me

My Poem ‘Book Bag’

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

I am a writer.
I have always been the one to be seen
with his notebook open
and his pen ready to write in his hand.
I am a reader.
I have always been known to carry around with me
everything I could possibly need,
while I am walking and rediscovering the world,
in my constantly changing holdall and bag.

Wherever I go,
the bag that I have hanging from my shoulder
always has a book or two inside –
I carry around both of my own poetry books,
but I also always have the book that I am currently reading
at the moment with me too,
in case I accidentally, or intentionally,
find myself on a deserted island somewhere,
and I need a good story and compelling characters
in order to get by with and pass the time.

Just recently, right now, and usually,
my “book bag” has inside it:
my poetry notebook,
my books ‘Poet of the Sphere’ and ‘The Sound of Mark,
‘The Drawing of the Three’ by Stephen King,
and Ray Bradbury’s amazing ‘Fahrenheit 451’;
I just love the thought that I always have a place
and a world to go to, within my myself,
or within and under the covers of an incredible book.

I am never too far away from books and stories of every kind,
of varying depths of complexity, passion, language, and adventure;
I always have in my mind, if not in my hand,
tales of people and characters who live and breath
in real and fictional worlds in the past, in another life,
in the optimistic reality of an imagined future.

There are people who don’t read books,
who never even think about what they could possibly find
hidden and waiting for them
within the chapters and story of a classic;
there are some people who use exclamations to describe things,
but who have never felt the thrill of reading a true epic.

There are people who love to read and love stories,
and who read many things, in many ways,
and in this day and age they can do so electronically, anywhere:
books filled with romance, thrills, horror, life, mystery;
I, myself, am a purist –
someone who believes that the experience of holding a book in your hand,
feeling the weight of it, and flicking through the pages,
is part of reading a story that every reader should have;
and even though, in my opinion, I think that anywhere
and in any way creativity can be shared is the best thing ever,
and I am not against sharing art by any means,
I would always choose to have a story read
and ingrained in the paper pages of a soft-cover or a hard-back book –
and that is why I will continue to carry stories of my own,
and of other writers around with me, in my “book bag”.

My Poem ‘Albatross’

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

We all have our deep and dark fears;
we all want our own space,
but we never want to be completely alone;
we have all tasted loss and tears;
we all, sometimes, just want to hold someone,
and to be held by someone;
we all crave to hear a voice on the other end of a phone;
we all sometimes make the mistake of forgetting
who and what to us is a vital good luck charm.

I would not want to live without my muse;
I would not want to exist just in my head;
I would do anything to not be there to see
what lies at the other end of a burning fuse;
I would give everything, I would give my life,
to un-say some things that should never have been said.

Everything is meant to happen,
make no mistake in thinking
that life has a rewind button;
every stone cast out into an ocean
will fly, skip, and find its final resting place
on the sea floor;
you cannot ever know
where your final resting place will be,
but the choice of what we will find
and who will receive our last kiss and wish
is one that is always open to us all.

To be saved from ourselves,
we need to listen;
to be restored,
we need to remember who we are;
to live, we need to enliven;
to find our way,
we must follow the light of a guiding star.

Every feeling we have is a sign of deep truth;
every path can also be a frozen lake
that we must choose to go around, or walk across;
every heart-racing moment takes us back to our youth;
every thought and every action
can be both a blessing and a curse,
but they should feel like a triumph to be celebrated,
and not a burden to carry around with you,
like a metaphorical Albatross.

My Poem ‘Poet’s Corner’

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

I am sitting here writing;
I am sitting here musing about the world;
I am sitting here enjoying a coffee-
the voices of people,
and the sounds of everyday life;
I am sitting here alone at my table;
and on the table next to me
a fellow poet is meeting up
and having a conversation
about how they just wrote a new poem,
about how beautiful the new day’s morning is,
and about things that they have seen
which they find exciting, inspiring, amazing,
and they sound just like I do in my head,
and I cannot stop smiling.

