Year: 2014

My Poem ‘Being a writer’

Mark Hastings Poetry , , , , , , , ,

Being a writer
is not something that you choose to be –
you are a writer
from the minute that you wake up in the morning;
you are a writer
when you are sitting down having a coffee;
you are a writer when you are working,
when you are drinking;
when everyone around you is a stranger,
and is living an amazing life,
but they have no idea.

I am a writer,
because to me writing, especially poetry,
is my paradise;
I am a writer
for the same reason a honeybee is a honeybee;
I am a writer,
because when I look at the world,
and I see all that I do,
I need to capture the infinite universe
that fills my eyes.

Being a writer
is like being a god of your own unique world;
being a writer
is something that anyone can be –
man, or woman; boy, or girl;
being a writer
is something that comes natural to some,
but for others they require practice;
being a writer
is having the gift to be able
to tell the world about yourself
in under a minute,
and to be able to leap to a whole other world,
and to not even have to use your feet.

Being a writer is a great adventure;
being a writer can set you apart;
being a writer –
using a pen and paper, a computer,
or a typewriter, is setting your spirit afire,
and sharing your passion and desire;
being a writer is something you always are,
because being a writer is in your heart.

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.

IMG_20141105_084428~2

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.

My Poem ‘Ghost on my bed’

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

When I was a child,
around the age of eight or nine,
I was sleeping in bed,
when I suddenly woke up in the dark-
I’m not sure what time it was,
but it was definitely after midnight-
and the lasting memory
that has stayed with me every day since
is that of me turning over in my bed
to look down at the light
coming from underneath my bedroom door,
and even though it was seemingly warm in my bed,
the air around me had gone incredibly cold-
as if I were sleeping in a bedroom
that was also a fridge;
and I also remember, from out of nowhere,
the feeling that I was being watched,
and that I was not alone.

I must have been lying there
for what must have been only a few seconds,
when I turned my head to look away from the light
towards the dark of my bedroom wall,
when I suddenly felt the mattress I was sleeping on
sink, as if someone was sitting on my bed besides me,
and I could feel their weight,
and their touch on the back of my neck.
It was definitely not the wind,
it was definitely not my imagination;
it was definitely someone, or something;
it was definitely a presence, a spirit,
a phantom, an apparition,
that felt real and was real-
it was a life that was still living in some form,
who had come to pay me a visit.

I did not make a sound;
I did not cry;
I did not look around;
I did feel frightened and unsettled, I am not going to lie;
I just lay there; I just listened;
I just closed my eyes and wondered whether
when I woke up in the morning
whomever was now sitting on my bed would still be there;
I just remember drifting away,
until I saw the light of my dreams glisten.

I woke up in the morning,
still with the memory of the night before
alive and burning in my mind.
I opened the curtains to let the new day’s sunlight in,
and I looked around, and I sighed.
To this day, I do not know what, or who,
came to me on that night a long time ago;
I do not know if they were once alive and they knew me,
or someone I know who is not yet dead;
I do not know who was there in the gloom of my room,
but I do know that one night when I was a boy
there was a ghost who sat on my bed.

My Poem ‘Huckleberry Friends’

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

You don’t often meet someone
and instantly jive with them;
you have to be very lucky
to find someone and make a friend for life;
you sometimes find a new direction
even when you are not looking for a new connection;
when it hits you that you have found the best of everyone,
you feel like you have been surrounded by new light.

It can be hard to know who to trust,
it can be a big ask to open your heart-
but when you feel that whatever you say
when you open your mouth will never be enough,
and, like time, can sometimes feel unfathomable and rushed;
when a special person walks into your life,
you immediately love them from the start.

I smile, I write, I laugh, I feel inspired,
I feel alive, with my best friend for life
I have shared the best and the most beautiful,
heart-racing, perfect moments of my life.
I will be there for the one who saves me every day,
and any and every hour of any day,
my best friend will enrich my heart and soul,
and send my mind- fueled by the thought
and the memory of them-
rocketing into the sky.

The best thing that has ever happened to me
is to have met the beautiful and wonderful best mate of mine
who calls me their “huckleberry friend”,
because without them, without you,
I would be lost and forgotten,
uninspired and unloved,
and they will, you will,
forever be the most important to me-
and as I am to you,
you will always be to me
my huckleberry friend.

My Poem ‘Stations’

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

Kisses and hugs;
smiles and tears;
handshakes and long-looks;
happiness and delight;
sadness and fears;
every emotion can be witnessed
and seen every day at a station:
at an airport- in departures, in arrivals;
at a bus station, at a coach station;
on the platform of a train station;
people- friends, family, lovers, partners,
confidants, strangers,
say goodbye, and say hello,
to each other, alongside each-other,
about to start a new journey,
or who have just arrived at their destination.

Everything that could happen
happens in a terminal;
anything that could be said
can be heard while waiting in line;
something unexpected always happens
and sparks can always be seen
when you have a mixture
of different kinds of people;
the more information available the better,
and the more distractions people have
the easier it is when they are waiting
and need something to do
to pass the time.

Luggage going out;
bags of belongings, souvenirs,
and perhaps duty-free, coming in;
tests of patience, hopes, and doubts;
tickets firmly in-hand
to somewhere they are looking forward
to returning to, and for others
once in a lifetime vouchers
to a place they have never been.

