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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 ‘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 ‘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.

My Poem ‘Missing Words’

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

We read in sentences, not words;
we sometimes see words that are not there,
but are meant to be there;
we sometimes hear in our mind the unheard;
we all make connections
and take leaps of logic and imagination
when trying to make sense of something
that makes us feel, think, jump with joy, and care.

We all give a part of ourselves
to what we create, read, love, and see;
we all see and sculpt shapes of the clouds in the sky
in our mind and vision that resemble things
from our hopes and dreams;
we all take trips of instinct and intuition
when thinking about what is and what could be;
we can all draw the shape of a heart and share it,
and receive it, and instantly know what it means.

Our brains and our minds are more powerful
and more capable of navigating a path than we believe,
even one that might appear treacherous and impassable;
our accumulated knowledge
is deeper and richer than buried treasure,
and we sometimes know more than we think;
our individual way of seeing hope in chaos
is something that is truly magical;
our gift of seeing things before we see them in front of us
is an unbelievably incredible source of fantastic vision
and inspiration that take us anywhere and show us anything
with a blink.

Missing words are like puzzle pieces that we fill-in silently;
missing words are like invisible bridges
that come to life naturally and give meaning and feeling,
and they capture something’s spirit, like poetry;
missing words are always found,
and they always make themselves heard –
like nature does at sunset, with the evening song of all birds;
and if and when the moment calls for it,
you and your amazing mind will instantly seek out
and reach for the right words and they will be what were once
the missing words.

My Poem ‘Away We Go’

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

I am like the future.
I am the unstoppable;
I am the indomitable;
I am the unquestionable;
I am as I have been
and always will be;
I am here; I am there;
I am the unforgettable;
I am the poet of the forest;
I am the walker of the world;
I am the observer and writer
of the wonders of every sphere;
I am the proof that there is a strength in enduring;
I am a believer and true storyteller of tales
and experiences that point to a shared destiny,
that includes, connects, and combines,
every person and every life that has ever lived,
or will be lived;
I am someone who has seen hope brighten the world,
and given someone else, and myself,
the reason to be something and someone beyond imagining;
I am someone of infinite capacity,
whose story will go on beyond this life,
and whose voice will forever echo
along with the story of the stars;
I am someone who trusts his feelings and his instincts,
and I know a good person and an amazing person when I meet them,
and I can tell by just hearing someone’s voice,
and by looking into someone’s eye,
what lies in their soul and what is important in their heart.

I am hopeful; I am human;
I have a view of the universe and of life
that will never stop being beautiful;
I have in my heart and in my life a love and a power
that I promise will burn brighter and longer
than all the days and the seasons of the sun –
however, I am not on my own in this world of mine,
I am not the only one who sees the world as I see it:
in fact, I have shared a spectacular experience
and vision with a great many of the people that I have met,
and I constantly hold on to what I know, what I feel,
and what I have seen, and what I see
when I am struck by the lightning of connection and inspiration.

There is always somewhere you have not been;
there is always things that you do not yet know;
there are things out there to be found
that not even every dreams in all eternity
could completely imagine;
there are thoughts and dreams that are so breathtaking and special
they can give you the wings to fly,
and with them we can all defy gravity and dance with nature…
and before you know it you are off doing what you only dreamed of doing;
and with nothing in our way to stop us,
it is literally a matter of away we go!

My Poem ‘Epilogue’

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

Just as the sun must set,
so too must the last chapter of a story be written and told;
just as you might look back on your life
and remember things that you would much rather forget,
so too must you never forget that things happen
as they were always meant to happen,
and nothing that feels timeless can ever be old.

You never want a journey to end,
especially when you have been having the time of your life;
you never want to reach the end of a book,
because then you know all about the story within, its conclusion,
and even if you do read it again it will never be the same;
you never want to fall asleep,
especially if your life feels so amazing and dreamlike –
because you don’t want to wake up
and perhaps find out that your world
has just been a fantastic, idyllic, paradise;
you never want to put memories of places
and people to the back of your mind –
me, personally, I would rather have a moving picture gallery
of the good times in my life all around me,
and each one mounted beautifully in a gold frame.

Like most people,
I have known the very best of times,
I have known the very worst of times –
and usually both extremes of the other
within a short space of time;
like most people,
I have made the best of everything that I could –
especially when the road ahead, and my head,
felt like they were a winter field of dense fog;
like most people, I am a poet of his time –
however, what makes me who I am
will always be something that is hard to define;
unlike most people, at the start of every new day,
I write a brand new introduction
to introduce myself to the rest of the world;
and at the end of every day and brand new night,
I dream a dream that completely captures
and reflects my entire life –
like a mirror, or like a song –
in a brand new and beautifully written epilogue.

My Poem ‘The Great Detective’

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

The great detective knows the streets of his city
like he knows the indelible lines on the palms of his hands;
the great detective sees the world and its people
as if they are an intricately-interwoven and infinite puzzle;
the great detective walks with knowledge and conviction,
with a mystery to be solved in his pocket,
and he knows of nothing that he has not already considered,
thought about, and played out in his mind in a hundred ways,
and because he sees and knows only
solutions and answers to every question,
the great detective walks with phenomenal confidence;
the great detective is not oblivious to breaking a sweat
and fighting for what he believes is right,
should the time and need arise –
however, he strives to find a way to win the day
without having to encounter, or get involved,
in any sort of tussle of trouble.

The great detective is always thinking,
and his imagination and his thought process
is boundless and second to none;
the great detective has a vast palace of memory
in which he keeps the things he holds the most precious;
the great detective has a mind as fast,
and a tongue as quick, as a bullet from a gun;
the great detective has seen wonders,
and has met people who exhibit traits of humanity
from all ends of the spectrum,
but he is still proud to call himself
a member of the human race –
however, he believes that when people do start listening
to what he has to say he will be the saviour of all of us.

