The Dark Steel

Read this and thought it was worth remembering. I have spent a great deal of my waking thoughts doing this very thing for myself...

"To do for yourself the best that you have it in you to do- to grit your teeth and clench your fists in order to survive the world at its harshest and worst - is, by that very act, to be unable to let something be done for you and in you that is more wonderful still. The trouble with steeling yourself against the harshness of reality is that the same steel that secures your life against being destroyed secures your life also against being opened up and transformed."

-Frederick Buechner


How beautiful that there is one who would do the other thing for me!

Breath of a Soldier

I will never surrender.
If my blood is to be spilt,
If my heart is to be broken,
I will bleed to the end,
Before this fortress will be breached.

I will take up my sword
And buckle my shield
I will not yield,
I will not yield.

I will follow my King beyond Hades Gates,
Through the vale of death,
Though I stumble and fall,
I will rise and rise again,
I will rise and rise again,
I will rise and rise again,
If I bleed to the end,
I will rise and rise again,
And never surrender.

Disposable

Written by Chris Phillips and Gilbert Walker

DISPOSABLE


Please don't use, please don't use me more than once.
Because I, because you because we're all disposable Where are you?

Come with me to the sea,
and we'll swim in the ocean blue I'll wait for you...
Come with me to the sea,
Come with me to the sea...

I am lost in the dark, broken hands, broken heart,
Now I'm stuck in my mind, in a place I can't find
By myself on the shelf, throw me out I'm beyond repair... Are you there?

Please don't use, please don't use me more than once.
Because I because you because we're all disposable

Why do you hesitate? Come now you cannot wait
Why are you standing still stuck by the window sil?

I am cold, I am scared, all alone unprepared
Smoke in the atmosphere, waiting for it to clear
So I can see blue sky (again)

Wake up dead man, Wake up dead man
Wake up dead man, pick up yourself again
Wake up dead man, recycle yourself again

Suddenly you can see what it means to be
Suddenly you can see what it means to be
Free

Pick me up, if you can understand take my hand
Use me once, use me twice, use me three times disposable....

Come with me to the sea!

The creative curse

There is a kind of music pulsing in the heart of every human.
A creative energy quietly whispering to the mind of man.
If you listen very closely, as quiet as you can
You can coax it onto paper or weave it into a melody.

My God he calleth in the glen.
His voice is soft
He calls again
I want to obey
But I can barely hear a whisper
Though I know he loves me,
loves me still.

Surreal paths over a dark void
many roads, many journeys
a strange light that comforts
and leads me on, through the darkness.

Lord are you there?
Can you hear my aching heartbeat?
Can you feel these tears of waiting
I am waiting, I am waiting
My soul is longing for that other place
The place where I can be with you.

When I get there
The tears you wipe away
are tears of joy
of pain answered.

I can't hear you Lord
I can't see you

I know you're there.
Reach out to me
Touch me.

Where is the hand of God?
Where is the horn that was blowing?
The Sons of Gondor are spent
The kingdom lies in ruin.

My ears cannot hear you
My eyes cannot see you
where are you oh Lord?
Are you inside of me?

Where have you gone?
Why did you leave us?

We're just dancing in the dust
your shadow touched

How long now?
How long now?

These desires are burning,
burning out forever into space
searching, searching, searching for a place, for a home
the Father's house to call my own


Suicide knocks gently at the edges of my mind


would not the eternal question be answered?


Alas 'tis my lot to live


and struggle through the darkness


To the light I know


but have never seen in all its glory.


I know my feet are on the right path


But God that's all I know


or is it?



I'm following the way

but I'm a blind man

Looking this way and that

for signposts others see


Why can't I see?
Why can't I see?

open my eyes
open my eyes
open my eyes

The Newcastle Blues

Listless limbs
Lounge on the sofa
A still body of emptiness.
Tired breath
No energy
But I want to do something
Make something, break something.
What to do? What to do?
Too tired to play a game with people
But I want to have some fun
Fun, fun, fun
No, you need a rest.
Forget the rest
Motivation like a stagnant lake of petrol.
No fire, no igniting flame.
Everything's the same.
Same, same, same.
Relax. Sleep some more?
Read a book?
Too much effort.
I know - I'll hire a movie.
But I've already seen all the good ones.
So I'll hire something I've never heard of.
But then it's bound to be crap.
Crap, crap, crap.
Maybe I'll eat something.
Microwave a pie, make some toast.
That was delicious.
Now what?
Listless limbs.
Lounge on the sofa.
A still body of emptiness.
Tired breath
No energy
But I want to do something.

The rabbit kept glancing down at the rolex watch on his left paw and then staring at the boy with an anxious twitching expression.

