writing

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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My Poem ‘The Feeling’

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

Every day I am overcome
by a sudden intense wave of emotion,
like the tide of an ocean;
I could be doing anything, at any time,
when I feel a light-headiness
that is one of a kind;
and when I feel it,
I know that something is about to happen,
I know something is happening right now,
I know something is building and rising
and growing in so many ways
like the sun in the sky.

Our internal thoughts
have more of an external influence
than we may think they might:
I have imagined things happening,
and they have come true;
I have come face to face
with something I dreamed about one night;
I have seen things turn around on themselves
and show themselves to me again,
as if they were brand new.

My thoughts often bubble up
and leave the confines of my mind;
my emotions are noticeable
and can be read in every language that I know –
from the sound of my voice,
to the tone of my poetry,
to the language of my body;
my instincts know know to read most of the universe’s signs,
but I always find myself somewhere
I might never at first would have thought to go –
which makes the choices that I make
sometimes more spontaneous and in the moment,
and they are phenomena of my life
that have stayed with me.

I remember where I was, who I was with,
what I thought, what I felt,
what every second meant,
when something that turned out to be life-changing for me
flashed into existence, and changed me,
and propelled me on a new course and direction, as a result;
I have the gift to see myself
as I was at a particular time in my life,
and although those days will never happen again,
and those moments can’t ever be repeated,
I am truly blessed to have lived a life
that has been so eventful, epic, inspiring, and full.

I am nostalgic;
I am someone who looks at old photographs,
and says to myself: remember when?
I believe that love is more than a word,
more than a simple emotion,
more than even a poet or a song could ever truly express –
because it is real ‘magic’;
I don’t let go of anything without a fight,
especially something that I believe
with all my heart was heaven-sent;
I know I am not dreaming
when the thing that I am imagining
is so amazing, awe-inspiring, and heart-racing,
that it becomes the dominant thought
that I can’t stop thinking,
and when what I am seeing is so exciting
it becomes the defining meaning of everything
I am intensely feeling.

My Poem ‘The Prolific’

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

Learning how to write
is like learning how to walk –
finding your voice,
and finding your rhythm of speech,
is like when you discover
that you have the gift to be able to talk;
seeing things and allowing them to inspire you
sounds easy when someone says it,
but, for everyone, it takes a while to make a connection
between what you are seeing
and why it is so inspiring –
even for a published one of a kind prolific poet;
the gift to be able to stand upright without falling over
is all about finding your own balance,
and writing is like that too:
the idea, the thought, the growth, the detail,
the quintessential individual identity
that every writer and artist has
all proliferates and shows
in whatever they are creating.

Beethoven played, heard, and made,
entire symphonies in his mind –
he knew sound and music so well,
and he had the most virtuosic command
and knowledge of instruments,
that he didn’t need to hear a thing,
because he was a prodigy;
Shakespeare spent entire morning and nights
in Winters and Summers,
crafting, staging, and writing,
the most epic, incredible, phenomenal,
plays and timeless stories the world has ever seen,
read, or heard, that will continue to inform
the entire world for eons to come –
however, during the days
when he was not as well known as he is today,
in the days in which he lived,
William Shakespeare was not thought of as highly
and spoken of with as much esteem,
as he is now: I, however, believe
that Shakespeare’s first love,
and the thing that made him the most happy,
was his sonnets and everything that he said
and expressed through poetry.

When I first began writing poetry,
I used to perhaps write a poem a week –
and then I only shared what I wrote
with a small group of friends;
as expressing my thoughts,
and writing them down in the form of a poem,
became more and more important to me,
I started to write more and share more regularly;
when I realized that instead of writing something
once a week for someone, I was now writing twice a week,
every other day, and then every day,
I knew that writing, especially my poetry,
was no longer just a past-time for me –
it was a passion, a way of life,
a journey that had no end,
and every time I write a poem now
I cannot ever shake the feeling within me, of me,
that makes me happy, when I am writing my poetry.

There are some words that are sometimes over-used,
however there are only some words that could ever express
what something means to you at a particular moment:
love, amazing, awesome, special, epic;
but when I use a word,
when someone uses a words to describe me,
I can tell you that the reason I am using a particular word
is indescribably heartfelt and true –
because words mean a lot to me,
and I use them with great care and attention,
as a poet or a writer should;
and as an artist who knows their art
like the back of the hand,
and who thinks of themselves,
and who people often describe them as being,
in my opinion, is one of the best things
anyone could ever be, or be called:
someone who is wonderfully ‘prolific’.