The great detective believes above all else
that through logic and reasoning
even the improbable can have a reason for being
that can be simplified to a simple sentence;
the great detective is not afraid to act
and think simultaneously, and adapt on the fly;
the great detective thrives on the rush of a new experience;
the great detective knows he is good, perhaps great, at what he does –
so when asked if he is modest about his gifts he does not have to lie.

The great detective can conjure up a deduction in the blink of an eye;
the great detective has seen things that are so beyond words
and description, the only other way to classify them
would be to think of them as magic;
the great detective himself cannot not pigeon-holed,
nor his ego or self-belief subdued –
although some have failed when they have tried;
the great detective is like a force of nature,
and even to himself, when he looks in the mirror at his reflection,
or when he considers the most perfect of callings for himself,
he always returns to the most elementary conclusion
at the end of his deductions:
and that is that, beyond anything or anybody that he could be,
he is, and was always meant to be, who he is,
and who he will always be – the great detective.

My Poem ‘Frogs’

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

Where are all the frogs?
I haven’t seen a frog in what seems like years.
When I was younger I could always rely
on seeing a frog in my garden after it had been raining,
beside a container filled with rainwater,
or on the damp ground underneath a moss-covered log.
I do not know what it is,
but for some reason the thought of a frog, or frogs,
makes me think of myself as a boy,
and of the times while growing up that I hold most dear.

When I was growing up frog were very popular –
on television programs, and in movies –
frogs were famous, they walked upright on two legs,
and they even had names:
names like ‘Freddie’, ‘Robin’, ‘Jeremy’,
and of course the most famous frog of them all –
and the star and the most well-known of all “The Muppets –
Kermit the frog;
when I was growing up frogs were cool, and all the rage;
I was always fascinated by the sight
and the sound of a frog when I came upon one –
I must admit, it did take me a while
to distinguish between the discovery of a frog,
or whether it was in fact a toad.

If I went down to my local duck pond,
if I went out into my back garden,
would I find a frog if I looked for one?
If I were to listen, would I hear the “ribbit”
of my favourite amphibian?
Is there somewhere where all the frogs go for the winter –
some kind of “amphibian paradise” that has lots of water
and insects for them to live on and devour –
I wonder, because I have not seen one in what feels like ages;
I just hope that one day I will see a living, breathing,
frog right in front of me;
I would think though that the thought, or the likelihood,
of seeing a frog would be more likely here
in our ponds and gardens,
than in another country – especially France.

Frogs of the world have been seen, and they thrive,
all over the planet, and they all sport different colours
and patterns on their skin, which makes them
easier to differentiate between themselves:
some have spots, some have markings that make them stand out;
there are frogs of the rain-forests of Earth
in which you would find frogs of any and every colour:
even frogs that could be seen in the dark –
golden, luminous, and of course the green
that most people might expect a frog to be
if they saw one, no doubt.

Frogs are incredibly important to this world, to us,
and even now we are learning more about them,
and while investigating their natural biology
we are learning about how they could potentially heal
and cure us of so many of the planet’s most
dangerous diseases and infections,
and perhaps we will all one day
thank frogs for the miracle of each of us beating the odds?

I hope that there are frogs out there that are right now sleeping;
I hope that there are frogs out there that are jumping;
I hope that there are frogs out there that are spawning;
I hope one day to see another frog eye to eye,
and to never know a day when I, or anyone,
will never see another frog –
however, I have a feeling that we will never see or hear
the last of frogs.

My Poem ‘Echo’

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

I often wonder why people go to the same places:
why they shop at the same shops,
why they eat at the same restaurants,
why they drink the same drink at the same pubs;
I often wonder why music, fashion, brands,
bands, writers, movies, have the impact that they have,
and why they become the thing that someone people genuinely love;
I often wonder the same questions as an ‘ad man’ would
of a product he is figuring out how to sell and advertise,
and get people thinking and talking about something;
I often wonder the same thoughts as an artist
has to think when they want to start turning their passion
into a means of living.
There must be thousands, if not millions,
of people like me in the world,
but I don’t think that there are many people
who ask questions and come up with their own informed answers
in spontaneous verses of poetry –
most people don’t have the time to think about things
that are outside of their normal way of thinking,
their circle, and do not have the passion that I have
for imagination, connection, freedom of expression,
through a love of life and words;
I would guess that there are not that many people
who can see what I see.

I have always been fascinated by what draws people
and all forms of life to what they desire
and want above all else:
when a moth is drawn to a flame,
that doesn’t mean that they want to kill themselves;
when an astronaut leaves the Earth,
that doesn’t mean that they want to separate themselves
from the world and from the rest of humanity;
when someone does something
that may have consequences for them in the future,
when they start they are not thinking
that what they are doing will one day be bad for their health;
when someone looks for an answer in a book,
or in a story about a time gone by,
they are looking for a truth already been found by someone else,
they are looking for clarity.

The rings within a tree are an echo of its life
and of the times that they have lived through;
the DNA of someone is an genealogical timeline
of an entire family of infinite members
that can be traced back and mapped to the beginning of time;
the frequency of every piece of man-made technology
can be followed back from the present day,
to the invention of the light-bulb,
to the manufacturing of the first wheel,
to the amazing and phenomenally detailed drawings of Leonardo da Vinci;
the entire meaning of all that matters
can be glimpsed in the natural art of the universe,
and in the first thought that always follows
when someone asks a question of why?
Everyone, and everything that happens,
exists, and is a thing of momentous importance,
in the endless ripples and waves that is
the universe of the big bang of creation’s echo.