me

My Poem ‘Reading is Believing’

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

Libraries are closing everywhere I look;
the doors of places of knowledge and wonder
are being closed shut, like the covers of there books;
our breathtaking banks of inspiration are no longer protected;
I one day fear that children will miss out
on a magical and life-empowering experience,
should our libraries evaporate into a cloud of numbers and frequencies,
and as a result the future of the world will be affected.

Every day I hear about another library
under threat from being turned into a “used to be”;
every day I see people reading and entranced in a story;
every day I see people in bookstores being drawn to books
by their title and the incredible art of their covers;
every day adults and children fall in love with books
and characters for the first time –
thanks to teachers, friends, family members, fathers, and mothers.

Every second a new writer, a brand new story-teller, is born,
and continues the story of humanity;
every baby who is brought up to loving parents,
in an incredible family, is introduced to reading,
and sharing ideas, from almost the day
that they get to sleep in their own bed;
every experience has its own voice,
and some have even been reinterpreted in the form of a novel,
and then adapted into a movie.

There is no more sad or depressing story, to me,
than that of a nearby town thinking about closing a library;
I never want to see a day when the only way that words can be read
is strictly and exclusively electronically –
digital books are great, but they will never have the life-span,
or the story and journey, of a physical book,
and that is the way it will always be.

Libraries are islands of tranquility;
books are the legacy of hope, history, tragedy,
that also still carry the story and the DNA of its parent tree;
reading a book is a personal passion for some people,
and to me there is no better place to see the belief
that reading is believing than in paper books,
that are like reading every person who has ever lived’s diary;
and that is why I believe it is everyone’s duty and responsibility
to do all they can to save the libraries.

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My Poem ‘The Genie’

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

Real life genie’s present themselves
and pop up unexpectedly in our lives all the time,
and sometimes they appear before they are summoned;
genie’s of all shapes, colours, and sizes,
rise before our very eyes and make themselves known
to be a guide, to be an angel who has blessings to bestow,
and as a friend who has the power
to make more than wishes come true;
there are genie’s who can open up whole brand new worlds,
and who can give a light to live by
brighter than that of the sun.

I used to be a genie.
I used to be the one everyone came to,
and asked to be granted their heart’s desire;
the gift to be able to give someone anything,
the power to be able to send anyone anywhere,
the touch and the omnipotent will to make any thought a reality,
was what was always there in the palm of my hands –
but after a lifetime, which felt like an infinity
of only being called upon when someone wanted something,
and used as a means to an end, I grew tired of the rub
of the life that was all that I knew,
and I left my lamp behind, and I chose to retire.

I still hear people looking for me,
and sometimes calling out for me –
but that has not happened in a while,
and it is usually when they have no one else to turn to,
or if they want a quick fix to their problems,
and want someone or something to do what they can’t.
I admit that I do still use my influence,
and my wisdom and knowledge to help others from time to time,
and I do grant a wish or two occasionally
when I am in the mood, and I can genuinely see and feel
someone is desperate for something that they really want.

I am one of thousands of genie’s, and ex-genie’s,
who live to just do good and use their gifts
to better someone’s life,
but most of us are invisible upon first look,
and live a day to day life and job, like me.
The secret to attaining what you want
and what you wish all of the day for,
is to first look and see if you already have
what you think you don’t have around you, inside you;
and the trick is to ask yourself first for what you want,
before you go looking for, rubbing the lamp of,
and asking to be granted wishes,
by the powers of a genie.

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My Poem ‘Happy Birthday!’

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

Every day of every month of every year,
today, yesterday, tomorrow, last week, next week,
before you know it, it is someone’s birthday,
it will be your birthday;
today may even be the birthday of someone you know;
today might even be your birthday,
and I might be the first person to wish you
a happy birthday – unfortunately not in person
as I would always prefer doing,
but in the form of this poem;
and as my gift to you, I happily give you this poem,
and a few reasons why you are amazing,
and just my kind of person;
and I want to show you this,
and allow you to understand why you are very important
in so many ways, in my way.
You found this poem, you found me,
for a reason, most importantly
so that I could wish you a happy birthday –
but you also came to this place and this time
and were fated to be here,
listening to me talking to you,
reading what I want to say to you,
long before I even began writing this rhyme.
You and I share something in common, many of us do;
we all have the gift of sharing
more in common with a few,
and people who you may not know personally,
but in a way they know themselves
so they also know a part of you too;
you and I both have a day when people who know us,
who like us, who remember us,
who value our existence and our presence,
choose to think of us, and do something for us,
that is precious, and it may be something
that they want eagerly to do and to say;
we all, we both, may never meet –
however, it would please me no end,
and it would make me eternally happy,
to think that one day, today,
someone, you who are reading this poem
that I wrote for you,
whether today is the anniversary of your birth, or not,
are reading this poem,
and I would like to wish you,
especially if today is your day,
from me, a very happy birthday!

