The Hum

This is a collection of 30 poems based around the protagonist's twenties and the poems connect to the idea of learning 'to be yourself' with the background noise of depression and existentialism which creeps up every now and then. Along the way there are the ups of love, friendship, travel, new experience, and the background hum, with heartbreak. The overall moral towards the end is an acceptance on 'The Hum' being there but continuing to embrace life and love regardless. I would say the target audience is teenagers/young adults.

My education: Aberystwyth Uni = BA English Literature

University of Kent = MA English and American Literature

AVSE Vietnam = TESOL qualification.

My hometown: Southampton

Age: 29

I have always loved writing poems (even when I was so young to really understand what poems were). I also love music and my written work tends to show a play with sounds, rhythm, and textures of words.

I have attached the collection of 30 poems to this message.

Thank you for reading.

Contents:

Port Town 3

Tomorrow 4

Repetition 5

No name #(number) 5

Aberland 6

Drifters 8 - 9

Glammed up ghosts 10

Synesthesia 11

A painting turned upside-down 12

High Tide 13

Daisies and Buttercups in a Jam Jar 13

Stewed 14

Dead Tree 15

Holiday 16

Chrysalis 16

Tweogan 17

Resolution 18

M etro 19

Hanging up my map to dry 20

Tangle 21

Under the weather in Paris 22

Tortoise 22

The Hum 23 - 24

Forecast 25

Tourist 26

Blessings and Hard Work 27 - 28

Mui Ne 29

In the rear mirror 30

Slowly, slowly 31

Port Town

Houses held up like puppets.

Pylon-wire branches spread out;

assuring the land wont drift far out to sea,

or melt into the earth with subsidence.

Cotton-wool-candy-floss caught up in cranes,

wind-whipped, white-wash, wispy, whippy clouds.

Do you remember when we waited in line for 99s?

The sky was busy with boats, the sea so blue. No, I mean...

And I had strawberry syrup dripping down my cone

and a multi-coloured sticky chin.

We watched the boats going out, coming in;

then we joined the rest to say goodbyes.

All the hands were wagging; electric flapping.

Water splashing up against the dock.

The arms propelled the ship.

Gemmed fingers dancing farewells;

the jangle of bangled wrists;

waving in the air, propelling the ship away

to retirement paradises,

honeymoon bliss,

champagne seascapes.

Always in the middle this place,

on the edge of a million-gazillion other worlds.

The rumble rattle of engines as I walk along

looking out at the reeds; on search for quiet idleness.

Leaves rustle, tickled by the breeze.

A train passes in-between;

on its way, on its way...

I sit on a bench nearby and hear a cacophony of life amongst the hedges.

Then,

walk back

with orange light bouncing in and out

of windows' winking eyes;

watching the chalk line,

aeroplane trails in the sky

cut through the blue.

Tomorrow

I’d like to strip the day of its hours

and wear it like a dressing gown and slippers.

It’s all the apprehension

preparing for it like a guest;

dusting off each second,

wanting to make a good impression.

Each hour punctuates

while the hands

circulate like a funfair game.

Planning each conceivable circumstance

and how I will navigate it,

and what I will wear,

the words I will say, and how I should, shall, will say them

Today is safe.

Today I still have time to prepare

till the sun goes down and

now we’re on route

to leaving;

on route to saying goodbye

We had been imagining

the feelings of the arrival so much

we felt like visitors to the day

stopping over to leave

Repetition

practising the self like arpeggios

slipping up on that one note

that one note which rings true

like a fact then the next

slips like a truth which is

history slips

like a truth called history and written in books

which are called true

No Name #(number)

listening out for the catch, through the ordered lines

then running into familiar counter-melodies

that hit the gut like surprise meetings with old friends

pushing against the current

you write the soul’s ebb and flow of discovering

break and breakaway, meet again

figuring it out along the way, slipping back,

humble, soft vulnerability of emitting,

rolling out in music and codes interior landscapes

Aberland

The great, green Giant sleeps all through the day;

beer-bellied, toes outstretched, dipping into the sea.

He lazes beneath the springtime sun, while we sit idly

anticipating possibilities and to-bes.

This dead castle bursts with life,

seagulls, and sandwiches,

and cameras capturing the view

onto something they can hold.

*

The Giant disappears at night;

merging with the mountains.

Fading into the dark, as the waning moon

creeps up behind and over and above;

dripping reflections to feel a connection

with the earth again.

Lovers wander now, wandering through the flirting streets

which tease with uncertainty, and curtain the

awe-striking depth of the darkness that dumbs their speech

as they 'turn at this corner and just along the promenade..'.

Pushed back by a blast of wind;

numbing hands cold.