Kevin blinked. It must be my overactive imagination, he told himself, and frowned at the animal.
‘Get lost.’ He said. “I’ve got an assignment due today and I don’t need any hallucinations to distract me.” The rabbit sniffed and peered at the boy.
‘Is that you Alice?’ he squeaked in a feeble rabbity voice. Kevin smiled. He knew where this was going.
‘No, I’m Kevin,’ he said pointedly, ‘and I’m not in the mood for arguing with figments. Piss off.’
The rabbit coughed and did his best to smile.
‘Ah yes Kevin the new boy, now I remember.’ Here he paused, and spread his paws grandly, ‘I have come to invite you to wonderland! He declared and glanced down at his watch.
Kevin rolled his eyes.
‘Let me guess, you’re very late for an important date?'
'I am NOT! Returned the rabbit haughtily. I’m at least one hour early! It’s you who’s late! I’ve been waiting for you to wake up little man.’ Here he shook his long ears and seemed to remember himself,
' I have been sent to invite you…'
'I refuse!' Said Kevin, ‘Get lost!’

REVENGE

He woke up in the morning
With an anvil in his head
He woke up in the morning and
Set fire to his bed

He said, “I’m tired of being a Good Boy,
I want anarchy instead,
I want revenge.”

Because the world spins round,
And they try to pin it down.
If a man has rage
They’ll try to put him in a cage,
He said, I’m gonna find the one
Who put an end to all my fun
I’ll kill him with a razor,
I’ll kill him with a gun,
I’m sick of the system.
I’m sick of being stressed.
I choose chaos over calendars
I’m tired of being depressed.
I want revenge.

He walked out of his bedroom
On his hands instead of feet
He skipped his breakfast, slashed his tires
And took off down the street

He didn’t have a ticket
But he travelled on the train
He shot holes in folks umbrellas
With his pistol in the rain.

Because the world spins round,
And they try to pin it down.
If a man has rage
They’ll try to put him in a cage,
He said, I’m gonna find the one
Who put an end to all my fun
I’ll kill him with a razor,
I’ll kill him with a gun,
I’m sick of the system.
I’m sick of being stressed.
I choose chaos over calendars
I’m tired of being depressed.
I want revenge.


He wrote some rude graffiti
He climbed somebody’s wall
He threw some dirt, took off his shirt
And stole a shopping mall

When the cops came to arrest him
He didn’t make no fuss
He said It’s not like I’m a terrorist
Oos blowin’ up a bus,
‘just want revenge, officer

He said,
I’m tired of politicians
I’m tired of food nutritions
I’m tired of always being late
I’m tired of being overweight
I’m tired of Globalisation
I’m tired of Immunisation
I’m tired of studying women’s rights
I’m tired of seeing men in tights
I’m tired of Global warming,
I’m tired of politically correct
I’m tired of Lady Gaga
I’m tired of blah blah blah blah
I want revenge.

You know those days when it feels like the world is a metal machine and you are stuck in the grind of an eternal conveyor belt endlessly spinning and turning out of control?

Well it was not one of those days.

It was a golden day.

Golden days are a stirred mix of ingredients that create a zesty aroma of spice and excitement.
On a Golden day you get a lot of work done in a small amount of time, and then you get that wierd happy sensation of not knowing what to do because you're ahead of schedule.
This sensation gives way to pixie glee, outburst snatches of songs and a vertical lengthening of the lip corners.

At this point, a friend is likely to call and ask you to do him a favour if you have any time to spare... (You might, you might not, but what is really important is the next bit)

After the friend favour comes the call to peculiarity. The call to peculiarity may be a sudden urge to climb a tree and play guitar, it may be a random phone call inviting you to a tea party, it could be anything, anything at all... but it's going to be peculiar because you wouldn't have done it if you had work.
The call to peculiarity is usually an invitation to laugh, to do something absurd, to talk to a random on the bus.
The call is an essential ingredient in the Golden day.

The Nightmare... (Pete V.)

"In my dream I have died and I'm walking down a tunnel towards the light. I see a man walking the other way...and realise I know him. He grabs me by the throat and he says, 'Mate...You knew all about this, you knew I was the kind of bloke who would never come to your parties and your 'mission nights'...You kew what I was like...then why the fuck didn't you do something that was so beautiful and so desperate that I would know that someone up there had thought of me? Why didn't you do it? Why didn't you do it?'"

Eye of the Poet

I am staring at a blank wall. The waters of my inspiration ebb and run dry. My creative womb is barren. What to write? I ask myself. No epic saga springs to mind. The usual material, first love and death and daring deeds are not forthcoming. What is the task of the poet? I ask myself. To dwell forever on the pinnacles of life? Great battles, beauty, sex?
I ask myself if words are wasted on small things. Teacups? Onions? What makes a moment significant? What indeed is significance?

A faint whispering comes to me, the voices of other poets. My faithful anthology of poetry lies on the table. I pick up the book, and flick past long ballads and elegies, and come to rest alongside a simple poetic moment, Remembered Morning, by Janet Lewis.

