These poems were mostly written in Antalya in June 2006. I was on a holiday with some friends in Turkey and had such a wonderful time there!
The verses that I have published here are pretty much a summary of some serious and profound thoughts which I was having and indeed experiencing at the time. They are the second part of the set of fifteen that I previously mentioned. Thus, the second and middle part of my first collection of poems that I wanted to publish just over two years ago now.
All of the first fifteen poems that I have published and will publish here have already been extensively edited, and are the finished articles.
I hope you enjoyed them!
Monday, November 30, 2009
VI-XI
Two armed men pace along the shore
accompanied by the simple
harmony of the ocean.
Their heavy standard issue boots
drill craters into the soft dark sand.
Nearby a team of olive skinned men
laboriously drag their dinghy ashore.
The deep blue sky gazes down at me:
I realise that I am far away
from the great greyness of the city.
Children entertain themselves
in the sea whilst their parents
blissfully gaze out to sea.
Everyone is at peace.
The tide is rolling into the shore,
crashing onto the virgin sand.
Beach of wantonness where lovers
embrace beneath the twinkling stars,
the moon blushes at the depraved
scenes in the hotel nightclub:
his golden tears flood down
upon the tranquil sea.
Perhaps he is beckoning
me to join him: the ochre
road leads from here to his
lonely golden abode.
Yet the artificial lights
on the wooden jetty beckon
me back to the hotel: to the
fake splendour of the Red Square.
The King of the sky has now
lost his golden crown and is
outshone by the clear night sky.
Behind me lies the endless abyss,
swirling her belly at me:
enticing me to join her.
To flee the trivialities of this artificial life.
The three paths beckon simultaneously:
each one leading to its own unique despair.
To choose the fluorescent lights,
to plunge into the gentle abyss,
or to walk the ever dimming
golden path to eternity.
Have pity on the weakness of men.
O! How the temptress beckons my weak soul:
To end it all or to
pursue two aimless paths.
If I should die now,
what would become of me?
My freshly rotted flesh soon forgotten,
tear stained faces soon dried.
To join the spirits floating
beneath where I am sitting,
peacefully drifting by; these
illusions of the moonlight
on the water seem so tangible
These golden wraiths so
fixatingly beautiful,
yet their form appears so
terrifyingly life-like.
Is that a corpse over there?
Wrapped in the same shade of
black that I am wearing?
I know that what I see is just the moon's lights,
her radiant, sad white face casts a huge golden sheen
over the sea, stretching for eternity.
The metallic sheen on the path to the horizon
shares a common cause: to wander forever,
but to never find that which it seeks.
In this ancient graveyard twixt
moss covered, crumbling old gravestones,
beneath the great night sky and
the radiant ochre princess
I dreamily extinguish my
cigarette on a nearby stone.
The chill breeze is invigorating,
and it makes me conscious of the
whisperings of the tranquil night:
I am surrounded by dead souls
in a long-forgotten churchyard.
Set sail for the azure infinity,
raise anchor once more; set a course
for the abyss.
Again we embark on another
meaningless voyage; the sensation
never changes, it is always the same
bright blue yonder and the same
glowing stars.
Our voyage left to chance and
the benevolence of Providence:
we cannot help but let
ourselves be carried along,
gently rocked to sleep by the calm
drifting and the silent lullaby of the wind.
Freedom is such that we are
able to glide across the
tranquil oceans in peaceful solitude.
We few are destined to
float here forever until
the current ceases and
the oceans expire.
accompanied by the simple
harmony of the ocean.
Their heavy standard issue boots
drill craters into the soft dark sand.
Nearby a team of olive skinned men
laboriously drag their dinghy ashore.
The deep blue sky gazes down at me:
I realise that I am far away
from the great greyness of the city.
Children entertain themselves
in the sea whilst their parents
blissfully gaze out to sea.
Everyone is at peace.
The tide is rolling into the shore,
crashing onto the virgin sand.
Beach of wantonness where lovers
embrace beneath the twinkling stars,
the moon blushes at the depraved
scenes in the hotel nightclub:
his golden tears flood down
upon the tranquil sea.