Forcing them away from

prolonging a gaze on the Sea's cruel honesty;

knowing they would be driven mad

by endless questions of eternity.

Questions they attempted to drown out with music and dancing

and Tequila shots and the kissing and the music and the dancing...

But now in the air, by this high-tide, they are

Modern-age-small-town-philosophers.

'Have you ever seen the petrified forest?'

Will they tell stories of us too?

Life is so short and now is certain, well...

as certain as certain could be known for certain so..'

So, after meditating on the existence of existence,

they find refuge in the optimistic light of the stars.

Warmth for the spirit from the deep, dark, cold depth of the darkness;

'Because the night is so very young.

Look, there are still stars in the sky...'

Venus is inconsistent; an evening and a morning star.

And, oh, is that Orion's belt?

Lying on the floor, in the morning, after a night of philosophy.

Drifters

The snow,

Whirls,

Spins,

And turns;

Shapes in the air.

A floating, flowing, fluidity;

Such substance in something

So diaphanous.

A performance,

Just as magical as

The starlings

They had watched

At dusk

By the pier.

Swooping

And gliding

The birds

Danced in the darkening sky.

That erratic black cloud;

Morphing, flowing, conjuring...

Forming new dimensions

While the glowing sun

Balances precariously,

Poised on the edge of the world

And then

Sinks,

Into the sea,

Leaving pink

Goodbye kisses

On the clouds.

Now,

Two figures are

Stood by the window,

Looking out and

Watching

The crystal dust drift

Within the flow of the wind.

A giant ghost's display of ballet;

Spinning, twisting, turning...

Leaning on each other

In silence,

In the darkness,

The skies' cold ashes

Sparkle

In the night,

Under the rays of the artificial

Street light

Outside.

Soon the train will leave the station,

Get further and further away...

Settling in the west for longer than a day.

Swallowed by the horizon.

Physics in the way.

She will freeze her face

And wave,

Borrowing a stoic's smile,

Safely held together,

Until within the veil

Of the warm taxi home,

Her eyes

Melt.

Glammed up ghosts

Some may say our future lies

in our stars.

Connect the dots;

and you will get a summary

of your future days.

But these echoes of light

Were hardly there to see it.

Unreachable oracles.

Maybe they laugh at us

when we open up our horoscopes.

Maybe we should watch the

Satellites instead.

Yet despite all this,

I love their stubbornness;

Holding up the dark like pins.

They keep on shining

Even when the party ended

Thousands of light years ago.

They are the lively ones at the bar,

singing and dancing...

Even when the music has stopped

and they're turning off the lights.

Synesthesia

breathing the turquoise like lavender,

and sipping the blue summer.

bitter cold clouds glide and morph lava lather,

floating whispers cut by sweet pineapple sunshine.

soon, a moment, now

rhythms ripple the sky like skipping stones

we jump the music like puddles

splashing in the frequencies.

cobalt bass rumbles the earth hungry,

pumps the air with springing spirals

pushing and pulling the senses,

reverberating through cells.

heavy mud humming, stomping

echoes through our atoms dizzy;

balancing tuned body to innate electricity

the fizz of circulating lemonade energy.

we jump the music like puddles

splashing in the frequencies.

strawberry melodies spilling ribbons,

dolphin leaps of the spaces inbetween beats,

lines of colours overlapping,

colliding, mixing, merging, blending

in with the forest.

washing over souls the life fire sparkles

like a clear water cleansing harmonies,

sound waves crashing against inertia.

phosphorescent glow of re-charged love

for the world, for being, animation

flowing through burnt smoky ashes

of sapphire charcoal skies;

dimmed radiation of chlorophyll emerald days.

the smell of salt, dry bark, fluffy carbon mists,

trembling lights softening the eyes'

grip on outlines, loosening lies.

watching the cycles of patterns

tumbling colours through a mill rotating,

and the silence of listening

when the music comes to an end.

A painting turned upside-down

Dark mountains and

stalactite tears

blending into cave

marks on the wall.

A funeral? But

warmth and belonging

and a community

of travel, hope, legacy.

Footprints on the ground.

High Tide

It’s high time, high tide

we push the boats out

a stone ’ s throw away

my arm gets stronger

and everything

gets further and further

Daisies and Buttercups in a Jam Jar.

'The flowers are wilting away...

If keep watering them, will they stay alive?'

'No, dear, they've been picked from the ground.'

'Was I picked from the ground?'

'No, dear.'

'So, if you kept watering me, will I ...'

Stewed

I’d left the tea brewing a little too long.

It was still where I’d left it on the kitchen side;

the mug tainted round the edge,

strong and cold.

I sip.

