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My Poem ‘The Rhyme of the Constant Writer’

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

There once was a writer called Mark,
who, more than anyone,
loved a walk through a beautiful park;
he wrote all-day, everyday;
and when he wasn’t writing, he was thinking;
who could write an entire short story
about the memory of a beautiful Summer’s day,
or a sonnet with thirteen lines
that perfectly and succinctly
expresses exactly what he was feeling.
When he was not doing his job,
Mark would write poems –
even when, and especially when,
he was in a library,
or walking around a bookshop,
Mark would have so many thoughts
and ideas running through his mind,
he had to write them down anywhere he could,
as fast as he could,
before they left him again.
To this day, Mark still wonders and marvels
at how inspired he is,
almost every second of every day –
and where all the inspiration he uses comes from,
not even Mark truly knows.

Mark was a writer who had his favourite things
that sparked his creativity,
and like most writers, and like most people,
Mark had his own unique routines;
Mark just loved creating and writing
all kinds of stories, and even as a boy
Mark was imagining places
where he had not yet been.
It was a preoccupation for Mark
to look around and ask questions,
and to make connections;
being in his own world
was where Mark felt the most comfortable,
because he could make something amazing
and magical in his mind,
and be a true master of invention.

Mark was someone who went somewhere everyday
to chase the light and answer the call of inspiration;
every morning when he woke up,
Mark would look out of his bedroom window
and be so enthralled by what he saw –
everyday it was like waking up in another dimension.
Mark regularly sat down with his favourite
caramel-coated coffee,
and a slice of lemon cake,
and would spend hours writing poetry,
and feel like he was still dreaming
even when he was still wide awake.

Mark was a writer who loved being a writer,
but Mark was also someone who loved
watching films at the cinema;
Mark loved books, and must have read over a hundred;
Mark was someone who never had a moment
when his mind was not, in some form or another, in over-drive –
even as he was drifting off to sleep
in the dark in bed at night.

Mark listened, Mark heard;
Mark observed, Mark learned;
Mark was a peace-maker,
but Mark was also a fighter;
Mark was at his happiest,
and at his most inspired,
when he had a pen in his hand
hovering over his notebook,
and writing the rhyme of the constant writer.

My Poem ‘Live Long and Prosper’

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

While growing up we all have heroes
who we see, who we watch, who we listen to,
and who we want to emulate,
and while growing up
there were no greater heroes or role-models
who used to keep me captivated, interested,
in-awe, and excited,
to follow their continuing adventures,
where no man has gone before,
than the crew of the Starship Enterprise –
and when I got home from school,
it was to the final frontier where I journeyed off to
on my television and in my imagination –
and to this day every episode and story of every series
of my favourite universe, canon, fan-base, and franchise,
never fails to fill me with the same feelings
I had as a boy imagining being a member of the Enterprise’s crew –
and every time I watch an episode or a movie now,
I am, and I will forever be, captivated.

Captain James T. Kirk, the commander of the ‘Enterprise’
in the Original Series of ‘Star Trek’ in the sixties,
was a natural leading man, and a hero that
wherever he would go thousands would follow –
because William Shatner played him so expertly and perfectly,
no one else could truly be or inhabit such a role
as he did in ‘Jim’ Kirk;
however, it was always ‘Mr. Spock’, played timelessly
by the late great Leonard Nimoy,
who I used to to be more drawn to and fascinated by –
and like another fictional hero of mine, Sherlock Holmes,
Spock used knowledge and logic to be the source
and the answer to most of the problems
he and the rest of the Enterprise crew came face to face with –
and Leonard Nimoy was Spock in every way, shape, and form,
and the knowledge now that Mr. Spock and Leonard Nimoy’s light
has gone out from the world is a loss to everyone on Earth.

Leonard Nimoy, and Mr. Spock, leave a legacy
in so many ways infinite ways for everybody to see,
remember, and be inspired by.
I have always been a life-long Star Trek fan,
and every time I hear that someone from my favourite TV show
has died, I honestly do want to cry.
I just wish I had had the chance to meet Leonard Nimoy;
I just wish I could have been able to tell him
how influential he was to so many people, and always will be,
and to tell him how important he and his message
was to me as a boy.