My Poem ‘Beautiful Extremes’

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

There is more happening
every nanosecond in the universe
than we could ever conceive
in a lifetime of imagining:
there is life emerging, evolving,
taking their first steps,
communicating, aspiring,
inventing, and understanding,
brand new concepts,
leaving the atmosphere of their planet,
seeking, meeting, interacting,
inspiring, believing,
knowing that they are not
the only intelligent life in their galaxy,
on a planet orbiting around a star,
existing with a purpose,
dreaming about other beings of life and light,
who are as inconceivable to us,
because we are in the dark about them
and who they are, as they are about us –
however, no matter how different we are from each other,
and no matter how we choose to express ourselves
in our own individual ways,
one thing unites everyone and everything in the universe,
and to all but who will be there at the end of all things,
and who will see the last few seconds
before everything starts again,
the knowledge of what it is that binds us all
will for now, and most likely for a few eons to come,
remain a tantalizing, compelling, inspiring,
driving, enlightening, fascinating, exciting, mystery.

The nature of planet Earth teaches us
that life will find a way to exist and thrive
in great extremes of environment,
even in a vacuum, even in a toxic soup,
even somewhere where the temperature is so low
and so past absolute zero that most things would die,
and even somewhere where a living thing
would spontaneously-combust
because the temperature is beyond
that of the hottest fire;
why things work out for some, but not for others,
is a constant cosmic question
that does not have a simple definitive answer,
because everything revolves around circumstance
and timing, and everything finding its match –
however, the meaning of life can be found
when you find the balance between what you have
and what you desire.

Believing in what we cannot see,
imagining what is impossible to imagine,
witnessing and remembering the light of what has been,
reading and interpreting the world and it’s moments
and years, like epic words and verses of poetry,
finding infinite connection, experiencing perfection,
holding in your hands, imagining in your mind,
feeling in your soul and in your heart,
that which is made in a place, and at a time,
is a miracle of beautiful extremes.

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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 ‘Bless You’

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

Saying “bless you” when someone sneezes;
holding a door open for someone;
saying “thank you”, saying please;
doing and making simple acts of kindness
and thoughtfulness that do not cost a thing
are wonderful things,
and to someone in need of a smile,
or of a bit of happiness,
you can make a person’s day that much more positive
and not as bad – especially if they are having a day
in which they are feeling down and glum.
Giving a stranger a song that you love to listen to;
giving a friend an idea they have been looking for for days;
giving a few minutes of you time to talk to someone,
and to listen to someone;
giving a couple of pounds to someone who asks you for it,
and who looks like they need it,
and not asking why they need it,
but giving what you have so that they can use it
to have what they want.
A thought, a touch, a smile, a look,
a light, a shade, a promise,
assistance in finding a way;
giving advice, giving someone tips,
saving a life, telling someone that you give a spit;
saying “I’m sorry”;
opening up about your own worries and troubles;
being there for someone when everything that could happen
has happened and seems to have all come
at once for someone, like a funnel;
telling someone that you love them;
doing something for someone out of the blue;
lending someone a pen;
giving someone a glance in their direction,
and a second thought of their health and happiness,
by saying when they sneeze “bless you”.

My Poem ‘Tales of Wonder Lands’

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

Every great and compelling character of literature
was inspired by a real person, actual people,
idyllic dreams and memories of imagined places;
every great story, every great tale,
came to life by bringing together
within the vivid and infinite imagination of a writer
lots of influences and sources of inspiration –
from one to a hundred different amazing lives and faces.
All my favourite stories, and characters, as a child, and now,
were adventures with heroes at the centre of them,
who did the impossible, who went where I,
nor anyone, had ever gone before;
my favourite tales of wonder featured superheroes
who had the power with a single leap to leave the ground
and to be able to soar among the clouds;
the most important role-models of mine
of literature and fantasy were those who had unbounded life,
energy, hope, and a thirst to overcome potential
circumstances and obstacles, for the greater good of others,
and help those in need, in any and every way that they could.