My Poem ‘Unforgettable Sixth Avenue’

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

They don’t understand;
how could they?
Everything that happened,
everything that I wrote,
happened to me,
and I wrote it in my words
and from my perspective;
how could anyone else understand
what it was like to go through what I went through,
if they were not there at the time,
if they did not feel how I felt in the moment;
people tell that they like what I write,
but I wonder what they actually think,
what they imagine when they read something of mine,
and I wonder if anyone will ever be able
to truly be of the same mind as me.

I remember walking the streets of New York City,
like it was yesterday –
in my mind, and in my heart, I am still there,
and I want to be there:
I can still hear the sounds,
I can still taste the air,
I can still see the lights of Broadway at night,
I can still remember the moment I was found,
I can still go back there anytime of the day
in my imagination and daydream
even the smallest of details
that I still remember and love to this day,
as I will everyday.

I treasure my memories,
and I replay the best and the brightest of my life
as often as I can;
I miss people, places, times,
that will always be special to me,
more than anyone could imagine;
I relive my youth,
because those years I never want to lose;
I listen to the songs that I remember hearing
on the radio as a child, and I understand them
and what they were trying to say to me then,
now more than I ever knew.

My heart has been open wide since the day I was born;
every day of my life,
something unforgettable has happened to me,
and I remember so much
I wonder if there is anyone else
who loves being alive
and remembering their experiences as much as I do;
even now, I can easily flashback
to the most perfect day of my life,
to the night when I wrote my first poem,
or to the moment when I remember
standing on the street corner
on the “Avenue of the Americas”,
on a beautiful September afternoon,
in Manhattan, in New York City,
and being in awe of the entire world
and the gifts of life
that I can still see happening right this second,
on Sixth Avenue.

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My Poem ‘Memory Box’

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

I thought about giving up writing once,
I even put all my books and notebooks together
and packed them away in a cardboard box;
I thought about giving up what I loved
and what had always given me profound happiness,
and I even thought I could change who I was
and forget about everyone I had met,
and everything I had written –
but that thought honestly only lasted for a day,
and in no time at all, I was seeing things,
being inspired by things, hearing things,
and wanting desperately to write in my notebook
a poem about them;
I didn’t lose my love for writing,
but I did have my writer’s identity taken away from me
and stripped from me, you could say;
and it broke my heart putting all my cherished poems
and memories away, and putting them under my bed,
and I thought that the only time
that they would see the light of day
would be when I was reminiscing to a friend
that I used to be a poet, at some time in the future
when I was old and grey.
However, do you know what happened?
Do you know what I did?
I did something, that at the time was not planned:
I started again, I allowed myself to feel shame and pain,
and then I took my notebooks
from the box I had packed them away in,
I went to the next blank page of my latest notebook,
and I started to write a new poem
with my favourite silver pen –
I wrote one of my favourite poems, “The Phoenix”,
and I kept writing and writing and writing,
and only occasionally stopping to look back
before carrying on in the direction I had been walking,
I took pride in my gift again,
and I felt like myself again,
because I was writing again.
The moral of my story, if any,
is that if you love something so much
do not run away from it,
do not put it in a box and say “Fine, forget it!”,
because by doing so you are hurting yourself,
you are committing a mistake,
you are doing something that is hard to come back from
before it is too late;
take it from me:
nobody is perfect,
everybody makes mistakes,
the people who try to bring you to your knees
can only do so if you allow your entire world
to descend into a flux;
so, if you ever doubt yourself,
if you ever question what you are doing,
if you ever think that you would be better off
without the one thing that you most adore and love,
put that thought out of your mind
the second that your fear delivers it to you.
If you are an artist, keep making art;
if you are a singer or a musician,
keep making you music;
and if you are a writer, keep writing
and don’t ever believe that all of what makes you so special
could ever easily just be put away,
and forgotten about for a rainy day,
in any kind of memory box.

My Poem ‘Heart of a Poet’

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

The heart of a poet
is one of the most beautiful, amazing,
wonderful, things in the universe;
the heart of a poet is one of the most pure,
enlightening, electrifying, and special,
miracles of life, that blesses whom it belongs
with a mastery of the most spectacular
and gorgeous of words;
the heart of a poet is always open,
and it feels things and experiences
exceedingly more deeply than usual;
the heart of a poet is like an open wound,
like an open book, and on each page
that the poetry of the poet is written on,
with every word of every verse,
the ink from the poet’s pen
flows like that of the poet’s own blood,
and every drop, or full-stop, is undeniably magical.