Perhaps he is beckoning
me to join him: the ochre
road leads from here to his
lonely golden abode.
Yet the artificial lights
on the wooden jetty beckon
me back to the hotel: to the
fake splendour of the Red Square.
The King of the sky has now
lost his golden crown and is
outshone by the clear night sky.
Behind me lies the endless abyss,
swirling her belly at me:
enticing me to join her.
To flee the trivialities of this artificial life.
The three paths beckon simultaneously:
each one leading to its own unique despair.
To choose the fluorescent lights,
to plunge into the gentle abyss,
or to walk the ever dimming
golden path to eternity.
Have pity on the weakness of men.
O! How the temptress beckons my weak soul:
To end it all or to
pursue two aimless paths.
If I should die now,
what would become of me?
My freshly rotted flesh soon forgotten,
tear stained faces soon dried.
To join the spirits floating
beneath where I am sitting,
peacefully drifting by; these
illusions of the moonlight
on the water seem so tangible
These golden wraiths so
fixatingly beautiful,
yet their form appears so
terrifyingly life-like.
Is that a corpse over there?
Wrapped in the same shade of
black that I am wearing?
I know that what I see is just the moon's lights,
her radiant, sad white face casts a huge golden sheen
over the sea, stretching for eternity.
The metallic sheen on the path to the horizon
shares a common cause: to wander forever,
but to never find that which it seeks.
In this ancient graveyard twixt
moss covered, crumbling old gravestones,
beneath the great night sky and
the radiant ochre princess
I dreamily extinguish my
cigarette on a nearby stone.
The chill breeze is invigorating,
and it makes me conscious of the
whisperings of the tranquil night:
I am surrounded by dead souls
in a long-forgotten churchyard.
Set sail for the azure infinity,
raise anchor once more; set a course
for the abyss.
Again we embark on another
meaningless voyage; the sensation
never changes, it is always the same
bright blue yonder and the same
glowing stars.
Our voyage left to chance and
the benevolence of Providence:
we cannot help but let
ourselves be carried along,
gently rocked to sleep by the calm
drifting and the silent lullaby of the wind.
Freedom is such that we are
able to glide across the
tranquil oceans in peaceful solitude.
We few are destined to
float here forever until
the current ceases and
the oceans expire.
About I-V
I have published in this blog my first five verses of a collection of fifteen that I had hoped to publish in 2007, or thereabouts.
A few notes for the more discerning viewer:
The use of capital letters at the beginning of each line is for the most part, for aesthetic purposes. You will see that it is not the case everywhere, so don't focus your literary criticisms thereon as it's really not important.
Also these first five poems of my second collection (as I mentioned the first was lost forever to a certain friend at school with all of the originals, and of course at that age I didn't think to make copies) and none have titles. In fact I have avoided titles for the most part is for a couple of reasons:
As a long-suffering literature student, I have found at all levels of study, that far too much is made of the titles of poems. I really, really disliked this as sometimes I felt that by (over-)analysing the title, much of the significance and beauty of the verse was lost. It is just so crude when one decides the meaning of a work by looking at the title. I feel that when titles are given, it should be because it adds more meaning to the work and that it is not placed there simply for the gratification of the editor and reader.
Where, on the very few occasions that I have used a title, it is for a specific reason. Usually I do not give my work titles. Partly due to my writing process and partly due to my opinions on the literary analysis and criticism of titles (and subtitles for that matter).
At this stage in my work, I was still under the bewitching spell of Andrew Marvell's influence, who I studied at school in the A-level English literature syllabus, despite of course, the fact that I-V were written during my first year of university. Andrew Marvell, whilst by no means my favourite poet, provoked my thoughts a great deal for some time: especially when channeling my thoughts and creating verse about certain themes.
Just one more thing:
There is no specific meaning to my work. Like many readers and critics, I hope that you will not automatically assume that my work is either self-referential or autobiographical as in the majority of cases this just isn't the case. In fact it's a huge problem in modern literary criticism and the way in which literature and poetry is taught to the masses. Most people are forced into the manner of thinking that poetry is by and large self-referential when it comes to certain 'generic' themes within poetry. This idea of poetry as a personal manner of speaking about the unspeakable for the poet is something that, since I began writing, I have wanted to break down.