Peter Pan, Super-man, could easily fly
without a second thought,
and travel to far away worlds,
and shine a light for others to follow;
Robin Hood, Spider-man, stood up for the plight
of the oppressed, and those who had been wronged by someone,
and who were not afraid to bend the rules of the law
in their own way: by robbing the rich to give to the poor,
or fighting to save the life of a stranger in trouble,
because it is the right thing to do;
The Man With No Name, Captain James T. Kirk –
men traveling and exploring their own individual
amazing and sometimes tumultuous and lawless frontiers,
encountering allies and enemies around every corner,
and leaving an impression of themselves, their name,
their face, and their inspiring values wherever they go;
Alice from Alice in Wonderland, Neo from the film The Matrix –
characters of different gender, age,
and from different stories about different worlds,
but who both were given a choice and an opportunity
to follow a White Rabbit, and free their minds,
and see the world that you can find
when you step through a looking-glass,
and be gifted an experience that is only bestowed
to a chosen few.

The easiest way for a writer
to create a brand new character
is to base their appearance
and their demeanour on someone familiar;
the best way to craft a memorable epic
is to populate it with characters of depth and soul,
and a reason to be as strong as a living,
breathing, physical person;
even characters capable of performing the fantastic
have to have something, or someone, to which,
or to whom, they care about and are forever anchored to,
who have flaws to them that readers and watchers
can associate with, sympathize with, support, and champion.

Some of the best stories and characters
are based in realities and worlds
in which there is no true black and white,
light and dark, and the characters have to walk a grey line,
and have to question themselves and the roles in the time
and society that they live;
most of the stories that live on through the ages
have human characters who are given great power
and great responsibility to do something amazing,
and to make a difference with;
writers, poets, storytellers, dramatists, directors, artists,
envision worlds, and immortalize people, that in real life
they have a relationship to, like family, and old friends;
everyone can find people and places in stories,
books, films, poems, which they enjoy reading about,
returning to, going on adventures with,
seeing things that can only be seen in the dream-scape
of a persons imagination, and what we all bring back with us
from these times, and universes,
and what we learn from the fictional and real people we meet
may one day be the muse and the inspiration
for brand new tales of wonder lands.

My Poem ‘The Rain Over Queen Victoria’

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

It’s raining today.
It’s not raining too hard, or too fast,
as I walk across Victoria Square in Birmingham,
and I step up the seven rain-soaked steps
at the foot of the pedestal atop of which
a teal coloured statue of Queen Victoria
stands looking out regally.
I am on my way to my favourite cafe,
when for a few seconds I stop myself:
I take a step back, and I look at the world.
It always amazes me how some people think
and remember to bring an umbrella with them
when they leave their homes;
I, myself, never carry an umbrella,
and probably never will –
I do, however, buy umbrellas as gifts for people,
but I never think to buy one for myself…
perhaps I enjoy getting wet so much
I do not want to, nor would I ever, use an umbrella,
even if I were bought one.

I eventually reach my favourite cafe.
I order my favourite drink.
I choose my intended dining table as I wait in line,
and I buy for my lunch something to eat
that I have never had or tried before:
I pick out a “Jambalaya Chicken” wrap,
that from the description consists of
“A flavour of the American South East
tender roast chicken, in a spicy Jambalaya sauce
with red peppers, white rice, coriander, and spinach
in a tomato tortilla”, and even in the few seconds that I had
to read what it was and what the mix of ingredients
of my potential lunch were made up of,
my taste-buds were already rocketing into overdrive,
and my stomach was already rumbling,
like an oncoming express train over the American mid-west.

When I sat down at my already chosen table and chair,
I unpacked my spicy lunch from its packaging,
I took a sip of my hot drink,
I placed my mobile phone on the table in front of me to my left,
and then I took out my notebook and my pen
and I placed them right in front of me.
After a few minutes of settling myself,
and taking in the atmosphere of where I was,
and then looking out of the door
at a Victoria Square that was now being
pummeled by heavy rain,
I took a bite out of my tortilla lunch,
and almost immediately I felt heat,
I tasted spices, my mouth was already salivating with pleasure,
and I was for a few minutes, and long after,
satisfied, happy, and filled with thoughts,
sensations, and inspiration,
and all the more intensified than usual –
I am not sure if it was the Jambalaya in my tortilla,
my latte coffee, the sound all around me,
or the sight of the wet weather getting worse
outside the cafe’s window, as I sat dry and content.

Within no time, I was writing a new poem about everything
that I was thinking and feeling – this poem, if fact;
and then within minutes of finishing my written down
feelings and musings, it was time for me to leave
the warm and comfortable place where I was,
pack away my belongings, put on my coat,
and return to the outside world in which the pour from above
was far from over, and the rain was still falling
over Queen Victoria.

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My Poem ‘Nine Lives’

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

A poet, a writer,
a dreamer, a communicator,
who loves to write,
who loves to see the world,
and who dreams of life
and adventures beyond the stars;
a booking agent, a sign-language speaker,
a people reader, someone who sees the best in people,
a teacher, a friend, and someone who cares greatly,
and who has the biggest of hearts.