The heart of a poet was brought to life,
and beats every day of its life,
because of the the muse, the spark,
that inspired it right from the start;
the heart of a poet has its own distinctive
and individual rhythm, and a signature mark of the poet,
that anybody, no matter when or where,
can feel and see, even in the dark;
the heart of a poet aches to touch the heart of another,
and begs to be touched;
the heart of a poet always bounces back,
even if it has been hurt, or crushed;
the heart of a poet is bigger on the inside,
and even during an entire lifetime
it is impossible for it to completely be filled;
the heart of a poet is at home anywhere –
in space, in the air, under the sea,
breathing in the openness and beauty of a sunny afternoon
looking at the staggering scenery of nature
that surrounds a countryside field.

The heart of a poet is sensitive to sights, sounds,
smells, touch, and emotions;
the heart of a poet is one of life-long love and devotion;
the heart of a poet is better described of as a fire;
the heart of a poet is capable of unbelievable generosity,
and its greatest hope is to be inspired, and to inspire.
The heart of a poet is not given away easily,
and, like trust, you must earn the gift of the bond it forges,
and it should never be taken lightly, or for granted;
the heart of a poet is always scarred,
overactive, unique, and haunted;
the heart of a poet is able to transform
any full-grown adult into a big kid;
there is nothing in the entire world
you will ever encounter, see, read, hear, and touch,
more phenomenal and epic,
than the immortal heart of a poet.

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My Poem ‘Read my thoughts’

Mark Hastings Uncategorized , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

I am like an open book;
people can usually tell
what I am feeling with a single look;
I express myself a lot;
when I am not speaking I am thinking;
I always have an idea on my mind,
and an expression on my face to be read
that tells its own story –
like the time of a clock;
even when I am dreaming, sleeping, my mind is racing,
and like someone with all the right moves,
in one way or another, I am always dancing.

My thoughts are a constant universe of stars being born;
my dreams are my memories and hopes
being imagined and projected for only me to see;
the eternal hope in my heart and soul
is like an endless, beautiful, and breathtaking new dawn;
my poetry is my gift, my broadcast, my performance,
my love, fears, and desires, printed on a page,
that is the most honest expression of what lies within me,
and what I like to think is the best of me.

Every gift of connection and sharing touches me deeply;
what I say I always intend to be meaningful,
special, heartfelt, and not overly serious, deep, or cheesy;
everyone who knows me, or has met me,
I hope continues to still have the same feeling about me
that they had when they first met me,
and they still remember their first impression of me;
my lasting hope is that everybody remembers me
for the good things I have done,
and share something of me, or about me,
that might serve to inspire others infinitely.

It is not important to say everything you are thinking,
however if you are like me you can’t ever keep
what is on your mind locked away behind lock and key;
it is not everybody who is lucky enough
to be able to paint their own portrait
and display it for all the world to see.
When fate calls you, when destiny sends you a sign,
if you can see what is right in front of you,
and if you can read between the lines,
you can read my mind,
you can feel the meaning of something
before you even know what it is all for.
So, if you ever meet me, if you ever see me,
if you read something that I have written,
if you happen to pick up one of my books,
then I can guarantee you that without too much effort at all,
you will easily be able to read my thoughts.

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My Poem ‘No Filter’

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

A beautiful, gorgeous, sunny, warm morning –
with blue sky above, multiple reflections all around,
people coming and going, living, breathing,
seeing, experiencing, and music playing everywhere you are,
and a different voice for every hour that you hear.

I am sitting with a wonderful cup of coffee,
at a table next to a wall of windows
that stretch as far as the eye can see;
I am looking out at the city,
basking in the daylight of sunlight,
feeling energized and inspired
by the atmosphere of outside and inside;
I am seeing, listening, drinking,
thinking, dreaming, feeling,
and doing my favourite thing: writing poetry.

I am in plain sight, and it is as if no one can see me,
or is interested in me, or what I am doing –
nobody would ever think to approach me,
and ask me what I am writing;
however, if someone were to ask me what I am doing,
or how I was feeling, I would tell them that
the only way that I can describe how I am feeling
at this exact moment, is to say that:
I feel as if I am a bird in the sky,
hovering above the rest of the world,
not even needing to flap my wings too much
in any way at any time –
because I know that there are times
when instead of exerting yourself
with a lot of flapping about,
sometimes you can get to where you need to be
by simply using the external forces that surround you,
and using them, if you have the means,
to simply and silently glide.

As I look at the world,
the natural daylight instantly highlights the colours,
the details, the resonant aura of everything,
and the reason for things to be the way
that they click into place;
as I see the spectrum of existence and life jump out at me,
I have the biggest smile on my face;
as I look to the horizon,
and then to what I see right in front of me,
the scale and the impact that hits me
of certain things, that for some reason interest me,
instantly inspire me, and I see patterns repeating,
and shapes that have meaning;
I see and read emotions, attitudes, interests, tastes,
on the faces and in the actions of everybody,
and I am intrigued and fascinated;
and I also see things that I would change, if I could –
if I could just blink, or snap my fingers,
and change someone’s direction,
or show them another choice to make,
or an alternative to something I can see they are about to do –
however, I am merely an observer, a poet,
someone who can only say what he sees,
and express how something makes him feel,
and, though sometimes I wish I were,
I am far from omnipotent,
and that is a good thing.

