Daily Prompt: Harmonize

We’re not always in harmony you and I.

Some days my notes fall flat,

slip down the stanzas,

don’t match the tempo

thumping on right next to me.

When I feel you vibrating in my bones,

so close it almost hurts,

yet my own sounds come out as broken

scratching things

my throat aches to match you.

My lungs burn to swell and bellow.

To reach the stage you’re standing on

unaware I’ve sunk behind the curtain.

But I know I have to wait the darkness out.

Fight to find the spotlight again.

 

via Daily Prompt: Harmonize


I’ve not really been writing over the last few months so I’m not sure how this poem will go down. I might be a bit rusty. For some reason I just haven’t been able to sit down and write properly for most of 2017 so I’m hoping this post will mark the start of getting myself back into the habit of getting those words down on paper and doing something with my time.

Constructive criticism is always welcome so if you have any thoughts on how to make this piece a better then please type away in the comments below. It’s amazing how much my writing has improved since I started this blog and the comments I’ve got over the years have been just as much of a help as the practice.

Music In The Toes

“My feet know more about music then you do!” he boasted one day at lunch. “My feet know good music when they hear it. They have taste!”

Sharma, who had know Majik for thirteen years, ignored her best friend and continued chewing her sandwich.

“They tingle!” Majik said. “When the music is good I get this tingle in my toes that tells me the music is good!”

Sharma swallowed and took another bite. Majik was always talking about tingly toes. Personally, she thought there was a good chance it was just athlete’s foot or some other skin condition that had gone untreated for too long.

“I could be a music agent.” said Majik. “I’d never pick a bad band because I would always be able to tell who was really good.”

Brushing off her hands, Sharma swallowed the last of her sandwich.

“You liked Milli Vanilli.” she reminded him.

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For VisDare 25: Precarious

 

https://anonymouslegacy1.wordpress.com/visual-dare/
https://anonymouslegacy1.wordpress.com/visual-dare/

It sort of fits.

A Very Weird Night – part one

The other night was very strange indeed. It didn’t start off strange, it start off fairly normally, if a little dull. (Twenty minute bus journeys with only the company of your iPod, and a severe lack of interesting conversations to eavesdrop on, leads to very dull bus journeys.)

The weirdness grew over the night. I felt rather out of place, walking through Bath at half seven at night, on my way to a poetry reading at the ‘Royal Literary and Scientific Institute.’ The dress I had chosen to wear seem to have shrunk overnight, the skirt seemed significantly shorter than when I had last worn it a few days previously and my heels wanted to explore every crack and nook possible.

I arrived half an hour early, with no broken ankles fortunately, though I did have the wonderful moment of standing in the middle of a road as a guy showed me directions from his map. No cars came, and I did not end up as one with the road surface. All was well in the world.

Anyway, back to being thirty minutes early, sat in the foyer of the ‘Royal Literary and Scientific Institute’ (in Bath). As it turns out, first years turning up to the poetry events we are supposed to write reviews on, is a rare and unusual occurrence. There is nothing quite like bemusing second and third years with my desire to pass the first year of my course, especially since I’m paying nine grand a year to study it.

When the poetry reading did start, it was fifteen minutes late, in a first floor room where most of the audience had already finished at least one glass of wine and were part way through a second. It was mentioned to me by a second year, that this had something to do with the organisers believing that wine improves the poetry that you’re hearing. That worried me. It worried me quite a bit.

The poets themselves, in all honestly, were very good. Olivia McCannon was first up, with her new collection ‘Exactly My Own Length’. Isn’t that such a fantastic title. I love the connotation it holds to poetry and writing. The title is from one of the poems, and according to what I could hear, had something to do with someone she knows walking in the countryside one day and finding a coffin shaped hole dug out of rock. So this person did as any reasonable person would do. Lay down, found it was exactly his own length, (coffin-wise), and fell asleep.

This was one of the few explanations she gave about the poetry. The second half of the book were poems written as coping mechanisms during his mother’s illness and death. Her mother died in 2008, and the poems were never written with the intention of falling into public consumption. Though I felt her interaction with the audience was a little dry, and she simply read us the work instead of engaging in quite the same way as Sasha Dugdale would do later on, her manner was understandable.

There were points where I felt that she was genuinely about to burst into tears, her voice was strained and thick, and she stumbled over words as she gave the brief snatched of explanation that she did give.  It was clear that her work is very emotionally based, and holds a lot of power because of that. However, Sasha Dugdale had to be my favourite of the night.

Sasha Dugdale’s collection ‘The Red House’, fed into my own interests and loves far more than Olivia McCannon’s had. Olivia’s poems were incredibly personal, while Sasha’s were based more in stories, histories and ideas.

Fantastic lines such as:

How they sing: as if each had pecked up a smouldering coal
Their throats singed and swollen with song”

This, from “Dawn Chorus” stuck with me, the imagery so utterly brilliant that I couldn’t get the idea of these beautiful small birds, their songs so full and rich that it is as if there is fire and flames burning in the notes. Their throats barely able to contain the sound as they sing away.

I am also a huge fan of tying history and tradition into poetry, such as with her one poem (apologies for any misspelling) ‘Michael Bian’. We were entertained with a quick fill in on how the shepherds on the downs were buried with a piece of sheep’s wool attached to their clothes, as evidence to God, to show why they had not been in church.

This alone had me hook, line, and sinker. Shepards! Wool as evidence to God! Research had gone into her writing, an effort that I admire hugely, alongside the variation within the poems. I love poets who can write from any angle within the spectrum and Sasha Dugdale proved to be one of these poets.

At half nine the poetry reading ended, though the next bus back to campus wasn’t until half ten. This meant one thing for myself and the other first year who would also be catching the bus. We were going to McDonalds, partly for food, and mostly for the fact that they have central heating.

This was the point where the night decided to take a nose dive off random cliff, and land me in some of the strangest situations I have ever been witness to, one after the other. But all that is a post for another day.

If Looks Could Kill

Poetry is supposedly akin to song-writing. If I’m honest, that idea is a complete crock. Ask me to write a poem and I’ll be able to bury you under sheets of random scribbles, limericks, sonnets, haikus! You ask for it, I’ll write it.

I have never been able to write a song, at least not successfully, or to any sort of standard.

One of my new flatmates however, is exceptionally brilliant at song-writing. Food and entertainment all in one, (since she is also the best cook out of the lot of us).

So you can all see how utterly wonderful she is, I have decided I should share the link to her most recent YouTube video, containing the song she wrote, and plays regularly when we’re sat up in the kitchen.

I will say now, I’m bias, I love the song! To me it is the greatest thing since sliced bread, or perhaps since bread itself! But you can decide that for yourself when you go and check out her channel.

Without any further ado, here is my lovely friend Miss Maddie, and here equally lovely song “If Looks Could Kill”.

 

Shattered Symphony

Before the ice crept into your veins and settled,
Before the cracks in your heart were petrified,
Was there something other than ancient dust?
Hiding in the hollow echo of disused synapses,
Where nerves once sparked into singing chords
Rattled down time taut strings of frozen organs,
Buzzed through the vena cava and battered valves,
To swell lungs full with gasping, desperate breaths
While drum beats thundered, and the tempo jumped,
Crescendos of flustered words and twisted tongue,
Chasing the sun drenched notes from honeyed lips
To pin them down, caught upon a pulsing manuscript.

If there was once something more than what is now,
Then how did the rhythm crumble from its arches?
And why did the melody shatter sharps to flats
Tumbling from the stave etched in your arteries,
To clatter through the first of frozen teardrops,
That came when the ice first crept and settled in.