Just take the verse as it comes and try not to think about what it means in terms of my life as the author. In terms of my thoughts: if you can read my mind and predict it, then good for you. I will say that I am more interested in subjective interpretation as opposed to attempting to stab in the critical dark by attributing words and ideas to the poet's life and experiences (I'm anti-Freudian literary analysis).
I do hope that you enjoyed these first verses of mine that were written around spring/summer 2006.
A few notes for the more discerning viewer:
The use of capital letters at the beginning of each line is for the most part, for aesthetic purposes. You will see that it is not the case everywhere, so don't focus your literary criticisms thereon as it's really not important.
Also these first five poems of my second collection (as I mentioned the first was lost forever to a certain friend at school with all of the originals, and of course at that age I didn't think to make copies) and none have titles. In fact I have avoided titles for the most part is for a couple of reasons:
As a long-suffering literature student, I have found at all levels of study, that far too much is made of the titles of poems. I really, really disliked this as sometimes I felt that by (over-)analysing the title, much of the significance and beauty of the verse was lost. It is just so crude when one decides the meaning of a work by looking at the title. I feel that when titles are given, it should be because it adds more meaning to the work and that it is not placed there simply for the gratification of the editor and reader.
Where, on the very few occasions that I have used a title, it is for a specific reason. Usually I do not give my work titles. Partly due to my writing process and partly due to my opinions on the literary analysis and criticism of titles (and subtitles for that matter).
At this stage in my work, I was still under the bewitching spell of Andrew Marvell's influence, who I studied at school in the A-level English literature syllabus, despite of course, the fact that I-V were written during my first year of university. Andrew Marvell, whilst by no means my favourite poet, provoked my thoughts a great deal for some time: especially when channeling my thoughts and creating verse about certain themes.
Just one more thing:
There is no specific meaning to my work. Like many readers and critics, I hope that you will not automatically assume that my work is either self-referential or autobiographical as in the majority of cases this just isn't the case. In fact it's a huge problem in modern literary criticism and the way in which literature and poetry is taught to the masses. Most people are forced into the manner of thinking that poetry is by and large self-referential when it comes to certain 'generic' themes within poetry. This idea of poetry as a personal manner of speaking about the unspeakable for the poet is something that, since I began writing, I have wanted to break down.
Just take the verse as it comes and try not to think about what it means in terms of my life as the author. In terms of my thoughts: if you can read my mind and predict it, then good for you. I will say that I am more interested in subjective interpretation as opposed to attempting to stab in the critical dark by attributing words and ideas to the poet's life and experiences (I'm anti-Freudian literary analysis).
I do hope that you enjoyed these first verses of mine that were written around spring/summer 2006.
I-V (2006)
That which one desires but can never achieve;
simple preoccupations of a base mind:
The lifelong obsessions of a fallible creature.
Always reminded of the glaring absences
whilst ineptitude always remains a harsh reality.
Come hither little one
Let me wallow in your innocence
And intoxicate my weak soul
With your sweet nectar.
The inadequacies of age
Deny mutual affection,
Whilst the trappings of youth
Bar such pleasures.
Your purity delights me,
Such blissful ignorance of youth
Enthralls my depraved mind.
Your snow-white skin excites me.
Yet I fear that my lust for you
Will remain unfulfilled for eternity...
Or at least a few years.
Unrequited love and unfulfilled lust
Blight the depraved innocence of
A fallible soul and mind:
A pure childhood and
An unfulfilled adolescence pass by
Unrecognised and unappreciated.
It is only my inexperience
With actions which forces
Me to draw on my ability with words.
The absence of history and
Confidence create the fumbling
Murkiness that is the
Confusion of the heart.
Miserere mei deus:
Have pity on I who knows not what he does.
Look kindly upon me, for innocence
Should not be frowned upon as ignorance.
Foolish little girl, throwing your
Innocence at a churl.
It is hard to believe that you
Could ever be so foolish or
So wasteful. A shameful squand'ring of God's
Innocence.
