poem

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 ‘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.

My Poem ‘Tenacious Me’

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

I don’t give up easily; I don’t let go quickly;
I am probably the most dogged person you will ever meet;
I am steady in a crisis, and even in an earthquake
I do not lose my feet;
I remember, I repeat, I think –
I turn things over and over in my mind,
like dirty clothes in a washing machine;
it doesn’t bother me if it rains, spits,
or pours down and soaks me from head to toe,
because I know why it has to rain on me and on everybody –
because I have seen what I have seen
and because I have been where I have been.
It’s raining right this second;
the sky is full of clouds of light grey;
it is a perfect day for you if you are a duck
paddling in the water of a duck-pond;
the rain is temporary, and tomorrow the sun will come out,
that blue sky will bless us, and the rain,
and our troubled thoughts, will have been washed away
and will belong to yesterday.

Everybody has their share of mistakes
packed away in the closet at the back of their mind,
which do not often see the light of day after we have made them –
unless we accidentally make the same mistakes again;
everybody has scars from the personal wars they have been through,
which we only show to a small trusted number of people
who know us inside and out, and any explanation as to where,
when, and why, we came to acquire them we need not explain.

I am someone who learns lessons from life –
my life, my experiences, other people’s life,
other people’s hurdles;
I am someone who doggedly persists at something until I get it right,
but I still know the difference between making things fit naturally,
and trying to completely fit a square inside a circle.
I never lack confidence, nor determination,
and I will tirelessly work to make something
as close to perfect as it can possibly be;
I am someone who wakes up every morning
and wants to be the one someone and anyone can call on,
and that, unapologetically, is tenacious me.

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 ‘Luna Fortuna’

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

The moon this morning is shimmering and golden,
the moon this morning is low in the sky
and almost touching the horizon;
the moon this morning was unlike anything I had ever seen,
the moon this morning was larger than I had ever seen it before,
and was the size of a planet –
as if I had woken up and the Earth now had its own
sandy-coloured and glistening twin.

The moon this morning took my breath away;
the moon this morning instantly inspired me in so many ways;
the moon this morning was an omen;
the moon this morning was gifting me a sign of the future,
a manifestation of luck, and to me every time I think about it
I am convinced that it was telling me my fortune.

The moon this morning,
the glowing globe that shone briefly like a second sun,
was like something out of a dream;
the moon this morning that made my heart race and my imagination run,
I embraced every second that I saw it,
on this clear winter morning,
in the first week of the year, of 2015.

I could have stopped and stared at the moon this morning for hours,
even days, without my attention drifting;
however, its appearance, and its personification, in my life
left my sight in no time at all –
but not before I made a wish, and I received in return
and in reply an instant message and blessing:
I believe that the ancient and eternal goddess Fortuna
was present this morning in the form of the moon,
and I believe that the goddess of fate was looking down
on the world and on us all, to give us her favour and grace,
and her approval, and to make real our dreams,
and set us forth on the path of our destined and fated fortune.

My Poem ‘The Falcon’

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

Above my head,
soaring in the perfect, beautiful, morning, blue sky,
I see a falcon flying, hovering, floating on air,
looking, seeing, listening, hearing, feeling,
silently like a shadow, a silhouette,
passing right through the intense golden
and white light of the sun’s glare and stare.

The sight of the falcon is hypnotic;
the gift of the falcon is fantastic;
the freedom of the falcon is breathtaking;
the feeling I get from the falcon is amazing.

Watching the falcon move over the fields,
and cast a shadow over the ground below,
the spirit of the falcon looks even more incredible to behold,
because it’s colour is so dark upon the white frosty fields
that are the colour of snow.

I have always been in awe of birds,
especially “birds of prey” –
Eagles, Crows, Hawks, and in particular
the great and amazing Peregrine Falcon;
I have always felt as if I were an animal
who had reincarnated at the end of my life, in another life,
and my spirit used to be once in the body of a bird,
and I used to have feathers and wings,
and senses and instincts that were heightened and always turned on.
I have always wanted to live the life of a bird,
and fly like the wind;
I have always wanted to live free and unbounded,
and be with whom my spirit is, and has been, eternally twinned.

I envy the falcon that I see;
I empathize and I feel the beat of its heart;
I can fully imagine the exhilaration,
and how important and powerful it experiences
and feels every sensation;
I wish I had literal and physical wings,
so that I may not have to wait to go where I want to go
at any time, and fly all the time;
and if I had the choice one day about who or what
I might like to be in another future life,
I will take a second, I think, and then say
what I am thinking now:
I want to come back to life, and have the life,
and live the life of a falcon.

My Poem ‘To the dogs’

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

There is no more trusted,
nor a more loyal companion and best friend,
than man’s best friend;
there is no more attentive, comforting,
and loving, protector of a master,
than the part of the family
who loves nothing more
than to lie at the foot of your bed
and warm your feet as you sleep at night;
there is no more excited person on Earth
who could ever compare to the one
who would sit and wait for you all day long,
and want to greet you when you walk through
your home’s front door,
with an enthusiasm that feels sometimes
as if it has no end;
there is no more pure look of love
than that of your faithful family dog,
who is loyal to their owner to a fault,
and who would in a fight stand with their paws before you
and save you with every ounce of their bark and bite.

There is a bond that is bound eternally
between a dog and their human parents and friends
from the time they are a puppy;
there is a trust that is forged that is hard to break;
there is nothing gives a dog more joy
than making their master happy;
there is a beautiful connection made
when a dog is given a name by their owner,
and you can tell that after they realize
that the name that is being called in their direction
is in fact the name that has been gifted to them
from the wagging of their tail,
and it is an acceptance of identity and obedience
that cannot be faked.

A lucky child is one who grows up with a pet to feed,
to look after, to play with, to walk, and to wash –
however, the most important thing that a child learns
from having a pet is that love and loyalty are a two-way street,
and that if you show true love you will receive love back in return,
especially from our four-legged canine friends
who look at us as if we were a god;
man’s best friend can also be woman’s best friend,
and without their human best friend they too would feel sad and lost;
I still remember my family pet who I loved when I was a little boy,
who brought to my family great joy
until she fell into an everlasting sleep never to wake again from,
and in honour of ‘Jess’,
and every member of her wonderful breed and species,
this poem of mine goes out and is dedicated to the dogs.