I wrote things

I did it.

I wrote things. Things I had to write for my own sake, pulling my hair out wondering how I will juggle a full-time job and a dissertation. I’m relieved and I always feel pumped after writing, some sort of poetry adrenaline happens. The poems I’m putting on this post are completely raw and unedited poems, so bare with them slightly.

I just want to give a brief idea of the theme of my dissertation so that they sit in some context when you read them…

I always used to leave hand written notes on my parents’ pillows after arguments. Things I couldn’t say very well in the moment, being an emotional and ineloquent kid.

I am so painfully close to my parents that everything is more intense when things go wrong or our feelings don’t align, so it has always been my gateway into helping them understand where I am coming from.

Not only that, but it was my gateway into poetry itself. The thing that gave me a reason to write was patching things up with my parents, it’s a sweet story and so the collection is called ‘Pillow Sweets’.

So the collection is (hopefully) shaping up to be touching on those small consistently occurring moments where we shift our relationship with things; our parents and ourselves.

Enjoy!

Click the link to view the PDF of the poems:

Pillow Sweets (draft)

Doing things I enjoy

As per my most recent post, I am still stuck in a rut.

So I decided to switch my creative brain into a different gear by creating some fun little Photoshop concepts.

Here are a couple of them:

EXPLORE
EXPLORE
Kids in Mario
MARIO KIDS

It’s important not to focus too hard on one thing, and any creative person will tell you that they like to stretch each one of their creative muscles. Never skip leg day, no one wants huge arms and tiny legs. Never skip out on other creative processes for the sake of the one that perceivably “matters the most”.

In conclusion… This was fun. I should do this more often.

 

Writer[s Block]

Once you have asserted yourself as a writer, you have made yourself a cup to fill. And once you have settled on a dissertation topic, you have unlaced the boots three sizes too small and you desperately need to jam your fat feet into them.

 

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I am trying to write about things that I thought I could write about a month ago, but now I find myself distracted by sexier, flashier and more immediate things. I realised (too late) that I don’t particularly want to talk about my tortured mother/daughter relationship when I am just too busy having a good time.

This is a recurring theme in my experience of writing poetry to fill a quota – writing for the sake of a deadline and a grade. It is pretty stifling and manages to suffocate everything that you once cherished about your experience of writing. So what can I do to break myself out of this poetry pickle? Many great writers have some interesting examples of exercises, ranging from performing odd rituals (such as eating and shitting out a crystal repeatedly, thanks for that one Conrad) to simply waking up and immediately writing two A4 size pages of whatever pops into your head.

I say ‘simply’ and sound as if I somehow managed to do that “simple task” this morning, but, ALAS, no … I did not. I grumbled and rolled out of bed into a 9-5 temporary desk job (a means of surviving while I hunt for some type of actually meaningful job). I have no energy left to even exercise my writing ability, let alone turn it into something worthy of a Masters dissertation.

Though I know I will get it done, it is frustrating to feel held back from something you usually love to do. I don’t ever want my creativity to become a chore, it is probably just about finding the right ritual for you to break out of that writers-block-funk. Hopefully, for me, that is a ritual that does not involve consistently consuming and excreting a crystal.

Here’s a poem I wrote when I actually could write poems, kind of about writers block, more related to the aforementioned ‘too busy having fun’ syndrome:

trying to edit old love poems when i have a new lover

Found Poem (from the notes in my phone)

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Thought I’d do something different for today’s post.

I started noticing that I write down a lot of really weird stuff in the notes section of my phone.  Some of it is useless and others seem kind of accidentally poetic so I thought I would just write them all out and see what it looks like. Doing writing exercises like this can prove to be pretty useful for the creative process, even if its just one line or one word that flicks the switch in your mind that allows you to unlock a new poem.

I think a lot of us live in our phones, and the notes of many peoples phones would probably be inherently revealing. If nothing else it’s an interesting bit of self analytics and a good way to remind you of all the shopping lists you have made in the last year.

