Artists Among Poets

A throbbing behind my eyes A rustle of sheets as a warm Body turns beside me I open my eyes Awake Thin light falls over the bed I turn in the grey sheets facing his back, more awake now A squid clings to his shoulder The inky arms reaches out Towards me, wrapping Around my torso, My thighs Enticing. It's getting brighter, red light Behind my eye lids creeping In. bringing me back Into that small room A dream? Red sheets wrap around me as I turn to face a wall. suddenly I'm surrounded by water, floating rubble everywhere I put my hands to my face, up side down, I wish to close out the scene. But I Have to look eventually A gruesome face, bloated in The water, startles me Awake. I blink, twice Something feels Off A green light is blinking behind My desk. That's odd. The room is hot and my body is damp. The spot next to me is empty I rise to turn on a light. I need to use the bathroom. A 'click' Then nothing. Only dar

Poems, depending on how they're written, can be used to express a lot of things. They can be a reference to history, a criticism on the current society or a hopeful statement of the future. It can also be a lot more personal; a way to express an emotional or a psychological state. Whatever is expressed, it's a story tool that can be used in order to understand ourselves and the world around us, with the use of imagery and association. When writing a symbolistic poem it can be challenging to avoid being cliché. Finding visual imagery that can be both universally interpreted, and that also carries a personal and unique resonance can be very difficult. Writing the poem for last week was hard, not only because it was symbolistic, but because we also needed to think about including other linguistic tools, such as antithesis and alliterations. That made the natural flow a bit stifled. However, the more I practice using these tools, and more importantly the more I become an active c

When my neck is cold and naked Bare to the gritty teeth of pride; The greying skin will brittle and creek And betrayal is creeping up behind. Now with a soothing scarf to bind A warm disposition within my chest; A soothing scarf, so soft and mild, No hardening hurt will be left. Forgiveness will be the thread With which I knit this protective garn; Yes, a scarf of this disopision Will keep the most shrivelled heart warm. Friendships will flourish And rivalries will fall; With this soothing scarf wrapped around My neck can take no harm. And if those wretched teeth Should tear at you instead; I'll spin more thread And let you have a share. Our future will be clear To make with what we will. With this soothing scarf to ware Fear and regret will fade away.

To my believes, a good poem should at first glance grab the reader by the heart, and at second by the mind. It should be felt, without necessarily being fully understood by the conscious mind, and invoke curiosity which invites to further reflection. How this is achieved can vary greatly from writer to writer and reader to reader. Weather it be  through Symbolism, realism or metaphor, a good poem should fully engage the imagination, with the use of expertly crafted language. It can be simple, or filled with flourishes, as long as a balance is achieved that pulls the reader into the poets mind-scape, rather than alert you to the fact that you're merely looking at words on a piece of paper. An example of a good poem using symbolism, is 'A poison tree' by William Blake. The first paragraph neatly sums up the poem's message. As the following paragraphs goes on, the imagery which is painted in Blake's words heighten the emotional involvement, allowing the fourth and

I write best in the evening. In the morning, my head is clear and programmed to perceive. At night however, the impressions of the day are whirling around my head, so I have a greater well of inspiration from which to fetch ideas. Writing those ideas down also helps me make more sense of them. With such a process, my writing generally stems from my own inner world and experiences. Though the form they take can be, and often are, influenced by exterior forces such as recent discussions with peers, texts I've read, music and visual imagery I've been exposed to. Those things are then, not so much reshaped with my own touch, but rather make up the hands that form my writing; And external force that determine the inner structure. This way of writing may come across as limiting, but in my own experience is quite the opposite. Even in the mornings, when my mind is clear, if I only tap into that subconscious stream it may flow freely, especially if I' situated at a place that i

Artwork by: Andrew Hem We struggle to our hearts content, for somewhere to belong And when we go back home again; feel nothing but forlorne. The little cottage gleams at us, rusted in the sun; With flaking skin and rotted wood, we crawl back home again.