Half-remembered faces,
Some forgotten,
Lost at the bottom
Of his mind.
Some were graces
And left
Traces
Behind.
He fancied himself bereft
But his heart
was never cleft.
Although,a few do,
Its true,
Live on,in art.
An interesting post, on the site Interesting Literature, regarding “Stream of Consciousness”. The article defines “Stream of Consciousness” as follows:
“Put simply, ‘stream of consciousness’ describes a literary style in which the various thoughts and impressions of a character are relayed
to us in a way that captures the suddenness, spontaneity, and often inconsequentiality of those thoughts and impressions. Usually, the syntax will reflect
this, and it will either break down into fragmentation or, in some extreme cases, punctuation will be largely absent”. (See https://interestingliterature.com/2020/02/what-is-stream-of-consciousness-introduction/).
The author traces the origin of “Stream of Consciousness” from 19th-century psychology and philosophy, through to the 20th-century author James Joyce’s “Ulysses”.
Back in 2016, I composed “Composed Mor or Less in Realtime While Sitting in a Liverpool Garden”. At the time of composition, I thought of my poem as being (in part at least) a “Stream of Consciousness” composition. However, having read the above article on Interesting Literature, I think that it is, perhaps better described as an “Interior Monalogue”, rather than as a “Stream of Consciousness” piece of writing. To read my poem please follow this link, https://kmorrispoet.com/2016/05/30/composed-more-or-less-in-realtime-while-sitting-in-a-garden/.
Why do I spurn
This mud, and dust
To which I must
Return?
The woods are not far
Away
From car
And dust.
Here I would stay
Amongst these trees
Where the wind’s gust
Will blow,
Whilst the glow
From the shop’s empty, glass,
Must pass
She
Fell.
Then, come the day, they
Listened to Adele.
The CD
Was relatively cheap.
Now, when he
Hears Adele,
He
Thinks on a girl who fell
And the comparatively low price,
Of that CD.
Being visually impaired, all of my writing takes place on my laptop, using Job Access with Speech (JAWS) software, which converts text into speech and braille enabling me to use a standard Windows computer or laptop. (For anyone interested in finding out more about JAWS,please visit this link, https://www.freedomscientific.com/products/software/jaws/
Given my reliance on computers for writing, reading the news and carrying out other tasks, I was fascinated by a recent post on Interesting Literature concerning the origin of the word “computer”. The word computer is much older than the 20th century, as you will find if you read this interesting article, https://interestingliterature.com/2020/02/origin-word-computer-etymology/.
When a young lady named Beth
Said, “you are obsessed with death”,
I spoke of cooking oil
And of Shakespeare’s mortal coil,
Which bored poor Beth to death!
If imagination were a crime
And you could read between a rhyme,
How many poets would be flayed
For games played
In the confines
Of their minds?
But, no
That is not quite so,
For their words caper
On virgin paper.
And when
The pen
Scratches
The reader thinks he catches
A glimpse of the sin,
Within.
Gabriela M, a writer whose work I admire, has been awarded Author of the Year 2019 by Spillwords Press. You can read Gabriela’s interview here, https://spillwords.com/author-of-the-year-2019-interview/.
If I write a sad
Poem today
People will say
He is sad.
If I compose a glad
Poem today
They will, likewise
Say,
He is feeling glad.
But they
Can not see my eyes.
