Silicon

I am not a physicist or a chemist, so I make no claims to have any sort of scientific accuracy in this poem (I mean, art can bend the laws of reality if we want it to…) I’m just somewhat interested in the concept of silicon based life forms, as opposed to carbon. Impossibility or not, this poem toys around with the concept, as well as human limitation. Call it ‘science fiction’.

I’ll burn, I’ll rage,
anything to disengage
with this dying carbon cage.
Displaced, disgraced,
occupying conquered space,
outstripped by inhuman haste.

Hyperion’s brood condemned to govern the skies
with a family tradition of rising to fall.
In this skin we are microcosms of heavens
taking the throne in the celestial hall.

Find new disputes;
another structure to compute;
schools of thought to refute.
Allay mistakes
by redefining fate;
there’s no need to moderate.

The pillars of life became the bars of a cell;
the chains of the orthodox bound us to the wall.
Hearing the cry of the regressive souls,
there’s no choice but to heed the future’s call.

Another transformation
through human exploration;
a silicon creation
waiting for inspiration.

Asphodel Meadows

I used the concept of part of the Ancient Greek Underworld as a metaphor to describe my own feelings at the time. Those who had lived unexceptional lives, were believed to be sent to the ‘Asphodel Meadows’ – a rather banal place. I saw this as somewhat comparable to my own life. I was asking myself, ‘what was I doing?’ I couldn’t think of anything exceptional that I had done, or that I could possibly do.

I was delivered unto a place of grey.
All I could do was to sit on the dry grass
and reflect on what had made this my home.
It wasn’t by choice that I lived so ordinarily;
in the vale of years I remained uninspired.
No creation to my identity,
nothing synonymous to my name.
Not a dent was made
on the clay model of lifespan.
No handprints left from efforts to press down,
just the puddles of raining ink that I had spilled.
Through pleasantries, I found no ascension.
To be polite, is to be enveloped by time.
Becoming a grain of sand, one for the mound,
without a notion to change.
What I dreamt to express, the words refused to orchestrate.
instead, every meaning and feeling eluded me.
Now it’s too late,
for I am bound to a constant.
I harvest grain, only for it to rot from birth.
I walk under trees, but no leaves will fall.
I long to flow forgetfulness into my mouth,
and let Lethe, oblivion’s patron, rebirth my soul,
lest I linger here, burning in monochrome.
I preserved ambition into the afterlife.
But I’m trapped by stone peaks,
in this arid valley.
I dream of the Elysian;
the sunshine gold that I stretched too far for.
Only the notorious achieve the prize,
And the mediocre inherit a static land.
Surrounded by spectres that I do not identify with,
They mourn, and themselves become mist.
I don’t belong to the haze,
but it has me, and I dissolve into white smoke.
I become one among the dull trees,
swirling with the dust on the ground.
Even when it was Earthly air that I breathed,
I acted the role of the scenery.
Never finding the voiced half of my thoughts,
and always being swayed to a direction.
Like a river of opinion.I was a tiny stone,
being ground to salt by the louder pebbles,
and integrated into the scream.
I was shouted down.
The Elysian Fields are full of loud voices.

Limniad From Avignon

This is one of my wilder poems, and every time I read it through, the subject matter makes less and less sense to me, but I do enjoy writing narrative poetry and telling a story, as it gives me a greater sense of direction. Set in Early Modern Venice, this creature of the depths emerges and enchants those who she meets, and predictably, she arouses a sense of extreme suspicion, leading her position to be dangerous.

The ambassadors of Carinthia,
swore to the men of the red robe.
They swore through their lustful hearts,
what they glimpsed in the lagoon.
They say she’s a balladeer,
they will swear that you sung to them.
Get away, get away.

Said to have swam from Avignon.
Born from a cursed Frankish harlot.
Now in the Venetian bays you stay,
enjoying men of divers crafts.

The silk master of the plaza,
brought his tussah to the sands.
A lonely man among merchants
who display wives as their wares.
You, the duchess of the depths
begged to ennoble him your duke.

Many whores did loot the silks,
and the thieves seized the gold.
Blue on his earth bed of sand
and the Lusignan ancestress
hides beneath the rock pools.

Said to have swam from Avignon.
Born from a cursed Frankish harlot.
Now in the Venetian bays you stay,
enjoying men of divers crafts.

The ancient bonfires were reborn,
fuelled from hopeful ideology.
Fettered to their zodiacs,
the stars knew who to burn.
Get away, get away,
swim away.

The assassin perched on the tree,
crossbow bolt primed to aim.
I knew that you’d be tempted,
as as a huntress, you’re hunted.
Oh, what have I done? Swim away,
get away,
NOW.

A scout found his flesh torn
a victim of the wave mistress,
executing the serpent’s curse,
or so it was said.