The poet sounds like they are from South Africa,
by their accent;
the poet is talking to their friend,
and they sound and they talk with so much
clarity and passion.

The poet is wearing a poppy;
the poet is not eating or drinking anything;
the poet is definitely someone after my own heart,
and obviously, to them, living, breathing,
writing, communicating, is not just a hobby;
the poet and his friend, it turns out,
have never met before,
and have only communicated over the internet,
until this moment;
the poet is describing a “great adventure”
that he has undertaken, and is still on,
and they are obviously, genuinely,
happy about the joys in their life,
and what they have gives them,
and what having a connection with people brings.

It is truly unbelievable what happens in life.
It is no accident who you may sit down next to.
It has been my experience that artists, writers,
poets, and people of deep thought passion,
and imagination, are drawn to each other
by a mutual drive;
it is the way of the universe
that people are who they are,
and the way that they are,
and there is an important reason
that people do what they do.

I watched in silence as the poet and his friend
exchanged gifts and spoke about what their presents
and their presence means to them;
I was hypnotized by their conversation,
by their story, and by everything they said;
I was enthralled, but I was sad –
because I knew that I would probably
never see or hear these amazing friend again,
but I too was thankful to them both
for coming into my life,
even if it were only for a sparing,
precious, and short time,
and the whole time that I was in their presence
I was unbelievably energized and phenomenally inspired.

There are too many coincidences and commonalities
for life to be just a string or a chain of accidental encounters,
there are too many things that matter to too many at once
for them to be unconnected,
even if they are the separate lives and stories of strangers.
There are so many places on this Earth
which attract people who share a brilliant,
beautiful, open, heart of a storyteller;
there are places like this place
that I am sitting in right now
that have a meaning and a power to them –
which I like to describe, and which I believe,
are amazing poet’s corners.

My Poem ‘Heaven is a library’

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

Surrounded by an infinite,
amazing, incredible, epic,
beautiful, endless,
collection of books –
the most breathtaking, awesome,
and extraordinary, hive of information,
stories, words, facts, writers, and authors,
from all around the world,
from every century of mankind –
I am sitting here listening to beautiful piano music
being played by an old man who, to me,
simply wants to play, feel, remember,
share and bring joy.

Every second that I spend walking around,
looking, sitting, listening,
staring out of giant glass windows,
lost in my own world,
connecting and passing through someone else’s story –
seeing them, meeting them, listening to them,
being inspired by them –
I feel as if I am in heaven,
and I could so easily and happily never leave this place;
because this place, the library, to me,
is a perfect place, a special place,
a place that is a hub, that not only connects
the people who visit it,
but also every person who has ever lived.

I feel myself drifting away,
being carried by the music;
I feel intoxicated by the smell, the taste, the touch,
the feeling all around, in everyone,
in every mind, in every book;
I feel emotional, because as I watch the outside world,
who are not with me here in this incredible,
magic, idyllic, library,
who are walking around under a blue sky,
through a forest of tall buildings,
and I want to tell them to come inside
and experience what I am feeling,
think what I am thinking,
listen to what I am listening,
know me and know what brought me to this library
and keeps bringing me back,
and how important a place, an Eden on Earth,
like this is to me,
and to all of us who are living this life
that we are living.

I can feel my heart pounding in my chest;
I can feel my imagination burning and shining like a star;
I feel overwhelmed; I feel at my best;
I feel like I can touch
and hear my own my own inner-muse and poetic spark.
The library is not as old as some,
but to me this library is as rejuvenating,
energizing, and as radiating as a sun.

I am here; and where I am, to me,
is holy-ground, and a source to find and know
the secret of all humanity –
where it has been, where it is going –
and a place to discover and see it in all its glory,
to walk around, work in, study in,
read in, write in, congregate in,
listen to people and music in,
to talk in, and make the most of every wonderful second of;
because this place is a miracle of beauty,
and proof-positive to me, as I have always believed,
that heaven is a library.