I will always be inspired to reach for the stars;
I will always look back on my childhood with a smile on my face,
and remember my favourite half-Human/half-Vulcan fondly,
because to me his spirit will forever loom large.
I will never stop watching, reading, imagining,
and I will all my life be inspired by the voyages
of every crew and every starship, especially the Enterprise,
travelling and exploring the final frontier;
I will always remember the amazing Leonard Nimoy,
and this poem is my lasting tribute to him.
And as Leonard Nimoy’s Star Trek character Mr. Spock
was frequently fond of saying, in his name:
I promise to live long and prosper.

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My Poem ‘The Wonder City’

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

I don’t know if anyone
could ever say enough or all
about New York City,
“The Wonder City”,
in every respect –
to me, it is a perfect place:
a place of inspiration,
beauty, and infinite opportunity;
a place for anybody and everybody;
a place that I have not seen for a long time,
but a place I still dream about and think about,
which is constantly calling to me.

I knew New York City was important to me
the moment that I saw it,
I knew I loved New York City
from the moment I saw the skyscrapers of its skyline
through the window of the taxi;
I knew I would not be the same person
after having lived, breathed,
and become a part of New York City;
I knew I did not want to leave,
and I wanted to return as possible,
when a tear fell down my cheeks
at the thought of all the incredible memories I made
in the place that no matter what time of the day it was
was always brightly lit.

The Statue of Liberty, the Empire State Building,
the Rockefeller Center, Central Park,
the New York Subway, Fifth Avenue, Sixth Avenue –
everything I saw, everybody I met,
was beyond my imagining, and instantly I knew
that New York City was the one place on Earth
where I would feel at home living;
it is hard to describe and explain
why New York City means so much to me –
every second I was there I never took for granted,
every step I walked had deep and intense meaning,
every time I felt my heart beat hard at what I saw
made me feel so happy,
every day felt like a year;
and after walking up, I loved doing my ritual of
getting a take out coffee from Starbucks,
taking a walk around and through Central Park,
returning to my hotel room with a breakfast bagel,
and then leaving my hotel again
and going off on a new adventure
in my favourite city.

At night, when I was in my hotel room,
near Central Park, and I sat at my desk near my bed,
I dreamed, I wrote, I remembered,
I ingrained every moment of the previous day
into my DNA forever;
while walking the New York City streets in the moonlight,
I knew that I was where I was always supposed to be;
while sitting in the shadow of a statue of Christopher Columbus,
on a bench at Columbus Circle, in New York City,
I knew and I felt an incredible and energizing feeling
that felt like I was in my own version of heaven,
and a perfect paradise for anyone artistic,
creative, especially a writer.
Every minute that I was in New York City,
I knew and I understood why the best city on Earth
was also the worlds most spectacular city,
and why it was known as “The Wonder City”.

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My Poem ‘Three Little Words’

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

When you are looking for a way to say something;
when for some reason, at the most important moment,
words fail you;
when you can say whatever you want,
and you have a lot to say,
but because all the ideas in your head
all seem to come at once,
you can sometimes end up saying nothing;
when it is a day when words and actions
mean more than they usually do,
and you have to make every moment and every word
count and be felt with more depth of feeling;
when on Valentines day you want to write an entire essay
and poem about how much someone means to you,
there are three little words that alone say everything: I love you.

There is a remarkable, noticeable,
and wonderful, look in the eye;
there is a warmth that rises;
there is an indescribable tingle
that you feel all over your body;
there is a flashback that happens
that takes you back to the very first time
that you heard those magic words, one after the other;
there is a slowing down of time;
there is a pull that you feel that grabs you like a rip-tide;
there is a reliving of a memory;
there is a feeling of happiness,
and overwhelming belonging, and love,
that is unlike no other.

Every time I have ever said something meaningful
and heartfelt to someone who means something to me
so profoundly that I have to tell them,
and show them, in some way;
every time I write a poem for someone,
I am giving a part of my heart away;
every time my heart grows in size, my heart races,
my imagination explodes, my feelings eclipse my thoughts,
and I am in my ideal state of mind,
in my beautiful, optimistic, and hopeful, love-filled world;
I think about someone who is unbelievably important to me,
who I love to death, who I love more than words can say,
and I close my eyes, I picture that special person in my mind,
and I say my favourite three little words…

My Poem ‘The Perfect Song’

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

The perfect song to wake up to;
the perfect song to get you ready for the day ahead;
the perfect song to work to while listening to;
the perfect song that you can’t mute,
which just continues to replay over and over in your head.