Said to have swam from Avignon.
Born from a cursed Frankish harlot.
Now in the Venetian bays you stay,
enjoying men of divers crafts.

The peninsula of Apulia,
of the Kingdom of Sicily.
Swim away impetuous heart,
hide away solitary soul.
I beg you to get away,
get away now.

Circle Of The Muses

This is a very simple poem, content wise. It concerns the nine muses of Ancient Greek society that dominated the arts, and thematically describes them in poetic format. I found this an interesting subject to write about.

So, I haven’t been able to write any poetry for months. I have tried, but it hasn’t quite worked out. However, today I have managed to write a poem based loosely on the Ancient Greek mythology of the nine muses. If anyone could read this, or even send me some feedback, whether positive or negative, I would be more grateful than you could believe!

With globe and compass in her hands,
stardust will fall upon these lands.
Constellations kiss our broken plains
and healing falls within the rains.
The night beguiles underneath her gaze
whilst morning ignites a sky ablaze.
The heavens will celebrate with the Earth
and shed their tears at every birth.

Bring us blessings from above.

Face of stone masquerades this girl,
who has a tragic tale yet to unfurl.
She tells the story of lovers two,
both drawn to schemingly collude.
They plot a demise by candlelight
but spectres lurked within the night.
Taken by guilt over the blood spilled
they sought to have each other killed.

Bring us blessings from above.
Bring us tales of death and love.

Like a symphony behind the woe
an aulos was blown from high to low.
A backdrop to the mournful yarn
and an elegy to the lovelorn heart;
the composer dealt with tragedy too
weeping until the dawn was due.
Of this, her verse was a reflection
of the loneliest soul’s introspection.

Bring us blessings from above.
Brings us tales of death and love.
Make us cry with your lonely song.

A comic grin sweetens the stage;
we forget the sorrows of a corrupt age.
Words strung together in jocular jest
calm our feelings of frantic unrest
and our minds linger on the sharpest wit
of the reality of a contrived skit.
But the laughter won’t lack any meaning
for the ironic message, we’re all gleaming.

Bring us blessings from above.
Bring us tales of death and love.
Make us cry with your lonely song.
Make us laugh with the mirth strong!

A woman emerges draped in a veil;
taking this moment to inhale.
Eyes fixed on her surroundings vibrant,
waiting for them to be silent
before she begins her precious chorale,
singing to the spiritual morale.
Siren song lauding divine devotion
and is speaking to our Godly emotions.

Bring us blessings from above.
Bring us tales of death and love.
Make us cry with your lonely song.
Make us laugh with the mirth strong!
Give to us your celebrant hymn.

A scroll is presented to a reader,
telling us all of kings and leaders.
Described in her lore of great age;
the queen; the warrior; the fey sage;
all participants in an on-going flow,
the battle of time, fought long ago.
Fables bedecked throughout the years,
help with our most desperate of fears.

Bring us blessings from above.
Bring us tales of death and love.
Make us cry with your lonely song.
Make us laugh with the mirth strong!
Give to us your celebrant hymn.
Read to us your historical whims.

Emerging onto kithara chords,
she lyricises our pain and discord.
Infused with a balance of metre and rhyme,
and a theme echoing forgotten times.
She dazzles with her improvised words,
ranging from touching, to the absurd.
Her poems make satire out of us all,
and seek to prophesise an awful fall.

Bring us blessings from above.
Bring us tales of death and love.
Make us cry with your lonely song.
Make us laugh with the mirth strong!
Give to us your celebrant hymn.
Read to us your historical whims.
Use your wit to leave us entranced.

A woman approaches in liquid form,
moving like leaves caught in a storm.
Thunder roars within her heart
and lightening strikes within her art,
powering the grace behind her moves
and giving the crowd something to approve.
Like a river, she is ever flowing,
the fire imbibing her, never slowing.

Bring us blessings from above.
Bring us tales of death and love.
Make us cry with your lonely song.
Make us laugh with the mirth strong!
Give to us your celebrant hymn.
Read to us your historical whim.
Use your wit to leave us entranced.
Captivate us with your daring dance.

Last to join is a composer of fiction,
dreaming stories of pain and affliction,
all intended as a moral to guide
listeners on to the path of the light.
Adventures turn to a passage of doom,
but out of darkness, a flower does bloom.
Hope for years, it is inscribed in stone„
an inspiration that we can call our own.

Bring us blessings from above.
Bring us tales of death and love.
Make us cry with your lonely song.
Make us laugh with the mirth strong!
Give to us your celebrant hymn.
Read to us your historical whim.
Use your wit to leave us entranced.
Captivate us with your daring dance.
Enlighten us with the fables you bring,
thus, here forms the muses’ ring.