A coffee-house barista,
a caffeine cocktail expert and mixer;
a business man – someone with a briefcase of paper,
electronic wonders of inter-connectivity –
who is someone who is definitely a man with a plan on his mind,
who looks like someone who I would describe as a “fixer”.

A manager, a strategist, someone who has authority
over a lot of people, who is always thinking about
work schedules, rosters, and organizing a way
to get the most from his employees in any and every way they can;
a street-performer, a gifted and amazing musician –
someone who cares and who loves their art so much
they will spend entire hours and days
sitting or standing in the spot on the street,
or in the Subway or Underground station,
they can always be guaranteed to be found,
who brighten the day and the face of every passing
child, woman, and man.

A website designer, a moderator,
a person who can read and who can speak in code,
who knows the language of binary –
someone who has the gift to be able to create magic
with the tap of a key on a keyboard;
a DJ, a person fluent in the lexicon
and the discography of music, singers, musicians,
and who understands the deep layers of sound,
and the power and the importance
of one of humanity’s oldest and best
timeless forms of communication and entertainment,
who rarely enjoys any seconds of true white noise silence,
and whose favourite place in the world
is standing behind their DJ decks
and looking out at people reveling in
the magically and enthralling music they are producing,
broadcasting, and sharing, and seeing the ecstatic joy
of people enjoying themselves
moving like a single ocean of energy on a dance-floor.

A parent, love giver, a friend, a companion,
a protector of their children since the day of their birth,
who will be there for their offspring all of their life –
someone who is one of billions of people
who they are connected to, and who unknowingly are connected to them,
because they know someone who knows someone who knows someone,
who does something, who likes something,
who has something in common with someone they know,
who they may have met.

I have met people, and I have known friends,
and I know friends and family members, who know and who do,
and who are gifted at an infinite number of things –
however, for the purposes of this poem,
I wanted to show how varied and exquisite life is,
and as an example of the amazing people in our lives
we all may know, and this poem is a snap-shot
of some of the people that I know, and have met,
who all have, and who all live,
nine interesting and inspiring meaningful linked lives.

My Poem ‘Turned Around’

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

While in the woods,
I got lost, I got turned around, and I lost my way;
while in the woods,
my path disappeared like pavement drawings
after a shower of rain;
while in the woods,
the wind blew through the trees;
while in the woods, time froze;
while in the woods,
there wasn’t a definitive direction for me to see;
while in the woods,
I found myself somewhere I did not know.

While in the woods, I heard distant noises;
while in the woods, my own potent survival instincts
focused every and all of my choices;
while in the woods, I walked past a tree
that looked as if it had been burned from the inside out,
as if it has been struck by lightning;
while in the woods, as I walked further,
I knew that the day was getting later,
because of the darkening of the day-lighting.

While in the woods, with every step that I took,
the colour of the leaves on the ground got darker and darker,
and after a time it looked as if I were walking on, and in, space,
because everything was black;
while in the woods, there were no signposts,
or anything that I or anyone could use as a marker,
and as my perception of time disappeared,
it did cross my mind for an instant
that I may never make it back.

While in the woods, the moon was the only source of illumination,
and even though it was an aid to me,
it still could not tell me where I should go;
while in the woods, you hear things rustling all around you,
but because there is hardly any light to see by,
knowing what might only be inches away from you
is something that you turn over in your imagination;
while in the woods, you feel the hairs on the back of your neck
stand on-end, and you wonder if, at some point,
you may not notice an obstacle right in front of you,
that might trip you up and send you head over toe;
while in the woods, you feel like you could walk for hours,
because your body and your mind
know that they should not be here after dark,
and all feelings of hunger or exhaustion
become distant memories and do not cross your mind for a second,
and as soon as you lose any semblance of sight,
all of your other senses unbelievably and radically become heightened.

While in the woods, you feel more deeply,
and your thoughts become louder;
while in the woods, and alone, your inner-voice becomes audible,
as you start talking to yourself,
and even the breaking of the tinniest of twigs
sounds like the roar of a crashing boulder.
While in the woods, you forget why you are in the woods,
and you ask yourself questions
that you might never have thought to ask at any other time before,
and may never ask those same questions again afterwards in the future,
but at the time you are asking them they are incredibly profound.
While in the woods,
you eventually find yourself in the very spot where you entered,
which may seem like a life-time ago,
however in reality you may discover that the time
is not what you think it is,
and the person that is you is not the one of the same mind,
and no longer focused on the same things,
as the you who walked into the woods,
and who somehow got turned around.