writing

My Poem ‘Mark of a Masterpiece’

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

What makes something a masterpiece,
what makes something second to none,
and perfect, is not a science,
and cannot be predicted;
what makes something stand out,
and perhaps be considered an epic
and a profound work of art,
all comes down to feeling,
emotion, timing, and an electric shock
of energy like a bolt of lightning.

A masterpiece calls to your heart
and gives rise to an overwhelming sensation;
a masterpiece elates you and changes you;
a masterpiece sews the seed of inspiration;
a masterpiece is like the sun in the sky,
or an island on an ocean,
with an endless message from the artist and creator
for you, to perhaps keep its essence
replaying in your mind
like an unforgettable tune.

Everybody has their own idea of perfection –
to some, a place of silence is a paradise;
everybody can remember a day and a time
when they arrived somewhere,
and they knew in their heart
that they had reached their destination;
to some, a person of great beauty in all forms,
and in every side of themselves,
would be somebodies categorical definition
of breathtaking exquisiteness
that they have ever seen with their eyes,
or felt with their senses.

A musical phenomenon to your ears;
a visual extravaganza to your eyes;
a hallucinogenic overload of your thoughts;
an intense and extreme maximizing and amplifying
of touch, taste, smell, greater than the impact
they had on you when you were born;
anything and everything that impacts you,
and leaves an impression on you,
is a masterpiece that is a cure
for any and all of your fears.

I have seen masterpieces of nature;
I have been entranced by masterpieces of art;
I have tasted masterpieces of flavours;
I have felt masterpieces of a person’s heart;
to me, anything that brings about a change
in a person, a place, a feeling, an idea,
about the meaning of life,
is as important as understanding and peace,
and is the true mark of a masterpiece.

My Poem ‘Don’t stay silent’

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Every day, someone is abused by someone else;
every hour, someone is subjected
to a storm of words that cut like a knife;
every minute, someone – a child, a man,
or even just a woman walking her dog –
is made to feel as if they are just a piece of meat,
a punching bag, and attacked like a wild animal,
and beaten both verbally and physically,
and looked upon as someone who is helpless,
and THIS MUST STOP! THIS MUST NOT HAPPEN!
Everyone who just wants to live their life
and walk through life unimpeded and unscarred,
deserves to have that god-given freedom and rite.

I am disgusted to hear that son’s
who have not been taught how to respect a woman,
or any human being, are terrorizing women of all ages
and giving them nightmares of fear;
I am at a loss to understand
what gives anybody the rite to make someone
burst into tears;
I cannot believe that in this day and age
abuse is still happening behind closed doors,
as well as in broad-daylight.

Rape, or even the threat of rape, is intolerable;
abusers in all shapes and forms
must be held accountable;
we must all do all that we can
to educate children to respect
their fellow man and woman;
and our animals also need protecting –
we must all do all that we can
to stop all despicable acts of abuse of every kind,
and it should be one of society’s most important pledges.

People’s stories of abuse deserve to be told
and brought into the light,
and they should not be quietened.
Abuse needs to be spoken about and eradicated,
and the victims of abuse,
for the sake of those who are too afraid to speak out,
must not continue to stay silent.

My Poem ‘Sputnik’

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It’s six o’clock at night,
on a cool spring evening,
and I am looking out my window to the sky
at a beautiful gold and blue light,
watching the sun setting –
and the sight of it takes my breath away;
and within seconds,
I watch the sky go from red to grey,
as all that I see becomes draped
in the dark veil of twilight.

I watch the stars appear;
I see the planets rise;
I see the ultimate display of the constellations,
and I name them one by one, as I imagine them;
and then, when I see the constellation of Orion,
I am awestruck by how wonderfully its stars
shine so clear, and my entire vision
is that of an infinite number of stars in my eyes.

I spent my day taking in nature,
listening to the world around me,
being captivated by birdsong,
and watching the building of bird-nests
in the branches of the trees above,
and in the hedges of the ground below;
I spent my day believing that I knew
all in life that I could ever need to know.

