Month: November 2014

My Poem ‘Gunpowder’

Mark Hastings Poetry , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

There is a full-moon shining;
there are a million stars above my head twinkling;
there is the unmistakable smell of distant fires;
there is another indistinguishable aroma,
taste, sensation, in the air,
that invigorates me-
races the blood in my veins,
enlarges my heart, expands my lungs-
and that is what everyone, everywhere,
on this night, here,
which was to be Guy Fawkes’ modus operandi
a long time ago, on a similar night,
on the fifth of November:
the powder that helps propel a bullet,
that which is contained and which explodes
within a firework-
the one and only, gunpowder.

The black sky is coloured with every colour;
flashes and bangs, light and sound,
enthrall, surprise, awe-inspire, constantly
with little-to-no pause, in rapid-frequency.
Adults look up, children grin with excitement-
everyone wants to be outside, even in the cold,
so that they can feel the rush of being awestruck,
and so that they can remember, experience,
and know what is important.

A brilliant expression of celebration;
a phenomenal invention that has changed the world,
more than anything anyone may be able to mention;
a visceral spectacle that you can see and hear
that does not come much louder-
the explosive mixture at the other end of a fuse
that sends rockets into the sky,
and hearts and imaginations souring into the great unknown;
a magical dust that should always be handled with care;
that is in the air at this time of the year,
before, and beyond, the time of the midnight hour-
the defining chemistry, and DNA of a firework:
gunpowder.

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Remember remember the 5th of November

My Poem ‘Modern Muse’

Mark Hastings Poetry , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

The modern muse of music,
poetry, art, life-
the light that guides
and shines so bright,
the love that stays with us
that we obsess over,
the fragrance that tantalizes us
that comes from everything, everywhere,
that can be seen atop the beautiful mountains of Snowdonia
and felt on the wind at the White Cliffs of Dover.

The modern muse that we capture instantly every day
with the cameras of our mobile phones,
the real relationships that we have and cherish
that could never be cloned;
the things that matter to us the most,
because they make us feel on top of the world;
the house of cards that we constantly want to rebuild;
the changing tone that accentuates the seasons,
the way to exorcise your inner-demons;
a way to live in beautiful harmony;
a maze of discovery;
an angel that looks differently
than would be expected;
a song that explains everything your mind and heart
have longed to have been depicted.

A final word, a final sentence;
the voice of a songbird;
a perennial flower and symbol of our precious existence;
a sky that is all blue that reminds me of you;
a path of clues; a spark of beauty;
a here, now, forever,
modern muse.

My Poem ‘The Psychology of Silence’

Mark Hastings Poetry , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Silence speaks louder than sound;
silence is where true discovery is made;
silence is where truth is found;
silence is full of infinite space;
silence is where you can hear a heart beating,
or a heart breaking;
silence is a no mans land where no one can hide;
silence is waiting; silence is a tide.

There is no sound in space;
there is no sound in a vacuum;
silence has no face;
silence can hurt you.

Words on a page rise silently;
words written in ink have depth deeper
than the paper they are written on;
words are not the only poetry;
words are a way of transition.

If you can convey an intention, a feeling,
an emotion, a meaning, without making a sound,
or without the aid of anything
other than that of you and yourself,
you truly understand and are on the same wavelength
as that of nature;
if you can say something with an action
rather than with an empty sentiment,
then not only can you be a powerful presence
on the present, but also, more importantly,
a talisman for the future.

The planets of our solar system
orbit around the sun unheard;
if you were listening from high above
you wouldn’t be able to hear anything,
but you would know that humanity was there
by the tiny lights that we all make
from our place on the surface of the Earth;
everything, everyone, has a silent story
that speaks for itself, and themselves;
epic people and fantastic worlds
can be spoken to and journeyed to
within the pages of every book on every bookshelf.

A therapist uses silence as an essential tool
to open a person’s mind;
a fisherman uses silence and patience
in unison with their bait to catch their fish;
an artist uses silence along with the paint on their canvas,
and if need be could make great art blind;
anyone can decipher anything with knowledge and common-sense;
everything is there to be something
to something, or someone, else-
that is what I found and interpreted
when I analyzed what struck me
about the psychology of silence.