Not so much because I am thirsty

but because it preoccupies my mind

and it soothes

despite its bitterness.

We talk about the summer

although it’s bleak today.

You tell me how many birds

were on the table outside.

You tell me about the flowers you’ve planted.

You know there’s not so much to be said

but you always know what to say.

And when again the air becomes a vacuum

and cruel thoughts tumble from my mind and

drop through me like pebbles

causing ripples like in a well in cold darkness;

my voice knotted in my chest and ripples in the eyes.

You remind me of the summer,

of the river, and the birds,

and open up a packet of biscuits.

Dead Tree

The dead tree never stands lonely.

At the top the silhouettes

of birds come and go,

nesting in the nooks.

Branches sticking out like

Indecisive fingers, pointing enigmatic directions.

It’s trunk is covered with thick, green ivy

asserting a kind of dignity, uniform.

Keeping it warm in the harsh winters

and concealing the weathered, bare bark in the summer

while everything else expands outwards;

in colour, full bloom.

The dead tree stands in the middle of it all.

For the moment, standing steady,

I would never describe this dead tree as lifeless.

Holiday

Though it was not a time of religious musing,

it was an escape from the spirit bruising

of the telescreens and jingles,

the buzz of invisible,

the noise of the motorways.

We could natter in the pub,

on a Pilgrimage, of sorts;

to sort, to find a beginning.

Or at least to open a book up

somewhere near the start.

Chrysalis

Euphoria of returning to

the old seaside cocoon.

The place of change and shift

of heart and mind,

and tide which

pushed the town

right back

in January.

The next day we looked out at the promenade

in pieces like an emptied out jigsaw box

but cheered for postponed exams

so we could cherish important things,

like a night out at the Pier, and long talks.

Returning back

finding it’s still

just the same

as the train parts

through the hills

and forward

to the dead end

that began it all.

Tweogan [Tway-o-gan]

Perhaps I should be more decisive...

more conclusive...

Make up my mind like a bed

Choose my moves through my own devices

and not rely on the intervention of higher forces,

or guardian spirits to pilot my choices,

or sit uncomfortably on fences

waiting for the fates to push me either side.

Tweogan.

It is reassuring to know it's an age old phenomenon.

That even our ancestors were predisposed to

rock to and fro in fevers of doubt and indecision.

That our ancestors would dabble in-between conscientious visions;

caught in anxious possibilities and cautious projections.

The hidden threads of back and forth thought

all forgotten by hindsight's way of portraying

a seamless fluidity to the embroidery of life.

Resolution

I shall be me and make myself my own.

I have so much to create and do,

and I can’t distract myself with dreaming,

though loneliness can sting the stomach

and at times everything feels stuck,

or a grey numbness hums in my heart,

or I'll be surrounded by people I can't be true with.

Therefore journey free as a gypsy

and carve a life to fascinate.

To focus on building worlds.

To never waste the ability

to polish perceptions into beauty,

and breathe peace into hostility.

M etro

the metro is a dream machine,

lights pulse through dark windows;

colours stretch, tangle,

till they break, phase, fade out.

those high pitched squeals,

squeaks of wheels, wind tunnel

rush and hum of pushing against time.

gliding underground, electric eel,

growls like a metal dragon,

tail bending around corners,

weaving the bends,

hisses like a snake.

jumping out in the half second

before it exhales to a stop.

Hanging up my map to dry

After a long day of

getting lost in the rain;

turning wrong instead of right,

wrong instead of left;

somehow always seeing that same

cafe over and over and over again.

Cold hands grip the corners.

Pacing round this grey city,

glancing at street signs inconspicuously;

pretending not to be new.

The blues pull on the resolutions

till they’re broken by the spring

sunshine which finds

all the things January lost.

Tangle

An emergency macaroon

on a boulevard, in March,

Because my sugar levels dropping,

mind foggy, dopamine high crashing;

because legs aching, hands shaking; I can’t unknot

the multi-coloured tangles this evening;

Because you never said in so many words.

There is cloud cover

with chance of rain, but you know there

will be rain because you have a headache.

You can tell but you can’t say.

Under the Weather in Paris

There will be times

when you eat

from a saucepan

banana and peanut butter

with a teaspoon

with a cup of milk

standing by the radiator

the room isn’t warm enough

and you can’t sleep for thoughts

and you were too tired to leave

but now too hungry to sleep.

Tortoise

I carry Aberystwyth

in the threads of my coat,

in the scuffs on my boots;

the sea salt, sand swept

into the fibres.

And now I stand here

in Jardin du Luxembourg,

thinking about the bench

by the well,

I sat on looking out to sea,

watching the starlings dance,

while considering the possibility

of perhaps, one-day, maybe

living in Paris.