The perfect song to listen to while writing;
the perfect song to listen to while you are exercising;
the perfect song to make you happy;
the perfect song to listen to while drinking a cup of coffee.

The perfect song to inspire you;
the perfect song to motivate you;
the perfect song to make you feel;
the perfect song to help you heal.

The perfect song to walk down the aisle to at your wedding;
the perfect song to unlock your memories;
the perfect song to walk through the beautiful countryside,
while listening to that which magically enhances
everything that you see –
like being shown the muse of an epic and moving painting;
the perfect song that is also the most wonderful and incredible,
insightful, amazing, gift of spoken word and musical poetry.

The perfect song to soak in the bath to;
the perfect song to listen to while on a long journey;
the perfect song to sing to, and make your body move;
the perfect song to show you the stars,
and allow you to hear the music of infinity.

The perfect song says everything that you want to say,
and it may even be a song that was created before you were born;
the perfect song says more;
the perfect song says that there is someone who understands you,
and they know what you have been through;
the perfect song is the perfect song to you,
because it can lift you up when you are down,
and when the world feels wrong;
the perfect song says everything about you
at a particular moment in your life,
and from the first second that you heard it,
and it turned a switch inside you permanently on,
you knew in your mind and in your heart
that you had found the perfect song.

My Poem ‘Your Day’

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

Everyone, from every walk of life,
everywhere, knows and is familiar
with that feeling of relief
that overcomes us all
the minute that we finish a long day at work,
and we arrive home sweet home,
and we sit down and rest,
and put the events of the day we have had behind us –
especially if we have had a day
that felt as endless as the universe;
everyone, anyone, everybody, anybody,
who has a job or an occupation
that sometimes feels like a treadmill,
knows the full meaning of the old saying
“the only way forward is through”,
and it is amazing how good you feel
after a hard day at work –
it is unbelievable how much energy you have
when you walk through your front-door at home,
because that sensation lifts in no time at all,
and you may even resemble, as you sit in your chair,
the sight of a balloon that has recently burst.

Just like a car running on fumes,
as it finally reaches
and rolls onto the forecourt of a fuel station,
every working man and woman
also needs to refuel and build up their energy levels,
and take a break from what they need to do,
and relax while doing what they love to do,
and cool the temperature of their spirit –
like newly-forged white-hot metal.

Some people relax in front of their TV,
while watching their favourite television show;
some people lay back, put their feet up,
and listen to the latest songs
that are playing on the radio;
some people jump straight into the bath,
or into the shower, and wash away their day,
and let all their work-related stresses drift away;
some people put on their headphones,
and sit in their bedroom, on their bed,
listening to their mp3 player,
as they listen to their favourite artists
telling them what they need to hear –
because they know all the right things to say;
some people read a book;
some people write;
some people reach out for someone for a hug;
some people get changed from their work clothes,
eat, drink, turn off their phones,
and settle down for a quiet night.

Everyone’s day is their own;
everyone feels more like themselves when they are at home;
everyone has thoughts and feelings that are hard to convey;
everyone who has someone, or something, to come home to –
even if that is a mirrored reflection of themselves
that they can see into –
is lucky to have someone, or something,
that they can reply to,
when they are asked the question:
how was your day?

My Poem ‘Fandomonium’

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

We all have our idols;
we all have something or someone
who we will travel miles to see,
and to enjoy their gifts we would do anything for;
we all would jump in an instant,
when hearing the voice of a particular call;
we all would support are favourite artists
and bands if we could, even if it meant
following them, and seeing them sing and perform live,
in hundreds of cities around the planet, on a world tour.