Life is what it is;
the world is many things,
and is in many states of being, all at once;
some things that happen can feel like a magic trick;
everyone can believe anything they want.
Whether in the bloom of spring;
whether in the cold but beautiful light and air of winter;
whether you are doing something you have done before,
or whether you are being blessed
with the sight of something you cannot ever remember
at any time before seeing;
whether you are sitting, standing, lying, waiting,
and you have a chance, a moment, to look around
and take in life and the world,
do so if you can with perfect vision
and with no need for a filter.

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My Poem ‘Let me go, and I will run’

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

It’s fun to let your thoughts drift away from you;
it’s good to let your thoughts run away from you;
it’s exciting to experience your thoughts changing;
it’s incredible to have an idea
that spontaneously pops into your head,
as if from out of nowhere,
which just takes over every other thought of your mind
and function of your body –
and which also becomes all that you can talk about,
and to you it is all that is worth saying.

I have a brand new idea for something,
usually for the title of a new poem,
every hour of every day;
however, of the sixty ideas that I have,
by the end of every hour, they have become one idea,
and by the end of every day –
usually just before I fall asleep –
the first words of a perfect thought,
and the first verse of poetry of my own imagining,
has been ingrained in my consciousness,
and is just waiting to be written,
in my own unique way.

Ideas are important;
every idea that I have ever had
has set my imagination on fire;
ideas are building blocks, as well as foundations;
of all the ideas that I have had,
deciding one day to write down
what was on my mind at the time
was the one muse that is still a constant;
ideas are the offspring of desire;
every idea I have had has enlightened me in some way;
and following the path of an idea,
and taking the journey of the eternal dreamer,
is my way of reaching a higher state of consciousness,
and in a way it is my own form of meditation.

Ever since I was a kid,
I have been used to exerting my body
and using every physical muscle at my disposal
to achieve feats of strength and speed;
as a child, as an adult,
I was off like a shot,
running my heart out to somewhere I needed to get to,
and perhaps to someone in need;
ever since writing has become my passion, my devotion,
my love, and one of the defining parts of my heart, my soul,
my identity, there has not been a day that has gone by
when the question ‘what am I going to write about next?’
has not been uttered by me –
and even now I am asking that question, and answering it also,
and to me there is no more perfect
and beautiful form of writing than poetry.

When I can be myself;
when I am not constrained by glass, brick, wood, metal,
windows, doors, walls, and locks;
when I can step out into the daylight
and feel the beating warmth of the sun;
when I am unaware of time, and I can move with stealth;
when I am thinking wholly, completely,
and tantalizingly, out of the box;
when I can cut the strings and the ties
of anything that might be holding me, my mind,
my imagination, back in any way –
I promise you, world: let me go, and I will run.

My Poem ‘The Perfect Song’

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

The perfect song to wake up to;
the perfect song to get you ready for the day ahead;
the perfect song to work to while listening to;
the perfect song that you can’t mute,
which just continues to replay over and over in your head.

The perfect song to listen to while writing;
the perfect song to listen to while you are exercising;
the perfect song to make you happy;
the perfect song to listen to while drinking a cup of coffee.

The perfect song to inspire you;
the perfect song to motivate you;
the perfect song to make you feel;
the perfect song to help you heal.

The perfect song to walk down the aisle to at your wedding;
the perfect song to unlock your memories;
the perfect song to walk through the beautiful countryside,
while listening to that which magically enhances
everything that you see –
like being shown the muse of an epic and moving painting;
the perfect song that is also the most wonderful and incredible,
insightful, amazing, gift of spoken word and musical poetry.

The perfect song to soak in the bath to;
the perfect song to listen to while on a long journey;
the perfect song to sing to, and make your body move;
the perfect song to show you the stars,
and allow you to hear the music of infinity.

The perfect song says everything that you want to say,
and it may even be a song that was created before you were born;
the perfect song says more;
the perfect song says that there is someone who understands you,
and they know what you have been through;
the perfect song is the perfect song to you,
because it can lift you up when you are down,
and when the world feels wrong;
the perfect song says everything about you
at a particular moment in your life,
and from the first second that you heard it,
and it turned a switch inside you permanently on,
you knew in your mind and in your heart
that you had found the perfect song.