poem

My Poem ‘Penumbra’

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

The moment that you see the sun
darkened and obscured in any way,
takes your breath away;
the instant that the daylight fades,
your heart truly begins to race;
as the moon passes in front the sun,
the world feels colder,
the time seems later,
and everyone stops what they are doing,
because something wonderful, magical,
and undoubtedly celestial,
is about to happen.

Watching an eclipse is a special event
that everybody in their life
should hope to be witness to –
even if it only happens once,
and even if you only see it once;
being there on a clear day,
when one minute the sun is shining brightly,
and the next it is shrouded in darkness,
is something that you never forget –
because it isn’t every day
that you get to see
the celestial bodies of the universe
show the perfect timing and synchronicity
of their orbital gravity dance.

Those of us who are Earth-bound
rarely get to be at the centre of,
or be in the path of,
something profound that captivates us and reminds us
that we are a part of something bigger
than we can see, feel, be amazed by,
but can’t touch –
however, we can be touched by them;
seeing the spectacular colours of a mesmerizing aurora;
watching a total-eclipse,
or a partial-eclipse, of the sun –
everybody, anybody, everywhere, anywhere,
on the day of an eclipse,
can be left stunned, ensorcelled,
mesmerized, and humbled,
while standing in the shadow of a penumbra.

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 ‘Those were the days’

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

The days as a child
that I spent daydreaming;
the days as a child
that I spent simply being;
the days as a child
that I spent reading, creating,
making, watching, listening, and learning,
were the best and the most care-free of my life;
and my memories and recollections
of the days when I was a boy, thinking back,
were truly inspiring, exciting;
and there are times now, as an adult,
when I look around and I think,
and I sometimes wish,
that I were still the boy that I was,
and still dreaming.
I am constantly writing down memories;
I am always drawing maps in my mind
to lead me back to where I have been;
I am continuously saving things;
I am frequently returning
to the places that I had to leave.
Things must change;
sometimes in life
you have to navigate and find your way
through something that feels like a maze;
even though most things that we do in life
happen and never leave any trace,
it is important to remember the important things –
like places and faces –
that make you say out-loud:
‘those were the days’!

My Poem ‘The Green Lantern’

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

I don’t know what it is about Irish music,
but whenever and wherever I hear it
it makes my heart beat
with the rhythm of an Irish drum;
I don’t know what it is about the thought of Ireland,
but whenever I think of it
it shines for me – like an emerald city just over the water –
and lots of magical and wonderful things
spring up, like a vast green field filled with Shamrocks;
I don’t know what it is about the look
and the taste of Irish Guinness
that makes me think of something deep, dark –
like a treat to the senses
as the thought of outer-space,
and the kingdom of the universe’s infinite stars.

From space, the Earth shines like a blue marble –
however, when you actually stand on Earth and look around you,
the most predominant and the most resonating colour
that you see, is the colour that always makes me think
of the island of Ireland, and the “luck of the Irish”,
and that is the beautiful colour of green;
life is filled with music and colour,
and at all times of the day
the natural wonders of Earth
can be a phenomenal marvel;
every day, especially on St. Patrick’s Day,
there is just something in the air, sometimes –
when you can look around you,
and you actually see and feel the world entrance you
with its abundance of spectacle –
and, like a shining-green hummingbird,
gleam like you have never seen.

I don’t know what it is about the Irish accent,
but to my ears it sings and has a melody
like that of an Irish flute;
I don’t know why,
but every time I watch an Irish dance being performed –
like Riverdance, for example –
I feel compelled to get up on my feet,
and move like I have never moved;
I don’t know what it is about the sayings,
and the stories that have their roots
set firmly into the land that tells tales
of Giants, mythical beings,
and the power to make real anything
that you could possibly believe;
I don’t know what it is,
but if I lived in Ireland,
and if I were an Irishman,
I would never want to leave.

Today is a day when anything and everything Irish
is being celebrated everywhere that I look;
today is the day when all the lights that I see
are green, and everyone can feel Irish –
no matter where they were born,
or where they come from;
today is the day when everybody can indulge,
and feel a wave of merriment
with the smallest sip of the taste
of inspiration intoxication;
today is the day to let yourself feel free
in lots of ways, and dance and sing
to the beat that you hear;
today, among other wonderful
and magical things associated with today,
everything about today
always makes my heart beat fast –
because, to me, today is the day of the drum,
and the day of the light of the green lantern.