On my bedroom wall, I have a beautiful poster
of my favourite band CHVRCHES hanging from it,
which I look at all the time
while I am listening to their amazing and phenomenal music,
absolutely captivated by it, and in awe;
while in my room, or when I am out and about,
I am always listening to my favourite music,
I am always taken to another place,
I always imagine I am at one of CHVRCHES shows,
hearing them perform live,
and it is my dream one day to go and see them
whenever and wherever I can,
and feel as if I am in ‘electronic synthpop heaven’,
as I listen to the songs that uplift me, and inspire me,
and make me smile, and make me believe
that I am listening to music that is monumentally important,
poetic, and this is how I feel, and that is how I think,
when I am listening to my favourite band.

Like most people, I am a literary fan,
who has favourite authors, and stand out books that I own,
and I have read, that inform my life, enrich my life,
and daily take me on adventures;
like most people, I am a film fan, a television fan,
who loves the experience of cinema
and being guided on a journey by a visionary,
and shown the magic of storytelling,
and the power of the visual, audio, entrancing, medium
of epic entertainment, and also being touched by stories
imagined, as if someone’s imagination had literally
been taken from their mind and put directly on a screen.
Like most fans of a particular art form,
I am left star-struck and overwhelmed
if and when I have ever seen or met
one of my artistic heroes in person and in the flesh –
however, there are so many idols, stars, and icons, to me,
who unfortunately I will never get the chance,
nor will ever be lucky, to meet –
so the possibility and the prospect of being able to
actually and physically see a person, or a group,
that I admire absolutely, is something that I look forward to,
and for which I believe any and every fan should do,
and I would endorse and wholeheartedly implore;
like most people, to me, some things, some songs,
some experiences, some people, defy words,
and the feelings that I have for them cannot be explained,
and we will always be the only one’s who truly know what they mean.

I have met one of my favourite writers and authors,
and I even got a couple of their books signed by them,
and thrillingly for me I even got to shake their hand;
I have spoken to, and I have communicated directly with,
singers, musicians, artists, actors, performers,
who I admire and I will always like everything they do,
even beyond their most well-known channel and medium;
I am a fan of amazing music by bands of every genre,
some who as of yet are not as famous as they one day will be;
so if you ever meet me and see me while I am standing
face to face, or enjoying one of my heroes’
incredible and unbelievable feats of magic,
please excuse the vacant look on my face,
because in my head, at that moment,
I can guarantee you that it will be
complete and utter fandomonium.

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My Poem ‘Marble’

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

When I was a child,
like a great many of the children at my school,
along with all of my friends,
I used to run around, play games,
pick up conkers from the base of trees,
take them home and ask my Dad
to drill a hole through it
and help me put an old shoe-lace through it;
and then the next day take my brown
and beautifully vibrant conker to school
to play a game of “conkers” with my friends,
and perfect my throw, my wrist action, and my technique –
but as a child I did not realize there was so much to it,
I just, we just, did it, and my friends and I played happily
trying to hit and win a game against each other,
in the breaks between the lessons of our school day,
and it was probably the only time that we actually stood still
when we were enjoying our recesses,
because, most of the time, like I said,
we were mostly seen running around,
and trying to catch each other in games of “tig”.

One of our other, and my favourite, school time pursuits
that my friends and I shared were “marbles”:
multicoloured glass spheres that varied in size,
but which were essentially, to my friends and I,
jewels of enjoyment and literal pearls of perfection
that we all treasured.
My favourite marble of my collection,
of must likely a hundred,
was a silvery, glistening, marble,
that was like the biggest ball bearing
you have ever seen in your life,
but which I hardly ever played a game with;
and my other favourite marble was a pot-marked obsidian,
that looked as if it had been formed in an actual volcano,
or it had fallen to Earth like a meteorite
thousands of years ago, and had strange
and mystical powers to it that would allow me to win every game
and surround me with luck wherever I went –
at least that is what I thought when I was a kid.

I am not sure if kids still play with marbles,
nor do I know what kids do with their time
and what they share with their friends, these days –
however, if I were to guess, and anecdotally I have heard,
that what they do most likely involves a screen,
and usually takes place indoors so that they can
see their screens and they are not blinded
by the reflection of the sun’s glare;
I’m not saying that just because I and my friends
used to enjoy ourselves while being outside,
and while doing things that required using
all of the things that we were born with and blessed,
that we had a happier or a more content childhood,
than those of the modern digital internet-driven age,
because I know that children still do see, look,
explore, and ask questions, and things do matter to them,
and they do care.