Adults, and children,
have different coping-skills
and varying methods of keeping themselves
entertained, while waiting to board a plane,
or when they are waiting for a train
depending on their disposition
for both adults and children alike,
it can be either an exciting, wonderful,
heart-pounding, and amazing, time,
waiting to get underway
that they can’t sit still, or rest,
and cannot wait to leave;
or there are those who worry that they have
remembered everything that they need,
and that there are no problems,
and they don’t need to find someone to blame.

Departing somewhere is a great feeling,
and it is very exciting;
however, for me ‘arrivals’ in an airport,
or the moment that you see a loved-one
standing and waiting for you
on the other side of a window,
is the best place to be,
and, personally, I feel happiness
for everybody when I see people reuniting
it’s one of the best moments to witness;
it’s one of those close encounters
that fills you with fascination and elation;
it’s one of those magical, cork-popping,
emotional, time-freezing, eternities,
that just overflows with fizz
you see it all, you witness the wonderful;
you feel so much when you come back
from a holiday away;
and when you take the first steps
of your vacation,
there is always something to be sensed
and felt at every time of the day
in each and every person
departing, or arriving,
at a station.

My Poem ‘I wish’

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

I wish I could put into words what I am thinking,
I wish my poetry could truly reflect what I am dreaming;
I wish I could express in greater depth what I am feeling;
I wish I had a voice for song,
because if I did I would not stop singing.

I wish I could live in a bookstore;
I wish I could replay my memories
on a blank wall in front of me,
like a movie projector;
I wish I could breath underwater
and explore the seafloor;
I wish I could go back in time
to my first day of school when I was four.

I wish I could relive the best of my life
over and over again;
I wish I could go anywhere,
and be with anyone, any time;
I wish I could change myself between who I am now,
and who I was then;
I wish I could explore the universe
and not be afraid for a second at what I might find.

I wish I could play an instrument;
I wish I could make the dreams of the most deserving come true;
I wish I could go camping, and sleep under the sky
of an infinite field of stars,
with a glowing fire next to me,
without the need for a bed or a tent;
I wish I could be reciting these wishes,
and living these hopes with you;
I wish we could all find great, new,
hopeful ways to coexist;
I want only the best for you who is reading this-
that is what I wish.

My Poem ‘Elements’

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

Out in the elements,
wrapped up in a big coat
to keep out the cold of the wind;
outside, walking, experiencing a wave of deja vu,
as if doing something that you once dreamed;
the leaves fall all around you;
birds fly from tree to tree;
people off on an adventure race past you
in cars and on bikes;
as you make the most of every moment of freedom
that are so precious,
but you don’t realize how much
until they fade away,
as the light of the day begins to dim.

You can only, truly, speak with clarity
when describing, sharing, and reliving,
an experience that either just happened,
or when recalling the details and the emotions
of a memory that have become the paradise of your life and mind;
you can make things up as you go along,
but there is nothing better than to draw
from that which you already know,
from which you could never be blind.

Earth did not just flash into being in an instant;
the world did not become what it is over night;
even nature was once young and innocent, like an infant;
the beauty of the universe was something that was there
at the moment of creation, but it could not be seen,
felt, perceived, reflected upon,
until the rise, the evolution,
and the question of origins was asked,
by the first of infinite forms of intelligent life.

The smell of a newborn baby;
the aroma of a beautiful flower coming into bloom;
watching someone float in space free of gravity;
seeing the light of the sun at dawn;
glimpsing the light of a full-moon
through the window of a room;
the heart-pounding rush of jumping off a cliff
and flying instead of falling;
thinking about every new horizon and possibility
as an adventure, as well as a calling.

A gift, a present;
a lift; a season of significance;
an important time; a beautiful moment;
a peace of you never to be left behind;
a confluence of life, fate, destiny, karma,
thought, emotion, and reality,
and its connected and miraculous elements.

My Poem ‘Mark The Poet’

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

Mark, the Poet-
make sure this time you don’t blow it.
You are starting again-
new page, same pen.
Everything before was just preparation-
you went along for the ride,
because you were in need of love and connection.
You already had everything you needed,
you were just trying to be all things to all people-
but guess what? You found out you weren’t perfect.
It’s not a problem to be knocked down,
as long as you get back up;
it’s human to cry when something and someone
hits you by surprise and knocks you on your butt.
You are a lover, not a fighter-
but, at your heart,
you don’t want to just play your part;
you want to be happy-
that is your life-long wish;
you want to take your time and go gently,
but you also want to do everything right this second-
however, everything you want to do,
no one would ever be able to fit
on any bucket list.
That is your gift, that is your problem;
your intensity has inadvertently opened up rifts,
your overwhelming passion has blown up in your face
like a bomb.
You need to learn to listen to the right people
at the right time;
you need to stop worrying
about what you are going to write on the next line;
you need to go with the flow,
and trust who and what you know;
you need to keep being yourself;
you need to stop wanting to impress somebody else;
you need to keep things simple in your head,
because you know that you are not stupid;
you know who you are,
so don’t for a second forget it.
Be the Mark with the biggest heart;
be the Mark who you’ve been from the start;
be the Mark you’ve been destined to be
since you first breathed in the air,
and looked up at the sky of this planet;
be the Mark of music;
be Mark the favourite;
be the Mark of magic;
write a sonnet,
and be Mark The Poet.