The waves of happiness which
Flow over you now will be
Rolled over by pain and anguish.
Those unwanted bloodstained sheets leave a
Spiteful reminder of your foolishness.
Those red tears that you shed in that
Joyous agony will leave
Angry blotches upon your soul
For eternity as your childish
Ecstasies will become sorrowful regret.
Your reflection in the mirror has
Become faded; youthful joy is
Replaced by a wisening sorrow.
Your eyes have sunken into a weary
Blackness, your complexion no longer
Ruddy but jaded. Your smile long-lost.
You pathetic little man:
a rough-edged specimen,
a hollow shell of flesh that
has always had that yearning
void that will ne'er be complete.
You idle around and conduct yourself
boorishly: amorality and a
churlish manner render
your vileness complete.
There is no spirit within you;
this malaise which afflicts you
so terribly is rapidly spreading:
the symptoms are all too famililar
and the disease more contagious
than ever before.
You only smile and laugh lest you
throw yourself into despair and decay.
simple preoccupations of a base mind:
The lifelong obsessions of a fallible creature.
Always reminded of the glaring absences
whilst ineptitude always remains a harsh reality.
Come hither little one
Let me wallow in your innocence
And intoxicate my weak soul
With your sweet nectar.
The inadequacies of age
Deny mutual affection,
Whilst the trappings of youth
Bar such pleasures.
Your purity delights me,
Such blissful ignorance of youth
Enthralls my depraved mind.
Your snow-white skin excites me.
Yet I fear that my lust for you
Will remain unfulfilled for eternity...
Or at least a few years.
Unrequited love and unfulfilled lust
Blight the depraved innocence of
A fallible soul and mind:
A pure childhood and
An unfulfilled adolescence pass by
Unrecognised and unappreciated.
It is only my inexperience
With actions which forces
Me to draw on my ability with words.
The absence of history and
Confidence create the fumbling
Murkiness that is the
Confusion of the heart.
Miserere mei deus:
Have pity on I who knows not what he does.
Look kindly upon me, for innocence
Should not be frowned upon as ignorance.
Foolish little girl, throwing your
Innocence at a churl.
It is hard to believe that you
Could ever be so foolish or
So wasteful. A shameful squand'ring of God's
Innocence.
The waves of happiness which
Flow over you now will be
Rolled over by pain and anguish.
Those unwanted bloodstained sheets leave a
Spiteful reminder of your foolishness.
Those red tears that you shed in that
Joyous agony will leave
Angry blotches upon your soul
For eternity as your childish
Ecstasies will become sorrowful regret.
Your reflection in the mirror has
Become faded; youthful joy is
Replaced by a wisening sorrow.
Your eyes have sunken into a weary
Blackness, your complexion no longer
Ruddy but jaded. Your smile long-lost.
You pathetic little man:
a rough-edged specimen,
a hollow shell of flesh that
has always had that yearning
void that will ne'er be complete.
You idle around and conduct yourself
boorishly: amorality and a
churlish manner render
your vileness complete.
There is no spirit within you;
this malaise which afflicts you
so terribly is rapidly spreading:
the symptoms are all too famililar
and the disease more contagious
than ever before.
You only smile and laugh lest you
throw yourself into despair and decay.
About my work (and a bit more about me)
The work that I am posting here is by and large abstract free verse, but a lot of it has been created in tetrameter or octosyllabic line.
I'll be posting my work up frequently, along with some of my thoughts and will try to make the posts with my work in chronological order starting with oldest going all the way through to most recent.
I am currently based in North London and am from just outside of London originally. I am a postgraduate literature student at UCL, specializing in Russian Literature (hence also the pseudonym). I was also at UCL for my undergrad, having studied French and Spanish.
My literary background is extensive and varied. My literary interests and intellectual influences are mostly from my favourite areas in literature (some of which I have formally studied to BA level and others at MA level and others just because)
Medieval English literature (Middle English authors like Chaucer and Malory), Medieval French literature, Renaissance French literature, Golden Age Spanish literature, Golden Age Spanish Theatre, The Nineteenth Century as a whole in France, Spain and Russian, Romanticism, Realism, Naturalism, Russian short stories, my old English teacher at school's work and Philip Larkin.