IMG_20150317_182306

My Poem ‘Sweetness & Light’

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

As the sweet taste of maple syrup
touches my lips,
as the sunlight streams in
through the window,
as the first shot of caffeine of my day
starts to hit,
as my mind races faster
than you could know,
as the world that I see gets started,
as the inspiration unfurls,
as life dances to the rhythm of a brand new party,
as the spiral of clouds begin to swirl;
I do my thing, I write my words;
I listen to my music and I want to sing;
I go into my zone, and I imagine a hopeful world;
I look, I see, I remember, I think,
I strut, I write poetry,
I feel like I am being carried on the wind like a feather;
I close my eyes; I fantasize;
I take another electric and stimulating sip of my drink;
I feel comfortable, I feel at ease,
I feel in control, I feel like the world
is racing towards me at full-speed;
as long as I am on the open road I cannot ever stop;
as long as I continue to believe,
I know anything can happen;
as long as I hope for happiness,
I will taste sweetness;
as long as I have the future in front of me,
I will continue to breath;
as long as I know what to do,
I will continue to follow the pattern;
as long as the world is bright,
I will continue to race towards the light.

My Poem ‘Time Capsule’

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

One of the great things about poetry, and poems,
is that they are time capsules;
one of the greatest experiences for anybody to be
is an archaeologist, a digger, a finder –
a person with a question, searching for an answer;
one of the great things about capturing moments in time
is that one day in the future
you can accidentally unearth an old poem, a faded photo,
or a small gift that someone bought you,
and instantly know and remember where and when you were
at a time in your life, and in someone else’s life;
and, to some people, the pieces of time
can be like rocket fuel,
and one of the greatest things about being a writer,
like me, is that I know that I will always
have a wealth of memories in the form of living
and breathing mental pictures, and in notebooks,
filled with thoughts and emotions of mine,
that will someday number so many
they may even fill an entire library,
and I sometimes wonder what people will say and think
when my own words and experiences
are read and come to light again in the future.

I always wanted to leave something for other people to find,
a question that only I could answer –
when I was a child I even made my own time capsule
and buried it in my garden,
and for all I know it is still there;
at my school, we also buried a class time capsule –
however, what someone will find one day of mine
I cannot tell you, because unfortunately I do not remember.

The memory of the world is fluid;
to leave our mark, we need to make our own monument;
things can easily be forgotten,
and can quickly turn to dust,
if you do not etch them into reality
so that they cannot be rubbed out or undone –
and in that way they will always be
a seeing stone, a crystal ball,
and a bubble of time that will never burst.

When you read this,
remember that this is me who is writing this;
whoever you are,
remember and keep alive this moment,
and reread this poem of time,
and please keep a hold of your own memories –
it is one of the most human of things to do,
and also one of the most natural;
if you want to keep something for a rainy day
so that you, or someone else,
can rediscover it one day,
make it the thing that at that moment
is your life-long and your most precious wish.
Leave things behind you like breadcrumbs,
and keep going, and everything you leave behind,
of you, will be its own time capsule.

My Poem ‘3/14/15’

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

Today is the 14th of March;
today feels like a Sunday,
however it is in fact a Saturday;
today feels like, in some way,
I have stepped out of the dark;
and today is also a great day,
because today is my Mum and Dad’s Anniversary –
and today, more than any other,
I am reminded about how my parents
absolutely love each other in every way.
Today is also ‘International Pi Day’ –
a day in which some people celebrate
the mathematical constant
that has no discernible end;
and, as I feel change happening all around me,
I am also reminded of the unchanging constants
in my life – namely my family:
on whom, I know I can always depend.

I have many constants in my life:
hope, poetry, music, optimism,
memory, thought, family, connections –
and when I feel them and I understand them
for what they are and for what they mean to me,
nothing else matters;
the pain of the past fades away,
and just being thankful for what I do have
always keeps the wolf, that sometimes visits me
at all times of the night or day, at bay.

Today feels like the perfect day
to hold on tight to the best thing in my life;
today feels like I am understanding something profound
with the wonderful gifts of hindsight, and foresight.
My heart feels brand new;
I am breathing fresh air now
that makes me feel light-headed –
as if I were experiencing high-altitude hypoxia
on top of a mountain;
my mind is reaching out into the big blue;
I am changing again;
I feel like I have just woken up
from an interesting dream, and come full-circle;
and today is the 14th of March, 2015.

Read-my-thoughts-final-no-title

My Poem ‘Bernadette’

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

Our mothers
are the reason why we are born;
my mum is the best
and the most wonderful of them all;
our mothers go through so much
to give us the gift of life;
my mum has never once
forgotten about her children,
and every day my mum is thinking
about those who she cares about the most –
morning, noon, and night.

