fan the flames

fan the flames

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The darkness rolling at the centre of me Threatens to obnubilate the tiny spark Flickering in the grate of My smoke-ravaged heart. I have feared the rope-tangled thoughts Would smother and snuff out The last tinge of light Caught in my chest Like all the very best and brightest parts Might soon depart in black-winged flock. Left, then, alone, with ticking clock, And ash and greyish rock, To stare at sunless heights - - But - there! Some light-tipped thing Still flies, Still soars, And hope lays claim to this, And grazes the sky in a holy kiss.
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how to save a life

how to save a life

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And at the closing of my longest, darkest night, I decided to take all the light That I could muster And, with all my might, shine myself into all my darkest corners And locked doors; Push back the tide of tears and fears Rising on my floor. Devotion to your own light Is the only way to save your life.
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see the love there that’s sleeping

see the love there that’s sleeping

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This morning I am heavy, Like the weight of each and every star is Stacked high up on my chest like all the best parts of me are stretched too far. My brain thick with cotton-wool and sawdust, Half-rusted dreams and half-heard songs That seem to crackle in the static. I dreamt of childhood places and childhood faces, and endless corridors. Always searching and seeking something more Than smoke and ghosts in mirrors. My father shimmered in the hazy morning light Spilling through the half-closed curtains. This morning I am certain I could hear his laugh, Half-remembered memories And doors half-closed. My heart is bruised, A violent violet rose.
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Stay, Hushed

Stay, Hushed

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There is a certain shifting light to this. Dappled sun, and Tea-stained kiss. Hands sculpting life, and This breath Building bonfires, and These sighs Drawn deep. Split-fruit mouths on Bright-knived shoulder blades. Stay, hushed, the world fades. Longing and yearning and Learning the exquisite map of Bodies in full bloom, and The still birdsong room of Bodies at rest. Bar windows, lock doors, This moment, the brightest, the best.
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Where Do Ideas Come From?

Where Do Ideas Come From?

home, journal
This week I’m trying my best to avoid answering that old chestnut of “where do I get my ideas?”. Artists of all kinds are asked this but especially writers. Neil Gaiman calls it the Question That Shall Not Be Asked (like Voldemort, or Hamlet…). And yet, asked it gets.  I’m not sure whether people ask this because they think this is the sort of question you are meant to ask a writer, or if they are genuinely looking for an answer. Either way, you’re going to be left feeling unsatisfied, because there’s not a satisfactory answer...because no-one (not even writers) knows. No one can tell you where their ideas come from; not really. Not in a nice, easily digestible prescriptive formula (you don’t just offer up your first-born, or sign…
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Why I Write and What I Get From It

Why I Write and What I Get From It

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For this week’s blog, I thought I’d try and tackle the question of “Why I Write and What I Get Out Of It”. It’s a question lots of writers, many more accomplished and erudite than I, have tackled over the years, but one I thought I’d throw my oar into anyway. In a nutshell, I suppose, I write because I have something to say, and a narcissistic streak that wants people to pay attention… but there’s also this need in me to be understood and to use writing as a way to understand. I’m going to try and explain, no doubt in my usual clumsy hamfisted way exactly why writing, and writing poetry, is a thing I feel like I have no choice but to do. Grab a coffee and…
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So I Quit My Job…

So I Quit My Job…

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After 10 years being employed as a transport planning consultant, I quit my job. It was, in some ways, the hardest decision I have ever had to make, and in others, the easiest decision, because by the time I handed in my notice, it sort of felt like there wasn’t much of a choice. Stay and continue stretching myself out so thinly that I would almost certainly disappear, or leave and breathe. That’s how it felt - that I’d stopped breathing, or at least was only taking the barest sips of air before being submerged again. At the end, my anxiety was at a peak I’d not felt for over a decade; a high chord stringing out too long, but I need you to understand that my anxiety wasn’t why…
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she’s made of mountains and fire

she’s made of mountains and fire

home, longer reads
She lives in a land of mountains and fire. It is so beautiful there it should be illegal. I mean everything there is so incredibly alive and feels all Full of light and warmth and chilled out, blissed out, sun kissed sunsets and BBQs. And a wine or two. Or five. And beaches there win prizes. It makes you feel clean, and sort of “new”. It is the perfect place for her. If a person can belong to a place then she wears that place like a tribal tattoo. She’s made of mountains and fire, She’s waterfalls and night skies, Filled with so many stars you feel dizzy looking up. She makes me feel dizzy looking up. She has a job and a house with a view of the sea,…
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For Sprout, A Space Oddity

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Tiny sprout of green shoot growing. Glowing, knowing, a thousand years wrapped up in your humming-bird heart beat. The whorls and swirls of your see-through feet Have walked a million miles to find us. You are made of stardust. Hello little one, come from the sun, Your hands will hold lifetimes of light and insights, Tight in that fist; A billion atoms have kissed the peach-fuzz of your forehead. Tread softly. You hold a universe in your heart.
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