Ok, so quite a wide spread of things that I enjoy, but as you will no doubt notice I've not mentioned many 'modern' works. That is because my least favourite works are 20th century and 21st century. I can't stand pop-lit and the modern style. I much prefer the writers who were thinkers, readers and writers who agonized over their words and genuinely loved words and literature.
These poets, playwrights and authors are my inspiration and it is their passion and capacity for thought and proper manipulation of language which I hope to one day capture.
I will try where I can to put dates of completion on my work, but sadly most of it is untitled and not dated. The reason for not putting a date on most of my writing is laziness and thoughtlessness. However, not titling my work is deliberate.
I'll be posting my work up frequently, along with some of my thoughts and will try to make the posts with my work in chronological order starting with oldest going all the way through to most recent.
I am currently based in North London and am from just outside of London originally. I am a postgraduate literature student at UCL, specializing in Russian Literature (hence also the pseudonym). I was also at UCL for my undergrad, having studied French and Spanish.
My literary background is extensive and varied. My literary interests and intellectual influences are mostly from my favourite areas in literature (some of which I have formally studied to BA level and others at MA level and others just because)
Medieval English literature (Middle English authors like Chaucer and Malory), Medieval French literature, Renaissance French literature, Golden Age Spanish literature, Golden Age Spanish Theatre, The Nineteenth Century as a whole in France, Spain and Russian, Romanticism, Realism, Naturalism, Russian short stories, my old English teacher at school's work and Philip Larkin.
Ok, so quite a wide spread of things that I enjoy, but as you will no doubt notice I've not mentioned many 'modern' works. That is because my least favourite works are 20th century and 21st century. I can't stand pop-lit and the modern style. I much prefer the writers who were thinkers, readers and writers who agonized over their words and genuinely loved words and literature.
These poets, playwrights and authors are my inspiration and it is their passion and capacity for thought and proper manipulation of language which I hope to one day capture.
I will try where I can to put dates of completion on my work, but sadly most of it is untitled and not dated. The reason for not putting a date on most of my writing is laziness and thoughtlessness. However, not titling my work is deliberate.
Welcome
Hello and welcome to this: my first attempt at blogging and (self) publication!
Over the coming days and weeks, those of you lucky enough to be directed here will have a chance to see my life's work before I try to send it out for formal publication. You'll be seeing my work which is, by and large fully edited already.
I would like so many others like to see your thoughts and opinions on my thoughts and opinions. Verse for me is so much more than mastery of language and lexicon: it is the very essence of what makes us human; the fullest expression of sentiment and thought. I value verse more and more highly as time passes as I just don't see how it is a genre that will survive against our modern times and our modern literary demands and taste. I feel that nowadays there is no space for poetry and that the demand is ever shrinking. This leads me to believe that there is a significant gap for us young poets who are so full of ideas and expression, as it is we who can forge a whole new genre of poetry: a new wave of poets to observe modern times and to continue the verse tradition all over the world.
Now is the time for new poets, new verses and new styles.
I sincerely hope that you enjoy my work and continue to keep the genre alive and kicking!
R.
Over the coming days and weeks, those of you lucky enough to be directed here will have a chance to see my life's work before I try to send it out for formal publication. You'll be seeing my work which is, by and large fully edited already.
I would like so many others like to see your thoughts and opinions on my thoughts and opinions. Verse for me is so much more than mastery of language and lexicon: it is the very essence of what makes us human; the fullest expression of sentiment and thought. I value verse more and more highly as time passes as I just don't see how it is a genre that will survive against our modern times and our modern literary demands and taste. I feel that nowadays there is no space for poetry and that the demand is ever shrinking. This leads me to believe that there is a significant gap for us young poets who are so full of ideas and expression, as it is we who can forge a whole new genre of poetry: a new wave of poets to observe modern times and to continue the verse tradition all over the world.
Now is the time for new poets, new verses and new styles.
I sincerely hope that you enjoy my work and continue to keep the genre alive and kicking!
R.
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