My Poem ‘Not just for the Summer’

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

Some songs are made and played
to catch peoples attention for a season;
some people we grow close to
enough to call them a friend;
some things are just fads that we have to have,
and be a part of for no good reason;
some relationships, short or long,
simply can never end.

If something means, or has meant something,
anything, to you, you can never forget it;
if a person touched you in some way,
then their feeling, and the way they made you feel,
will always remain;
if something can be remembered forever,
it can be done so with the mind and the pen of a poet;
if someone knows you, and if you truly know and love someone,
you should never feel alone when standing in the rain.

When you go back to a place,
if you are like me, you can also go back to another life,
another time;
when you are standing outside in the dark,
and the stars above make you think you are in outer-space,
if you are like me, you can relive and remember
even the tiniest of details
and be completely intoxicated by them again –
as if they were a bottle of wine.

We can sometimes make ourselves believe
that we have lost everything,
because our perception of the world
and of our circumstances appears to have been painted in that way;
however, the next day, in a new light,
everything is actually all right, and okay.
We can sometimes say goodbye to someone
and think that that friendship and connection
has been broken and is over;
however, in my experience, nothing,
especially a goodbye is ever forever,
and a bright, beautiful, inspiring,
phenomenal light, that rivals even that of the sun,
is not just for the Summer.

My Poem ‘Open’

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

Opening a book;
opening the curtains;
opening up;
opening and letting your heart sing
like a musician;
opening your arms;
opening your hands;
opening your eyes;
opening and widening your perspective,
so that you can understand;
opening your mouth;
opening an umbrella;
opening a message, and letting something out;
opening a door that leads to a hidden cellar;
opening the clouds
to let the light through with a thought;
opening a window to air-out a dusty room;
opening a net to see what’s been caught;
opening the story of a life
with the image and the powerful experience of a full-moon;
opening your mind;
opening and clearing your lungs on the resting waves of an ocean;
opening wide;
opening like the petals of a flower,
and staying open.

My Poem ‘Skyscraper’

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

Even when I am low,
I am always looking up;
even on my worst day,
you can always find me sitting,
standing, walking, dreaming,
somewhere with hope in my heart,
a pen, and my notebook;
even behind dark clouds, I can see the sun;
even when my head is full of confusion,
I can still smile-
because I know that in my life I have The One.

The poet, the infinite,
the chameleon of caring and compassion;
the one I have been dreaming of,
even when I was a kid
and I was picturing the most beautiful person
there could ever be in my vivid imagination.

People like me are few and far between;
people who think and care as much as I do
hide for the most part in plain sight;
people like me are rarer now than they used to be;
people like me are capable of creating and emitting
an internal fire and light.

Children are constantly looking up at everything,
and everything to them is bigger, taller,
as high as the clouds in the sky;
to a child everything has depth and meaning to it-
a child is constantly asking the best
and the most important question there is- all day, every day:
why?

I guess that I have not yet fully grown up,
because I am still asking questions and searching for answers
even when I already know what I am going to find-
I personally hope I never grow up to be someone
who is just one shade of colour, and of one mind.

I walk through and I see beauty more times in one day
than I could ever remember, or say;
I see the potential of people who may be finding it hard
to pick a direction and find their way;
I embrace rituals, music, talent, intense love, passion,
and calls from people who are just like me,
and who advertise themselves to those who see them
for who they are, as if they were a walking and talking
advertisement in a newspaper;
I see magic; I see more;
I want to receive more;
I want to give more;
I want others to know
that so much about life is undeniably epic;
I want people to know that they can see
and experience heaven on Earth,
and to do that they only need to see, meet,
and know a beautiful and inspirational person,
or to have looked at the world, far, above, below,
from one of the world’s tallest skyscrapers.

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 ‘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 ‘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.