ll go look at her picture
That helps.
Sometimes.
For awhile............

HOW HE DANCED

How he danced when youth was the currency of long summer days,

And she with him. Red fire dizzy in the meadows,

And now this uncalled for haze.

A shutting up.

A pawning of trinkets.

A closing of days.

But solace, half caught like glimpses of dragonflies looping by,

to achievements never tarnished by time.

Quicksilver laughter chasing her white ankles through slurping streams.

Ambitions of becoming immortal,

yet how short the summer seems.

Too vague at times,

The holiday by the river,

The time she tripped and he caught her arm.

her breath misting in the winter air.

Too vague to grasp. Just sit and stare.

Back to a time of simple things, joined by common desire.

Just left to him embers of that fire.

And no more breath.

A simple slip.

A culmination that lasts an eternity.

Oh, how he danced.

BE ADVENTUROUS WITH THE CRISPS

Be adventurous with the crisps dear,

The salted can’t be ready this time,

No, it’s not that I am different and

Yes dear - everything is just fine.

I rather fancy denying the clocks tock today – that is all,

Beating back the reapers hand –

Like the day we spent in Haringey

Shopping on Green Lanes – now that was grand.

We were ageless then, zeal crazed too,

imbued with a desperate fire,

Yet it leaks away so darn quick,

Dear, make sure you take your walking stick.

And no cheese and onion dear,

that I am afraid will never qualify,

It’s as banal as the others are dear,

Oh hurry lest I cry – a little admissions tear

I’m so coffin crushingly alone - aren’t I dear.

No one actually to fetch the crisps,

Adventurous or otherwise.

The Dreamy-Man-Voice

I had a hard time tracking Sawyer down to get a character interview. When I did, he was reluctant to talk about his part in the book. I can’t imagine why...

I did, however, manage to convince him to fill in one of those silly Facebook / internet quizzes that get passed around.

THE QUIZ: 

Can you fill this out without lying? You've been tagged, so now you need to answer all the questions HONESTLY. 

Here we go... 

1.What was the last thing you put in your mouth? 
Tea and a morning glory muffin – it was a bit dry, to tell the truth.  

2.Where was your profile picture taken? 
On stage at the Rustbucket during one of our gigs. I’m the one playing the drums.  

3. Can you play Guitar Hero? 
Sure. I’m a drummer. Guitar Hero is a piece of cake. But seriously, why would I waste my time on a video game when I can play the real thing.  

4. Name someone who made you laugh today. 
Now, that’s a tough one. I don’t think I’ve laughed yet today. Let me think about it. No. I definitely have not laughed yet today.  

5. How late did you stay up last night and why? 
I’m a night person, so I would guess I went to bed around midnight.  It’s not something I usually keep track of. 

6. If you could move somewhere else, would you? 
Nope. Toronto will also be my home.  

7. Ever been kissed under fireworks? 
Of course I have. You don’t get to be thirty without kissing someone under fireworks – or at the very least feeling like there’s fireworks when you’re kissing.  

8. Which of your Facebook friends lives closest to you? 
Willow – of course. We live in the same building.  

9. Do you believe ex's can be friends? 
Of course they can be – well, unless you did something really awful, then maybe not. Or – maybe not for a very long time. I guess it all depends on your ex. 

10. How do you feel about Dr Pepper? 
Really? What a strange question. I don’t think I feel anything about Dr. Pepper. I could take it or leave it.  

11. When was the last time you cried really hard? 
Huh?  You’ll have to read the book to get that answer.  

12. Who took your profile picture? 
Back to the picture? I think Olive might have taken the picture – it’s hard to say, it was a while ago.  

13. Who was the last person you took a picture of? 
I don’t even own a camera.  

14. Was yesterday better than today? 
No. Every new day is better than the last.  

15. Can you live a day without TV? 
Probably not. I’m addicted to all things electronic.  

16. Are you upset about anything? 
Well – if I told you, I’d have to kill. Ok – so that was very cliché. Again, you’ll have to read the book to the very end to see what my current emotional state is.  

17. Are you a bad influence? 
Uh – probably.  

18. Night out or night in? 
Out – definitely a night out, always.  

19. What items could you not go without during the day? 
I couldn’t be without my cell-phone and laptop (I do work in IT). 

20. Who was the last person you visited in the hospital? 
I don’t think I’ve ever actually visited anyone in the hospital. At least, not that I can remember.  

21. What does the last text message in your inbox say? 
Kind of a personal question, don’t you think? Well, since I’m being honest, my last text says something like: R U 2 busy 2 meet up? 