Right this second, I feel like a satellite;
right at this moment, I feel like I am alone in space,
and no one even knows I am here –
because I am just a faint moving white dot in the dark sky;
right now, I feel so far away –
like a distant flickering candle
in the window of a cottage atop a hill;
and barely noticeable –
like a star of the night;
now, I look down,
and around at everyone else on Earth,
and I see what I can of their lives:
I see true happiness,
and I wonder what that feels like.

I look up at the moon;
I gaze up at the stars;
I see the heavens –
the place from where we all came from,
and I dream that I may return there soon;
I imagine that I can reach up and touch the sky,
because in the dark the void of space
does not seem that far.

Every human being has looked above
on a star-lit night, and wondered:
are we alone in the universe?
And, is anybody else out there?
I have asked myself that very question,
and I know the definitive answer –
and I speak that answer aloud every night.

Everybody sometimes goes into their own
“hibernation mode”, in which they appear
to leave their worries in another place somewhere;
I have always found it difficult
to remove myself from the world,
and not think about what is always on my mind;
some days I wish I could be a living, breathing,
astronaut floating in space –
or a part of Earth, circling the planet,
like the very first satellite: Sputnik.

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My Poem ‘The Thinker’

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I am often observed
“lost in thought”,
and staring into space;
if you were to follow my eye-line
and believe that I were looking at nothing,
I am afraid that you would be wrong –
because, secretly, quietly, tantalizingly,
I am looking at the world,
and seeing everything:
the nature of life,
the order in the chaos;
and, as always,
what I see is constantly changing,
and the universe is always inspiring.

I sometimes forget where I am;
I sometimes lose all track of time;
I sometimes can be so enraptured
in the writing of a new poem,
that my heart-heat slows –
however I feel completely fine,
because I am in a maelstrom of fascination,
and I know that I could not stop writing
even if I wanted to,
because I am surfing like a pro
on a wave of inspiration.

Human consciousness, Human thought,
Human focus, Human art,
is our greatest gift
and our most wonderful achievement,
as a race and as a species:
we are thinkers, and believers of things;
in our own unique way, in my opinion,
no two people could ever think exactly the same –
even if they shared a link
that was telepathic, or empathic –
because we all live in different existences of degrees;
I do, however, believe that,
no matter how different we are from each other,
we are all bound together in infinite ways –
every action, every thought, every emotion,
creates it’s own interactive and universal tidal-wave.

Thinking as deeply and intensely as I do
is a wonderful gift to be able to unfurl
and wrap myself up in;
and, in turn, I do see some things
as questions that needs answers –
however, I would rather be who I am,
than someone who does not realize
the power that they have between their ears –
and that is why I am glad,
and that is why I am content,
to continue to be thought of as a writer,
and most importantly as a thinker.

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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 ‘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 ‘Deathly Silence’

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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 ‘Cogito ergo sum’

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

When I wake up every morning,
I know that I am poet,
and I want to be a writer;
when I see something,
I am inspired by an idea,
I become, I feel, and I connect,
with what fills and stimulates
my mind and my consciousness;
I take what has been inspired into being
and I run with it all the way
to the end of my imagination;
I find a way to connect the dots
in an imaginative way,
and express what I see
with undivided focus.

I can look at the world
and see any reality that I can imagine;
I can hear a song
and dream of a place, while still awake;
I can see something,
and then get this rush of excitement
deep inside me, that overflows from me,
that feels like I am
about to take a leap from a mountain;
I can feel things
that no one in the world,
no matter how good an actor they were,
could ever fake.

If I were not a writer,
I do not know who I would be;
if I did not write poetry,
I would not be me;
if I were not inspired
and excited about the world
as much as I am,
I think I would be missing a piece of my soul;
if I did not give myself fully
and wholeheartedly to what was right in front of me,
and what made me feel free,
then I would never know or remember
the feeling of the sun on my skin,
and every rainy day
would always be one that was cold.