The Hum

Here by the Beat Hotel near

the St Michel in a cafe with wine

I feel the hum turn to sizzle and

sparkle and overfill into my eyes

too much till they are brimming with

hope that could spill onto the table

and my heart is swelling with a

optimism and I feel it spilling

over I worry I will laugh crazy

for no reason but to release

all the glowing light inside which

is feeling far too obvious for everyone

they will think I am drunk but I have

only had a sip but this conversation is

several glasses of something of energy

of fermented anger and worries

and anxieties about the world

turned into wine and we

sip the sentences we sip the

sentences and eyes clink glances

in holistic belief and hope it

is so much but you

say we are free we

are freer than this ramekin

which once held peanuts which

we nibbled between drink

and thought and you say you

can’t believe you are talking of

Sartre here and it is cliché

but the words

ripple like a song we know we

forget but when it plays

we forget we forgot and always

know we need to hear it again

we wish we could record the

feeling the sights the words the

way you say the words so

that we are filled with childlike

possibility when life weighs us

to stare at our feet.

***

I feel hope I am trying to let

my heart sizzle without the

heat getting too high and eyes steam

up like windows condensation I

am not crying I am just happy and

hopeful and everything is beautiful but

if it sizzles too much my body

shakes fidgets I am not crazy I

just love this universe I am

also scared of it all if I sizzle too

much my heart I will my heart

will I will burn out but if I drop

from this high I feel cold and stone

dead numbness which also scares

me when it makes me careless and

not look attentively when crossing the

roads or feel my body hum in a

muted tone hum like a grey

vibration inside barely moving

Forecast

I knew it was going to rain.

Still, I rushed out for a walk just before

as if in a hurry to meet a good friend.

I didn’t take my coat with me;

I let my arms meander in the warm air

as if detached from myself,

as if I were taking my arms for a walk.

Then it came down;

large droplets globular rolling over the top of my hands.

This is all the same, more of the same,

the same stuff that pours out the taps.

There was a thrill and disobedience to it.

The smell of summer steams up from the earth;

it felt like being a kid on holiday

not caring if you got drenched

as you would be swimming in the sea.

Tourist

The language falls

into the space between us,

leaving no shared sounds,

no words to grasp or give.

You can’t exchange this currency.

You speak no legal tender.

They repeat the words you say.

Looking around they shake their head

apologetically. You smile, embarrassed.

This we both understand. They smile,

Cast your eyes down, and up, down

you walk in opposite directions.

Blessings and Hard Work

The fish panic,

Eyes bulging,

Flipping their tails

Erratically,

Mouths gaping,

Sucking in their

First gulps of air.

This is their livelihood;

Hoisting up the lines,

Gathering in the net,

Praying to the ocean

For a lucky catch.

Daylight pushing upwards;

The smell of sage, sandalwood,

travels in the wind.

~~~

Before they open the bar

she lights the incense,

Places it down ritualistically,

Beside the sweets, fruit, the lunar money

Which lie on the mahogany shrine.

Beside the statue of buddha

frozen in a prosperous optimism.

The thoughts count to her ancestors

Wishes whispered into the smoke

She places a mango in the bowl

Sends her blessings to the invisible

Mechanics and interveners,

While those disco lights flicker

Luminating the dark corner.

***

We lazed and shared our dreams at Ong Dia,

In the sand, watching the magic luminosity

In the dark, the city of fishing boats

Glowing over the water.

While the industrious, worked patiently

We romanticised those lights

As a galaxy, and cast out our hopes

Like bait for luck to swallow.

Mui Ne

Before leaving

I rode to the sand dunes;

Emptied out egg timers.

Infinity.

Evening clouds have pink linings

Burning. Positive discoveries beyond

expectations.

Every element alive.

Fairyland dreamscape

I didn’t plan for you

The fantasy of this reality

is in the eloquent interruption

of concertina happenstance.

In the rear mirror

Behind peach skies

linear, lined

with clouds.

Ahead lilac grey

flimsy half moon.

Concentrate on the road ahead,

steady, keep stead;

balance, not too elated

yet don’t relish in your lows.

Losing your reference to speed

when you slow.

Afraid if you go too fast

you’ll let go.

Enjoying the thrill of direction.

Motor neurons, motor way.

Instant thoughts and meandering feelings.

Muscle memory, eyes, reaction, breathe, motion;

Thanking the technology as you go.

The art is both being and looking forward.

The hum of the engine is always there,

but this is what makes you drive.

Slowly, slowly

Here you are in your little box

while the world is spinning slowly;

So slowly, you can’t even feel it

but the sun never goes down, not really.