Anyway, without further adieu, a glimpse into the world of my phone notes:

silver confetti of scales

alice’s humming

fill the boots with sand and lead

eyelashes

EAT ME WHILE I’M HOT

two shadows on wall of me

my teeth are ringing

dans le noir

probably a lying bitch though

you’re even more psycho than me

i tried writing 300 pages

viper in emblem of milan

lettuce

i put a safety net down that hole two weeks ago

their bodies are worth more money

milk

i want to ask you a question

bread

T.S. Eliot 66.8

the george

mum said if you were romantic you would buy her champagne

tell us

Francesca

onions

thick bread

i guess in her morning rush

This is going to be a poem, I’m sorry

Bed sheets

Why are you breathing so heavily

Poem about love

Oxford street

30th of may

show her the well

Fucking hell has it already come?

 

The “Heelies” Fad

Everyone remembers them, right? Clunky trainers with a hidden superpower. I wrote this piece a couple of years ago, and after seeing a young girl gliding around on these magnificent inventions just yesterday, I realised they could be making a Britney Spears comeback. (In case you weren’t aware thats a metaphor for an extremely under the radar and over before we even noticed it kind of comeback.)

Click the PDF for the short story:

HEELIES

Thought I’d include something other than poetry. Although there is something about trainers with wheels that is inherently poetic, is there not?

I know that nearly everyone in and around my age group will know the feeling of unboxing those heelies. Not just that, but the initial power of choosing which colour combo to get and bragging about it to your friends at the park as you wait 3-5 working days for your new-found-coolness to rock up at your door.

Come to think of it, heelies might have been the death of roller-skates. Everyone realised at that point that roller-skates were far too blaringly obvious as a locomotive footwear. The sleek hidden wheels of the heelies trainers far surpassed the lilac, groovy chick clad, 8 strap, death trap roller-skates that were forever kept in the attic of my garage never to be seen again. Even after the heelies trend died down, (or didn’t according to the young girl I saw proudly sliding about in 2018) roller-skates never fully recovered from the social snubbing.

But at 22 I have long exceeded the acceptable age range to be using these kinds of things, light up trainers, scooters, heelies, hula hoops that rattle, and even paddling pools. So I shall have to just live out my whimsical fantasies in my nostalgic early naughties memory of those hot pink heelies.

To my Niece

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This is a bitesize poem for all those who are watching or have watched little girls growing up, and realise the great enormity of pressure to ensure that they don’t confuse being a woman with needing to explain themselves.

Click the PDF to view the poem:

bad words

There are so many things my nieces say that amaze me. scare me. amuse me. shock me.

Little girls are so important. They are future leaders, whether that be CEOs of companies or heads of their households. It doesn’t matter which one of many future selves they may become, they should be given the correct perspective tools to move around this world without the need to explain themselves in recognisable terms to others or even to themselves. Every one should be allowed access to their human right to understand who they are in this hectic landscape of modern society.

I hope that my nieces know how amazing their minds are. My nephews are cool too I guess but talking about boys just isn’t as commonly associated with feminism. Though it is equally as important. One of my nephews loves drama, and I hope he knows that he should follow that wherever it takes him without hesitation. Even if, like me, he drops it to one day become a poet, though both quests present us with nearly zero solid career prospects. My other nephew loves plumbing and goes on about pipes all the time, that’s cool too. You do you kids.

 

self: a prose poem investigation

 

This ones for those of us who haven’t quite figured it all out yet.

Click the link below to be transported into the throws of my inner monologue.

Self

Realised my poems have specific formatting and look awful when put into blog posts so I will probably resort to PDF links forever.

I read this one out at a poetry reading very recently, it’s pretty breathless and people laughed when I didn’t expect them to, I guess that’s the kink in transforming a poem from a written text to an oral one. I also realised when reading this (and having people laugh at it) that I am a really self deprecating poet at times. It’s an interesting dynamic, I think to write poetry about yourself (which you usually are even if you dress it up in some other costume) is a pretty self absorbed act. Maybe in some ways I was self consciously aware of the conceitedness at play and attempting to undercut it with quips saturated in self loathing on my inability to function as a fully fledged adult.