A sun dappled path, leading back into the past. Losing myself amongst the green, half reality, part dream. At one with the trees, yearning to be free, to escape the hate, before it is too late.
The Path
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Tag Archives: poetry
Virtual Girl
On 26 October 2013 I published “Dark Angel” (for the original post please visit http://newauthoronline.com/2013/10/26/dark-angel/?relatedposts_exclude=1377).
“I love you because I can tell you my darkest secrets, things which would make the strongest of men go blubbering in search of his mummy. You judge me not,
my blackest fantasies are your deepest desires.
In the depths of night when all but the vampire sleeps we speak of philosophy, of the darkness which lurks within the human heart. You are always there
for me, my girl beautiful and serene. You laugh in time with my laughter and weep as I weep. Never changing, fixed, emortal caught in the brightness of
my screen you are my virtual girlfriend, a machine”.
Back in October I gave no inkling as to how I came to write “Dark Angel” but, coming across the poem today I thought that an explanation might be of interest.
I am no scientist (the results of my school biology exam are best forgotten)! I have, however always maintained an interest in matters scientific. In particular the subject of artificial intelligence has always held a fascination for me. Back in October I came across various articles regarding men who have “given up” on the idea of finding a relationship with a human, opting instead to seek solace in the arms of virtual girlfriends, hence the artificial lady in “Dark Angel”.
Flesh and blood humans possess what philosophers term morality or ethics. It is sometimes claimed that one reason why people (mainly but not exclusively men) use the services of prostitutes stems from the fact that they can play out their darkest fantasies with sex workers without being judged, (the prostitute may, of course inwardly pass judgement but she is extremely unlikely to vocalise her thoughts). In contrast the voicing of one’s darkest desires to a loved one may cause him or her to head for the hills never to be seen again.
As artificial intelligence develops it becomes easier for individuals to interact with virtual persons. We all do it, for example many banks now have automated systems enabling customers to perform certain financial transactions without the necessity of communicating with a fellow human being. Such technology is also being employed to create virtual chatbots which can act as tools for education or, as in the above poem sexbots allowing the user to express his/her most secret yearnings, the articulation of which would make Mr or Ms average (and perhaps some sex workers also)recoil in horror. Machines have no such scruples which does, perhaps help to explain the popularity of virtual girlfriends in countries such as Japan.
Translation By Roy Fuller
This is a wonderfully enigmatic poem by the poet Roy Fuller, http://overconvergent.livejournal.com/29022.html
Grafton Street
Listening To The Rain
Listening to the rain. Safe inside, no fear of the midnight knock on the door. I am at peace free to think my own thoughts. No pyres of burning books, no sound of jackboots coming over the hill. Only the noise of the comforting rain wild and free.
My Page On hellopoetry.com
I have published a couple of my poems on hellopoetry.com. You can find them here, http://hellopoetry.com/-kevin-morris/.
Castles
She smiled, awhile I tarried there, fashioned castles out of air. She laughed, set my heart aflame, tis love, or my overactive brain.
I think of her but who is she? A bird encaged longing to be free? Is she content in her cage? Or does she beat the bars with rage? Do I put my thoughts on her? Building castles in the air? Who am I? who is she? Both are struggling to be free.
The Power Of The Dog Kipling
I remember losing my previous guide dog, a golden lab/retriever called Drew, in March 2011. She was well in the morning but, come evening she started to pass blood and a day later my friend was dead. I recollect coming across the below poem shortly after Drew died and whenever I read it I’m overcome with emotion. This poem will, I believe resonate with anyone who has ever loved and lost a dog. They are so, so much more than mere animals.
The Power of the Dog
——————————————————————————–
THERE is sorrow enough in the natural way
From men and women to fill our day;
And when we are certain of sorrow in store,
Why do we always arrange for more?
Brothers and sisters, I bid you beware
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.
Buy a pup and your money will buy
Love unflinching that cannot lie
Perfect passion and worship fed
By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.
Nevertheless it is hardly fair
To risk your heart for a dog to tear.
When the fourteen years which Nature permits
Are closing in asthma, or tumour, or fits,
And the vet’s unspoken prescription runs
To lethal chambers or loaded guns,
Then you will find – it’s your own affair, –
But … you’ve given your heart to a dog to tear.
When the body that lived at your single will,
With its whimper of welcome, is stilled (how still!),
When the spirit that answered your every mood
Is gone – wherever it goes – for good,
You will discover how much you care,
And will give your heart to a dog to tear!
