Showing posts with label inner space. Show all posts
Showing posts with label inner space. Show all posts

Inspiration

That intake of breath
Of fresh
Air.
Bringer of new ideas
Unfair
-ly mined
By a dozen minds
Or more.
These spores of thought
Are cultivated
Through mediums and means
Averages avoided in passionate extremes.
We find it
All
In scattered places.
Lost and founds
Fractals
Faces
Forms of clouds and outer space;

Equally in the grotesque.

Sparks flare catching
Clutching
At life.

Kindled by contemplation
Fuelled by frustration
Ventilated by imagination
Tempered by the midnight oils
As we watch our best laid plans

Burn.
We learn.
We turn to disciplines unschooled.
We spool our nets far and wide
Outside our comfort quarters.
Research has shown us one path
But doubt is crazy paving.
Stop saving for that rainy day
And discover for yourself,
your truth.
“I think therefore I am”
Is all we really know.
Why spend your precious life collecting objects just for show?

It’s not the breaths you take,
It’s the breaths that’re taken from you
It’s the things you make them feel
It’s the ones who matter and mind

It’s a million people just like me
Telling a million people how to see
The world, the truth, society
As if there’s just one
answer.
As if I somehow know better.
In my oh-so-limited life.
 I don’t
and never will have
The answer.

All is confusion.
All is loss.

Why try to mold this chaos
 after your image
When your image is only
Breath in frost.

You cannot force the muse
Or trick her into her prettiest dance.
You cannot even ask her for help
For fear of her reprisals.

Abandonment comes naturally to one so self-involved.
And artists such as we all are are not sufficiently evolved
to survive such isolation.

Frost bites back.


Migranomancy

Here breaks that wave.
Awash
I'm tossed
from my mental enclave.
At the mercy of my tidal sense
current-lost inside my consciousness.
Desperately treading Aether.
Eventually all's still
I perceive
a light
so far away above.
Milky through the murk.
Try to reach it, it elongates and goes into reverse.
Manta-like I glide
drawn by my guide
it this saturated aura-verse.
All I perceive is brightness, lightness,
freedom and
detachment.
I realise in this flesh suit I'm free to travel round.
By thinking of my ankle, that's where my inner voice is found.
Limited by body without training to encourage
this latent talent/curse/condition. Without knowing how to mange
the handling. S'like Hyperoid; touchy, hit and miss.
It's an unusual type of voyancy, a questionable gift.
But there are others who have felt it, floating-free in inner space.
Migraneurs volante; they use their talent to create
worlds apart from solid air.
They find themselves,
their tales
there.



This poem was inspired by the magnificent Samantha Shannon and her book The Bone Season. This is the first book in a seven part series and I urge you to buy it, read it, love it, share it. She has created such a rich universe that I lost myself in completely. The end of The Bone Season left me breathless. I can't wait to read The Mime Order.
For this poem I recycled my migraine symptoms through the vocabulary and imagery of Samantha's universe and came up with this. I enjoy this particular symptom, so much so that I would never want a permanent migraine cure. I would be desolate if I were no longer able to interact with this sensation of utter fleshlessness.

Xxxx