The first place to start from,
and the first person to know,
is always the place,
and is always the person,
that you know better than anywhere, or anyone,
and you can always rely on the first instinct
and the first thought that comes to your mind;
there is no place you can go
and not see the person in the mirror,
from whom you can never hide;
if you want to know who to be,
if you want to know what to do,
if you want to have faith in something, or someone,
but you just can’t decide what to believe, or who –
close your eyes, know yourself,
and recite to yourself
one of my favourite, and one of the most profound,
latin phrases you could ever know the meaning of:
cogito ergo sum.

My Poem ‘From Scratch’

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How do you build a house
without a blue-print?
How do you piece together a puzzle
without first seeing a picture
of how the completed image appears?
What makes a true friendship?
Where do you go
when you have caught all of your tears?

You can’t ever truly go back,
some things are meant to be broken and stay unmended;
some things are just not meant to last;
if we didn’t care,
then there wouldn’t be times when we feel offended.

I am like my Dad,
I am a man of deep feelings;
if I have been hurt by someone,
or something, I do feel sad;
if you start to believe what other people say
and think about you,
one day you might discover that while you were listening,
thinking, and obsessing, you were overlooking
the real thing that you have been missing.

If you had never heard music before,
and someone played you a song,
would you know what it was?
Would you still be able to feel
the same flood of emotions,
and be transported away in the only way
that music knows how to, and always does?

If you had never written a single poem before,
and then one day you sat down and wrote one for someone,
could you say what you wanted to say?
If someone meant the world to you,
how would you tell them, and in what way?

If I had to start from scratch,
if I had to reset and make the same choices over again,
if I could turn back time as easy as you can
with the hands of a clock, or a watch,
if I could talk to the dearly-departed who I once knew,
there are some things that I would love to say
for the very last time, and truly say a fitting goodbye
to an old friend.

Times must change;
everyone must meet their match;
you should never run away from a moment of rage;
when you think you have lost it all,
pick up the pieces that you can see scattered around you,
go home, and start again from scratch.

My Poem ‘Here be dragons’

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

Legends of dragons
populate and inflame
epics, stories, myths, and traditions,
throughout the world, and have done so for centuries;
dragons of every shape, size, and colour,
have took flight in tales,
and have been imagined in a myriad of ways
by some of Earth’s greatest storytellers of fantasy;
and the characteristic gift of the fire
that a dragon can produce
is something wonderful
that has always fascinated me.

Ever since I was a young boy,
I have known about dragons,
read books that had dragons, or a dragon,
as a character important to the plot of a story,
and I have watched dragons be brought to life,
and I have to say that not for a moment
have I ever felt any sort of fear
at the thought of such a fantastic creature
that perfectly symbolizes a world of magic,
mythology, sorcery, and other-worldly
wonderful creations, that burn in our imaginations,
and allow our ideas of the possible and the impossible
to be eclipsed by the veil
of something and somewhere extraordinary.

Dragons are characterized as spellbinding,
unstoppable, fierce, arrogant,
but also blessed with extreme intelligence,
in almost every story they have been featured in,
and their presence is not one
that should ever be underestimated.
There are many reasons as to why dragons
are still a very important symbol in many cultures,
and there are incredible works of art
that have been created depicting dragons
for thousands of years – and to this day,
the thought and the image of a dragon
is one that will forever resonate.

Every country has written its own literature of dragons,
and many heroes in such heroic and epic tales
of phenomenal bravery have seen the defeat
and the slaying of a dragon as the intended end-result
and the defining act of a quest;
some stories paint dragons as a sign of luck, wealth,
strength, the universe, existence, importance,
pride, and magnificence;
many dragons have been given names,
and their identities are known to more people
than at first might be guessed;
even on maps that were drawn to show
the cartography of the world, as it was thought to appear,
in the places on those maps that were still unexplored,
and may potentially be dangerous,
they had written on them for all the world to read:
“here be dragons”.

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