Gathering Storm

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Another poem that I'll be submitting for assessment this year. Not much to say about it, but I'm proud of the imagery and plethora of poetic devices I've used.
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The skies, they were ashen and sober,
A promise of the night to come;
When forever comes crashing.

Prius: the rain starts softly,
But the birds are already long gone from the trees.
It gathers force and ferocity,
Shredding newly-wrought leaf from twig,
And creating a shimmering, singing horizon
Against the gathering dusk.

Secundus: a rolling hum barrels through the clouds,
Breaking forth as the rumble from a wolf’s throat.
Wide-eyed cats scramble for cover
From noise which has no presence;
The herald of the imminent maelstrom
Calls to the heavens.

Trientis: and so it comes, as promised.
Incandescent serpentine after incandescent serpentine,
Infusing the night air with electrical fire.
Bolt of blue shatters bark and branch,
Leaving singed and sorry ash upon the ground;
A violent end by violent means.

Son of the Song

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This is one of the poems I will be submitting for my poetry assessment this year. It started off as an exercise in free-writing whilst listening to Slow Riot for New Zerø Kanada by Godspeed You! Black Emperor (I think this is actually my favourite record of all time. Buyitbuyitbuyit!), which turned into a half-decent poem. I think it is about music's power to save you, particularly from dark places in your life; depression and the like. This may just be the highly pretentious explanation I'll use in the obligatory critical commentary, however...
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The bleak hum of time blocks my ears
To the intense ticking of life.
I don’t know it, I can’t feel it,
But it is there.

I hang, head down, not even awake.
Is it bright beyond, or a beauteous barren black?
A fist around my wrist hangs me,
Gently rocking me to my sense.
I grab hold of a sound,
Distant yet corporeal,
With both hands.
Life flows into my muscles,
Giving me the strength to pull myself up.
I hear my heart thud rhythmically like a bass drum.
Something whispers incoherently.

I stand and lean into the wind,
And the world rolls free from my shoulders.
My head lifts, my neck straightens.
Life flickers in, no longer blocked out.

The Thought-Train

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Another exercise written in a seminar. This is based on "The Thought-Fox" by Ted Hughes. I actually wrote an essay on this last semester, so when it was brought up in class I was quite pleased. Basically, we had to use something - anything - as a metaphor for a thought or idea, in much the same way that Hughes uses the Fox.
This was my attempt.
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Under the glare of strip-light
Surrounded by the waking dead
Waiting for the wind to carry us along
The rails and sleepers, to whatever end.

A steadily gathering breeze lifts and empty wrapper,
And then it is there, all screeching
And hissing, letting us in, this train.
Its thunder hurtles me on

I could not hold myself if I wanted to;
My limbs flare with action,
My fingers flash,
And the page appears.

Survival

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This one seems a bit angsty I know, but it's not as despairing as it sounds...
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The happiness seems to seep from my eyes,
Leaving a pool of dreams at my feet,
The swirling echoes of hopes look oily and disheveled on the concrete,
Before running sadly away into the gutter

It's a terrible feeling when your world comes crashing down,
Funny, in reality it makes no sound,
Like the eye of a hurricane,
Or the ferocious excellence at the moment of death

Colour becomes so brilliant, so vibrant,
The little details become your abstract focus,
Thought becomes absolutely irrelevant,
All you can do is feel it, completely, utterly

Salvation seems so distant,
Nothing is eternal, yet how could such power ever be destroyed?
Yet at such a time, the smallest of glimmers, the weakest of flames
Could ignite into a hellbent fire of hope

All that remains to be seen
Is not can you, but will you survive...

The Train of Nowhere

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I wrote this quickly for a poetry seminar. It uses lots of big words, which is why I like it ^^
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Stood at the platform of a station, in the middle of nowhere,
I look down at the tracks, and they are frozen.
The faint musk of fetid frondesence hangs in the air,
Like the funeral shroud over a cold casket.
The night air is still and crisp,
And not a sound can be heard.

Without warning, a sharp blast pierces the ennui,
And a fierceness of anti-shadow shakes my vision.
The brutish presence of an express forces itself into the station
With an incontrovertible strength, like that of a storm.
The night air is still crisp,
But is now filled with hope.

With the hiss of a cobra, the doors glide open,
And I cannot resist the charm of the carriage beyond.
The promised warmth of the cubicle envelops me,
Like the soothing troth of an open fire.
The air is now soft,
And lulls me into security.

As if driven by a jet engine, the train sets off at a great pace,
And I can’t help but feel swept up, and a little shaken.
The smooth ride feels as though it is too relaxed,
Like the beguiling eye of a hurricane.
The air is still soft,
But laced with fragility.

Every stop along the way brings new and exciting destinations,
But they pass by so fast I scarcely have time to enjoy them.
The bumps in the track, too, jar me,
Like a gentle jolt in my heart.
The air is growing cold once more,
Despite the perceived heat of my setting.

And once again without warning, the train lurches to a stop.
There are no more stations,
No more destinations,
I am back at that icy, solitary station of my journey’s inception.

A Million Dead

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Okay, so this one is a little dark, I'll admit. I leave the exact interpretation entirely up to you, however. Feel free to post your thoughts, I'm always interested.
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A million dead. The end perhaps? But no, one more. There's always one more.
The dusk shall come six weeks hence, and then it shall be night forever more. As the wave dashes against the rocks, so shall it be taken from you. Paint everywhere, but it won't wash out, not ever.
Tears will flow like a river. You won't be able to breathe. You'll fall to your knees, for all the good it'll do you. It's not on the floor, silly.

I'm sorry. I don't know why I said that.

In the end you'll go the same way, you won't handle it at all well. Only it won't be someone else's fault. A warm cloak...a shaking hand...you head towards the light.

Something back

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I first came across the following passage spoken over a track called "Something for the Mrs." by Old Man Gloom (in full: The Old Man Gloom Alien Simian Defense League), from the album "Christmas". It's bleak, I know, but it really struck me. I feel it could be somewhat prophetic, which scares me a little. With a little research I found out that it is in fact an excerpt from "Poem for Mary (Second Poem)" by Ernest Hemingway.

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"In the next war we shall bury the dead in cellophane
The host shall come packaged in every k-ration
The host shall come packaged in every k-ration
Every man shall be provided with a small but perfect Archbishop Spellman,
that shall be self inflatable (courteousy of air reduction, opened-closed-previous-opened-closed).

You don't need to repeat this, there is not any ceremony anymore.
Everyone is gone, and you say this out loud to yourself.
You were alone at the time, and the time now is always.
Always was a word you used in promises.
It is valueless.

All officers, warrant officers and enlisted men will be provided with a copy of their own true love,
that they will never see again, and all these copies will be returnable through the proper channels."

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Anyway, about a year and a half ago I decided to write a kind of response to it called "Something back". Enjoy...
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"Thirteen years ago, your body was wrapped in cellophane and dumped in a river

The telegram said you were buried with honour.

You were alone at the time. Having abandoned your post, you fled. The acute irony of it is, that if you had only stayed, you'd most likely still be alive - they never came that way.

But your collar reported you missing. Already dead, or deserter, it didn't matter to them.
If you were, perhaps you'd take some of the enemy with you. If not, you were a coward,
and deserved to die.

You were a coward. You deserved to die.

They scooped up what was left you, and tossed it into the icy waters of the Seine. Your spare uniform and pips were sent to us, along with a crisp new flag of the patriot.
"Something for the Mrs." they used to call it. Mum cried for days. Weeks, even. She knew she'd never see you again anyway; they told her this; but she didn't deserve it.

You did."