Here at last, I find what I am looking for. A small thing brought to life. The poem is filled with the sounds of a normal rural morning, and the imagery is successfully simple, reflecting the simplicity of a new day beginning. There is nothing particularly ‘significant’ about this morning, indeed; it could typify any number of mornings. Yet Lewis brings this simple ‘memory’ to life with sharp onomatopoeia; “the axe ring[ing] in the wood” , the ripple of water, the crackle of fire, and a door slamming behind a girl on her way to school. I feel almost as though I were there, listening to the “…murmur and hum’ of the ‘children come[ing], Laughing and wet from the river;” Even “The little noise of the clock” is brought to my attention as a celebration of the commonplace, and the regular rhythm of the poem and basic rhyme scheme (abcabc then ababcc x2) serve to punctuate the everyday morning sounds, creating an idealistic and familiar atmosphere, appropriate to the poem.
The description is warm and positive, and it is clear Lewis finds value in this remembered morning where “…all goes on as it should.”
I find solace in this celebration of simplicity, and ask myself again, what is the task of the poet?

I choose another poem; A Game of Chess, by Gwen Harwood. Here too, a small thing is celebrated, as an inspiration of philosophical thought. Harwood likens the board game to “…the heart’s impossible ideal-” to experience “the calm of gods…”; to choose “…among a host of paths,” with no ill consequence.
In contrast to Lewis’ simple concrete imagery, A Game of Chess exhibits rich, abstract metaphors; stars against shadows, chromatic keys of a piano, and “dark brilliance on the river…” evoking shades of black and white in my mind; a subtle allusion to the chequered board.
The structure of the poem is unusual and complex. The poem faithfully follows the Petrarchan Sonnet structure of an eight line octave and six line sestet, but only partially adheres to the Petrarchan rhyme scheme (The octave is abbacddc instead of ababcdcd). In addition, the punctuation suggests an entirely different rhythm, evoking a sense of the unpredictable ebb and flow of the game itself. The imagery is simple and powerful, not overly detailed but evocative, like chess pieces themselves. Furthermore, the diction is complex, reflecting the expectation of education and a good vocabulary amongst chess players.

The seemingly insignificant board game is metaphorically transformed into a philosophical concept of divine reign and choice; “…if the kingdom crumbles one can yield /and have the choice again.” I find myself wondering what would happen if humans could play God, if I could choose anything.

This is not the board game I was expecting. Harwood puts it in a new light, makes it significant. I ask myself if this, then, is the poet’s task; to locate the ordinary in the light of the extraordinary, to elevate the mundane, to let others blink with his eyelids and gaze out from his paradigm.

A quote from an article I read the day before materialises in my mind;
“All existence, Tolkien insisted...was intrinsically mythical; the stars were the fires of gods if you chose to see them that way, just as the world was the stories you made up from it.”[1]

If this is true, I can create beauty out of any drudgery, craft significance from insignificance. In this moment I find The Broad Bean Sermon, by Les Murray, a pastoral poem relishing and revelling in the simple act of bean picking. A sermon! On picking beans! I find myself asking, what is there to say about beans? They are green and thin. Surely that is all? But no. It is not all.

The poem sprawls sporadically, with no particular structure or rhyme, reflecting the chaotic growth of the bean plants themselves which “are a slack church parade…” and “…keel over all ways…”. Murray’s diction is heavily descriptive and rambling; brimming with vivid adjectives, verbs, similes and metaphors; “[Beans] Upright with water like men…ripe, knobbly ones, fleshy-sided, thin-straight, thin-crescent, frown-shaped, bird-shouldered, boat-keeled ones, beans knuckled and single-bulged, minute green dolphins at suck…” This extensive descriptive listing reflects the mass quantity of beans in the poem, and effectively draws me into the moment, where I too discover “more than [I] missed:” and come back again and again with “shirtfulls more”.

Murray transforms a routine task into an interesting, almost frenzied gathering of bean after bean. The plants themselves are personified and compared to people, animals, smiles and even “edible meanings”. The bean picking world is described in detail; the plants themselves, the small animals, the sunlight and clouds. I feel as if I am there, “at every hour of daylight...find[ing] plenty…”.

I flick back Lewis’ beautiful morning, to the simple embrace of the ordinary. The girl comes out into the sunshine and is metaphorically swept into the running day. I revisit the room of music, warmth and wine, where divine thoughts emerge from squares of black and white. And now I am back in the bean field, “grinning with happiness—it is [my] health—[I] vow to pick them all, even the last few, weeks off yet, misshapen as toes.”

I am no longer staring at a blank wall. The waters of my inspiration bubble and begin to flow. My creative womb gives birth to a ballad about bread and butter, for I no longer believe that words are wasted on small things. Significance is in everything, hiding in the commonplace, waiting to be found, like beans, waiting to be seen and picked and celebrated. The ordinary, becoming extraordinary.