22. How do you feel about your life right now? 
My life is a bit of a mess just now, but I’m picking up the pieces and getting everything sorted out.  

23. Do you hate any one? 
I can’t think of anyone off-hand, so I guess that would be a “no”. 

24. If we were to look in your facebook inbox, what would we find? 
You wouldn’t find much, mostly I use my phone for texts and e-mail. Facebook is fun, but it can be a dangerous place to play. 

25. Say you were given a drug test right now, would you pass? 
Yes. 

26. Has anyone ever called you perfect before? 
Willow might have thought I was perfect at one point, but aside from my mother, no one has ever called me perfect.  

27. What song is stuck in your head? 
I’m a musician – there’s always a new tune floating through my head. But I have to say, I’m partial to Mumford & Sons’ Little Lion Man, is currently running through my head.  

30. Someone knocks on your window at 2:00 a.m., who do you want it to be? 
Uh . . . read the book?  

31. Do you want to have grandkids before you’re 50? 
Since I’m not married and don’t have any kids that I know of, I doubt that’s even an option. If it is, it would mean my non-existent teenager would be a parent – so – no, I do not want to be a grandparent before I’m 50. 

32. Name something you have to do tomorrow. 
Go to work and then practice with the band.  

33. Do you think too much or too little? 
Sometimes I’m pretty sure I don’t think as much as I should. If I did think things through, then I would have an easier time staying out of trouble.  

34. Do you smile a lot? 
Sure – when there’s something to smile about.

  

Writing in the rain

I love the rain: the sound, the smell, the damp seeping into everything. I especially love the rain during the day, when the clouds move in to play hide and seek with the sun, and the temperature suddenly drops ten degrees. Something about it clears my writer’s mind, opens my creative vision and accesses all those words that are stored deep down inside.

Perhaps, it’s recessed memories that activate my imagination and force it into overdrive. When I was a child, storms meant no television, no electricity and not much to do except stay inside and stay dry. So we would read, or in my case, I would write. Mostly I wrote nonsense: silly poems, short stories, bits of this and that. Quite often I find these scribbles coming back to me and they end up hidden, like a small gem, amidst the ramblings of my adult writing.

Sometimes I wonder if other artists find their creativity hidden weather patterns, or phases of the moon. I write every day, but words come to me easier and my muse is far more vocal when the skies are overcast. 

Thanks to all the writerly-types in the virtual world.

I used to think writing was a solitary activity. A picture of a lone person in a dimly lit room, surrounded by leather-bound books, wielding a fountain pen comes to mind when I think of an author. A cigarette might rest forgotten in an ashtray; an undefined drink rests half-full on the corner of the desk. Perhaps a dog might be curled up on an old rag-rug that covers the imperfections of the hardwood floor. I wonder how many other people hold this image of a writer in their heads.

I can’t write like that. The silence deadens my creativity and dim lights kill my eyes. I don’t smoke, and the drink on the corner of my desk can be recognized as Smirnoff Ice or even just a coffee. There is often a dog curled up at my feet – but she’s on bare linoleum and usually begging for the munchies I have close at hand. I can’t even remember the last time I held a fountain pen in my hand, or any other writing instrument, for that matter.

The more distractions I have, the more productive I seem to be. My music of choice can be anything from light acoustical guitar sounds to raunchy, hardcore punk ruckus. In addition to Word being open on my laptop, Facebook, Twitter, Authonomy, Blogspot and GoodReads can all be found waiting at my fingertips. They easily provide a minute or two of distraction between plot points, bits of dialogue or lengthy descriptive paragraphs. Is this writing ADD?

I don’t write on a schedule, if I try, nothing comes out. I just sit and stare blankly at the screen. However, when I know the house is a mess and my parents are due to visit within the hour, the story demands to be written and just can’t wait. When my children need dinner or help with their homework, my characters insist on being heard. When it’s the wee hours of the morning and my body should be sleeping, my brain decides to wake up and be productive.

The best part about being a writer in today’s world is the constant interaction with other writers. I think I would go crazy without it. They understand that your characters are giving you trouble and refuse to be written they way you intended; they fully grasp the importance of using a semi-colon over a comma or a full-stop. Most importantly, they are encouraging, supportive and always offering up words of wisdom from their own stockpile of writerly experience.

So – thanks to all of you who make writing the adventure it’s meant to be. It’s comforting to know that writing isn’t meant to be a solitary practice after all.