art

My Poem ‘World Wide Watcher’

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

The preoccupation of the poet;
the articulation of the artist;
the wonder of the writer;
the drive of authenticity of a director on a movie set;
the character in the cuisine of a chef in their signature dish;
the seascape, the solitude, the sense of serenity,
the smell of salt from the sea water all around,
that you live to inhale every day if you live the life of a sailor.

A poet looks at the world and sees infinite depth,
and the connections that bind everything with everyone
that are always there and have been sustaining nature,
the planets, the stars, the universe,
since the beginning of time;
an artist captures a moment in time and preserves it,
and imbues emotion and feeling into it,
and captures a piece of themselves in their painting,
sketch, sculpture, monument;
a photographer use their camera as if it were a macro-scope,
and they show just how fleeting and precious every moment is,
and that life is like the arc of a rocket –
that twists and turns, before finally leaving the atmosphere –
and is not just a straight-line;
a normal person, living their life from day to day,
who has no philosophical or artistic leaning or orientation,
knows that there are things in life that are important.

Everyone who has sight, feeling –
a sense of change going on around them,
passed them, inside them,
that is a continuum and a state of energy
that could be conceptualized as a constantly-flowing river –
sees, but cannot understand the answer to why life is the way it is,
but who will always be like everybody else:
a fully-fledged, world wide watcher.

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 ‘Human Condition’

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

Our existence can seem
like a raindrop on the infinite ocean of time;
our voice can sometimes seem
muted by a barrier of silence;
our life can sometimes feel
like we are standing behind an impassable line;
the universe can sometimes feel,
when you think about it,
too big to ever understand and too miraculous
and wonderful to just be seen and lived only once.

Birth and death are inextricably-linked;
life returns even to the scorched Earth
and the black ash of the remnants of a forest fire;
things can begin and end in a blink;
the universe’s ultimate power
is that it will go on and on,
and keep making and creating,
attracting and electrifying,
and being the source and the reason
that everything must transpire.

There are some people who believe
that humanity is the only intelligent life
in the entirety of the Milky Way galaxy,
and perhaps even the entire universe;
there are some people who believe
that after death follows rebirth;
there are some people who honour and worship
an idea and a way of life
that has been practiced for centuries;
there are some people who have claimed
to have seen things, and who claim to know things,
and have been deemed mad or crazy;
there are some people who believe
there is a definitive date for the end of the world;
there are some people who are capable of anything
in response to a single word.

Humanity is a singular, special, wonderful,
fascinating, and complex creation of life-
but in my opinion, it is not, will never be,
and has never been the most intelligent life,
nor the only life in the galaxy;
humanity has described itself in many ways,
and has believed itself to be many things
since we became free-thinking, and self-aware:
in stories, in legends, in monuments,
in countries, and in all languages,
in the form of music, art, and poetry;
and even though we like to think we have considered
and thought of every possibility of existence
there could ever possibly be,
there are dimensions of understanding
we all choose not to consider-
because they are too endless for us to dare.

Philosophers consider the who, the what, and the why;
doctors are the healers of our bodies and minds;
artists are the interpreters and magicians,
and the performers of the colours of the human soul;
astronomers are the watchers and observers
of the past, the present, and the future;
astronauts are the personification of freedom,
and boundless adventure, and a dream made real
that a man or a woman, without gravity, can fly;
a generous heart of someone special
is an example of the best of human-kind;
our wonder and awe at the sight of a sunset
is something truly magical;
our combined knowledge and constant ingenuity
is always going to be the most powerful,
intelligent, and interconnected computer.

We are all on a secret mission:
we all must do the best we can,
consider every possibility,
act on impulse,
love, laugh, see,
live every day with a dream and with hope,
and you will be among the brightest stars
of the human constellation,
and the perpetual life-force
of the Human Condition.

My Poem ‘Imago’

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

The image in the mirror,
the reflection in the water,
the memories you will never forget,
the non-mistakes you will never regret,
the changing masterpiece of your life,
the height and the stream, from which,
and into which, you dive,
is you, is everything,
is what no one else will ever see,
or will ever know,
what you will be always and forever,
wherever you go.

No one will ever know your struggle;
no one will ever feel what you feel;
no one will ever know why you walked
and were splashed by all those rain puddles;
no one will ever see the image of your ideal.

There are skies of many colours,
that all mean something different to everyone;
there are situations and experiences that are also lessons;
the more intense something is,
and the more meaningful it feels,
can also mean the more fun;
you and your shadow are the ghost,
and the angel, or monster,
you can never out-run.

What you are going to be only you can decide;
who you want to spend your life with,
in one way or another,
is the answer to whom and what resides in your heart;
how easy life feels, you can only know
when you naturally realize
that you don’t even have to fly anymore,
because you can simply glide;
who will remember you when you are gone
are those who knew you and will always know you,
because of the marks and the ever-lasting echoes
of the muses of your art.

When you dream your last dream,
when you think your last thought,
when you have taught everything that you can possibly teach,
when you have been taught everything that you can be taught,
you will know that the metamorphosis you have been undertaking
is finally at an end and will be a link to everything
and everyone before and after you, like a bridge,
your entire life and its meaning will be who, and what you are,
and how you appear, and are seen, in your last image.