Pat Guinness
12-03-2008, 09:14 PM
Dear all,
I find the concept of internet forums and chat is quite strange, new and bizarre yet when it all converges on to something as accessable and beautiful as literature i feel at home. So here are three poems i have recently wrote, i thought i would give it an airing and hopefully get some feedback.
Thank you all, and i look forward to talking poetry and prose sometime.
Yours,
Pat. x
Trade, a designer outlet.
A sterile world,
somewhere between a glass ceiling and a spotless floor.
Out of town,
the halls host tresured goods but little more.
There is no soul to this possession,
carelessly crafted and mass manufactured,
its’ status desired and its’ heart fractured.
Would it not be better to take pride in an object lovingly made?
A hard days work and a fair price to be paid.
To all those who sweat and labour,
You’re our commodity, and value too, with change from a fiver.
Doubt.
That niggle at the top of your head,
Did i leave the gas on? Are my keys on the bed?
The destructive anxiety, and the slippery slope,
One slight doubt and there is no use for hope.
Call of the dogs, i am heading home,
To re-affirm my thoughts,
and double check the answer phone.
Studying.
Academia is, or do i mean is not?
For all that time procrastinating could not be active,
It is a negation, a further distraction.
When stuck between a rock and a hard place, we work.
The candle is burning and both ends are a flame,
A sallow sack of skin, with pro plus powered time.
The caffine keeps the blood pumping ‘til just after the deadline,
a reprieve, then back to the pub and one for the road.
I find the concept of internet forums and chat is quite strange, new and bizarre yet when it all converges on to something as accessable and beautiful as literature i feel at home. So here are three poems i have recently wrote, i thought i would give it an airing and hopefully get some feedback.
Thank you all, and i look forward to talking poetry and prose sometime.
Yours,
Pat. x
Trade, a designer outlet.
A sterile world,
somewhere between a glass ceiling and a spotless floor.
Out of town,
the halls host tresured goods but little more.
There is no soul to this possession,
carelessly crafted and mass manufactured,
its’ status desired and its’ heart fractured.
Would it not be better to take pride in an object lovingly made?
A hard days work and a fair price to be paid.
To all those who sweat and labour,
You’re our commodity, and value too, with change from a fiver.
Doubt.
That niggle at the top of your head,
Did i leave the gas on? Are my keys on the bed?
The destructive anxiety, and the slippery slope,
One slight doubt and there is no use for hope.
Call of the dogs, i am heading home,
To re-affirm my thoughts,
and double check the answer phone.
Studying.
Academia is, or do i mean is not?
For all that time procrastinating could not be active,
It is a negation, a further distraction.
When stuck between a rock and a hard place, we work.
The candle is burning and both ends are a flame,
A sallow sack of skin, with pro plus powered time.
The caffine keeps the blood pumping ‘til just after the deadline,
a reprieve, then back to the pub and one for the road.