We’ve sorrow enough in the natural way,
When it comes to burying Christian clay.
Our loves are not given, but only lent,
At compound interest of cent per cent,
Though it is not always the case, I believe,
That the longer we’ve kept ’em, the more do we grieve;
For, when debts are payable, right or wrong,
A short-time loan is as bad as a long –
So why in – Heaven (before we are there)
Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?
What Is To Write – Guest Post By Anum Safique
Many thanks to Anum Safique for her excellent guest post. Anum’s blog contains a wealth of poetry and other writings many of which have a dark and/or a mysterious theme. You can visit Anum’s blog here, http://atopsyturvyworld.wordpress.com/
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What is to write?
Writing is not so different from reading. It is only a stronger dose of catharsis. Picking up a beautiful book to read that makes you cry and laugh at the same time, that brings out pent up emotion can be wonderfully relieving. However, it can never match the experience of bleeding out your feelings through the pen.
As a young girl, I used to read fantastical stories about fairies and witches, magic and dragons. I used to love reading about parallel worlds and imaginary creatures. I remember there was a time that I used to live my life through the eyes of Harry Potter, wishing for the existence of Hogwarts and dreaming of one day finding its magic. Then I discovered Narnia, and well let’s just say that I was inspired to dream even more. No matter how much stories about magical worlds, parallel dimensions, vampires, werewolves, fairies and angels inspire me to create my own tales, they never inspired me enough to get down to writing. Instead there were two novels I read in my literature classes that truly got me to start creating stories of my own.
I still write about fantastical creatures and worlds that possibly never existed or will never exist, but what inspired me to begin writing were two novels exploring the human mind. The first one that shall always remain one of my favorite reads of all times is William Golding’s “Lord of the Flies”. It was a journey into the darkness that resides within every human soul. It was the discovery of the beast that we look for in the world beyond ourselves, but which is a part of us that we never acknowledge or embrace.
The second book was Margaret Atwood’s “Cat’s Eye”, which was one of the most interesting psychological novels I have ever come across. The fact that it was about the journey of a woman through life enabled me to relate to it. However, it was the protagonist’s cathartic expression through art which truly intrigued me, and I shall admit that I started sketching before I began to write. Unfortunately, I soon discovered that art was not really my form of expression; or rather my hand was never able to create what my mind envisioned; or even more I accurately, I doodled. *Shrugs*
So my next try was to write fanfiction, and surprisingly, people actually liked what I wrote. But writing novellas while acing your university exams was not a piece of cake, so my commitment to writing was tested and I ended up abandoning my fanfiction ventures. However, as Allen Curnow articulates through his poem “Continuum” that someone who closes the door on the artist inside them can never really get rid of that part of themselves. It follows them behind like a haunting ghost.
Consequently, I switched styles and started writing poetry. I still write about the same things but poetry takes less time to type yet admittedly, more time to think. But for some reason, perhaps, that the tone and rhythm of poetry matches that of your soul, it enables you to express more than prose could ever manage.
More recently, I have gathered inspiration from music and lyrics. My favorites being the eccentric songs of “Panic! At the Disco” and the dark yet amazing albums of “30 Seconds from Mars”. Their music may not be very mainstream but if you actually get to listening to the poetry in their verses, your mind will be blown away at the genius of it all. To be able to express the ordinary in an extraordinary has always been my hobby. To play with words is the best game I have ever played. And I believe that everyone should give it a try.
Coming back to the original question, what is it to write? It is dreaming. It is expression. It is catharsis. It is relief. It is art. To write is to put a piece of your soul on paper and let others read it, and interpret their own souls through it. It is discovering the beast inside you and it is the taming of your darkness. It is a game. And undeniably, it is beautiful.
Last but not at all the least, I would like to thank Kevin for giving me this opportunity to share my thoughts with his readers. Also for honoring me by reading my poetry and enjoying my play with words.
Regards,
Anum Shafique
The Darkling Thrush By Thomas Hardy
Thomas Hardy’s The Darkling Thrush is one of my favourite poems. I recollect having had similar thoughts to those described by Hardy while pausing to listen to the song of a bird. In my case it was, I think a blackbird rather than a thrush which produced the emotions so aptly described by the poet in the below poem.
“I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-grey,
And Winter’s dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.
The land’s sharp features seemed to be
The Century’s corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervourless as I.
At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.
So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.”
K Morris - Poet 