Our mothers are one of a kind;
my mum cares so much,
and, like me, she always feels
what other people are feeling,
and always has someone else’s well-being
on her mind;
our mothers are a true inspiration to us;
my mum means more to me
than I could ever put into words –
but what I wish I could tell her more
is how much I love her, so much.

The connection that a child has with their parent
is life-long – no matter the time, or the distance;
mother and daughter, son and mother,
will always have an unbreakable bond.
I know my mum, and my mum knows me;
my mum was the one who took me to school when I was four;
my mum was the one who held my hand,
and told me that I would be ok, when I hurt my right knee;
my mum was, and my mum is,
the one who would be there for me after a fall –
and every day when she calls me,
I run to her just as I did
when I was still crawling as a baby
and just learning how to walk and talk.

My mum has spent her life
being the most caring person on Earth;
when my mum first met my dad,
it was a miracle of destiny and fate –
which led to the best thing
that ever have happened to me: my birth;
my mum is the most deserving person
of love, or thought, of understanding, and of respect;
my mum never asks anything from anybody,
but every day she serves up her beautiful heart,
and how amazing she is can be read all over her face.

Our mothers are whom,
if we are lucky to have them in our lives,
we will never forget;
and I want to immortalize my amazing mum
in the way of the poet –
so this poem, in name and in every way,
is dedicated to the best mother in the entire world:
my mum, Bernadette.

My Poem ‘Deathly Silence’

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

It is very rare
to actually hear the voice of a writer;
every writer is known for their writing style,
their preferred subject matter,
and by the way that they describe something in words;
however, you don’t always get to hear a writer
‘speak’ in their own voice –
to tell you about themselves,
and to get the chance
to introduce yourself to a writer –
because, most of the time,
writers are what they write:
most writers are the characters that they create.
Who a writer actually is as a person
is something that, as a reader, we may never learn.

Most writers enjoy the solitude of their own space,
their own time, their own breathing room,
to be able to successfully descend the elevator
into themselves, and their imagination,
so that they can focus on the puzzle they are figuring out;
most writers have an idea
about what they want to write about,
and what they want to say,
as soon as they begin –
however, if you were to ask a writer:
‘did it turn out exactly as you planned it?’ –
they would most likely laugh in your face;
because writing is a journey,
and, like all great journeys,
unexpected things tend to happen along the way.
Things of great importance should never be rushed,
and a writer will tell you
that “something is done when it is done” –
and allowing for mistakes,
and accepting that sometimes
you might need to change things, is a big help.
In my experience, and in my understanding,
a writer writes much –
however never gets the time, or the opportunity,
to say exactly what they want to say.

Being a writer is like being a god –
who has the power to create new worlds,
and bring to life new characters
and people out of thin-air.
Meeting a writer is an exciting moment –
one filled with genuine adulation, awe, and love,
and you just feel so lucky, fortunate,
and it genuinely feels magical to be in their presence.
No writer will ever truly die,
no author could ever truly be forgotten –
because their stories and creations
will always be somewhere out there.
Even the most amazing, supreme, incredible,
inspiring, prolific, writers
only have a short time
to be who they were born to be,
and to let their voice be heard
by the few or the many,
before they say goodnight for the last time –
and following their sad,
and their always untimely passing,
there always follows a ghostly, magical,
and deathly silence.

In memory of Terry Pratchett

My Poem ‘Soleil’

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

The sun is inspiration;
outside in the sunlight
is where everybody wants to be;
whether you live in Canada,
Great Britain, Australia, or Peru,
being touched by the sun
is a feeling that brings out
something good and happy in you –
at least it always does with me.

A sunny day always reminds me of my childhood;
a bright and beautiful morning always reminds me
and makes me think of family holidays;
watching the world and seeing it clear and golden
is how I wish it would look every minute of every day.

There is an energy that you can feel and see;
there are colours that just pop
with greater intensity and vibrancy;
there is a rhythm in the air,
like a unique music composed solely by nature,
that vibrates from every direction –
as if every atom of the world
were its own individual speaker;
there is a connection that binds us all to our maker.

Windows become mirrors;
the leaves of the trees
look as if they themselves are emanating light;
the meaning of life, and the perfection of our world,
can be perceived while swimming in an ocean of water,
or while on a boat making your way down a river;
there are worlds within worlds happening all at once,
and almost everything there is to be found
is occurring beyond our sight.

Hummingbirds, butterflies, birds, dolphins, whales,
men, women, children, animals, flowers, plants, insects –
every form of life has its own relationship
to the star of Earth’s blue sky;
to me, there are some things
that just perfectly represent and symbolize
intense and eternal love;
just like a person,
to a star there is always more than meets the eye;
to me, there will always be
something phenomenal about being
in the light of the sun.