I think, and I have believed all my adult life,
that our lives are a work of art –
but that it is a work of art that has more in common
with the mindset of some artists rather than others,
but if you are an artist you can understand life
and the world more – because you can see and interpret
and appreciate nature and peoples instances of sparkle,
and make your own art as you see and marvel;
I like to think that a person’s life
is like a work of sculpture, that we sometimes make mistakes at
when we are sculpting, but in the end those same mistakes
make the carvings, shavings, chiseling,
individual to us and to our lives,
and that is why I believe that all of our lives
is a work of art in progress,
that is incomplete until the very end;
and the matter and material that our lives is made up of
is as tricky to make something of, and with,
and as hard sometimes, and as delicate to work with,
as marble.

My Poem ‘My Favourite Poet’

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

My favourite poet is a wizard of words;
my favourite poet is a magician of music;
my favourite poet is a force of feelings
that spark like a duel of swords;
my favourite poet is a dream-maker, a storyteller,
someone who has taken a journey,
and who is on a journey that is unique, personal, and epic.

My favourite poet has looked up at the stars
and knows how to harness the infinite energy
that they see, hear, and feel;
my favourite poet has known and has been in
every state of love, elation, and fusion,
and has had to walk a thin line, or two, in their time;
my favourite poet has woken up more than once in their life
and wondered whether the world they are living in
and the life they are living is really real;
my favourite poet writes their poetry all the time,
but not always on paper, and not always in words,
and sometimes their poetry comes to life and to light
in their actions and in their thoughts,
that are mostly an expression of their soul,
and wonderfully kind.

My favourite poet has inspired,
and has helped more people than they will ever know;
my favourite poet is a voracious observer,
who feels deeply, and who believes in things passionately;
my favourite poet writes at all times, and at any moment,
and wants to capture a moment in time timelessly
in any way that they can, wherever they go;
my favourite poet listens to every kind of music,
to every type of singer, who embraces every form of art,
and who reads anything and everything,
and who shares a connection with every artist –
some who may not even be aware that they are creating art or poetry.

My favourite poet uses the means and the instruments
of creativity of their time to reach high, and wide,
and to go far, and low;
my favourite poet is also your favourite poet;
my favourite poet is fearless, adaptive, articulate,
loving, caring, who feels just at home
with the people he adores and loves,
as they do walking the busy streets of a city,
walking over the hills and fields of the countryside,
or trudging ankle-deep in the freezing snow;
my favourite poet will continue to change the world
just by being a presence, a spirit, a voice,
an artist, an inspiration, in it,
and that is why they are and they always will be
my favourite poet.

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My Poem ‘In the mood’

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

We all have to be in the mood for things;
we all want certain things when we feel a need;
we all have different tastes,
and, depending on what time of the day it is,
we all have different cravings;
we all need a cocktail of many things
to grow and flourish, like a plant from a seed.

Some days you are in the mood for tea;
some days you are in the mood for coffee;
sometimes you are in the mood for music;
sometimes you are in the mood for poetry;
some days you are in the mood to wear something red;
some days you are in the mood to wear something black;
sometimes you are in the mood for garlic bread;
sometimes you are just in the mood for a snack.

A particular song can put you in a mood for something;
a particular smell can put you in a mood of nostalgia,
like the aroma of fresh flowers on a sunny day in spring;
a particular memory can put you in a mood to relive old times;
a particular object that you hold in your hand
can put you in a mood to return to a pace you once visited
that has a significance and an importance that still chimes.

What you are in the mood for can sometimes come out of nowhere;
what you are in the mood for can be something
that you have wanted for a short time;
what you are in the mood for might be an experience that is rare;
what you are in the mood for, just the thought of which,
can send shivers down your spine.

Everyone has their moods;
everybody has an outward impression of an inward feeling
that they sometimes unknowingly exude;
everyone has a multitude of interests, feelings,
and can respond or react in any way they choose;
everybody has something that they do
and something that they want,
and that can be the same as always and predictable,
or something new and spontaneous –
it all depends on how we all feel when we are in the mood.