I am…not that into me, either


I am Van Gogh’s emasculated ear

Severed to diminish feeling I died before I became real

Comprised of stories no one wants to hear

And rendered out of print, like an old fashioned picture book

Disproportionate in words and imagery

When I speak, the herd turns its heedless back

I blame them not, for my voice sounds sweeter when gagged

By those who hear only sounds

Transcribed by waves that are fluid, loud and clear

Shedding emotions, like translucent onion peel

I try to moo aloud

But no one answers back

Thus, as I sit alone in a crowd of crushing pain and fear

I raise my hands to my head

But find that it has disappeared

This poem was inspired by circumstances I experienced only yesterday. I joined a writers group because I wanted to improve my writing. But, when I sat passively listening to the group’s critique of one of my poems, I realised that I perceived my writing as not a projection of my consciousness, but as myself in a textual form. Thus, whilst I fully accepted, even welcomed, feedback about my use of language and how engaging they found the poem, I felt crushed when the critique disintegrated into an attack on the ideology and thought processes behind the poem. In a sudden revelatory flash, I realised that it matters not whether my writing is, “good” or, “bad.” I write for myself and if other people like it, I am blessed. To what extent the critique constituted a personal attack on me, I do not know. But, it saddens me to think a group formed to encourage people to write, should conduct itself in such a manner. If this situation had happened to some one else, I would have felt the same. I shall not go back to the group, but I shall always write.

Advertisements

I DARE NOT SPEAK ITS NAME


The Lesbian

Reclining in satin sheets of purple yonder
My mind was locked between the nag of thought and the will to slumber
I knew not whether to sin I pray

A cigarette poised hungrily between my lips
I inhaled its forbidden pleasures
Like the scent of sex
Between temptation’s fragile hips
Only to extinguish it, like an illuminated candle wick

Scorched by flames of hell’s fire and unreason
An aromatic olfactory seizure
Of sensuous womanhood and images of naked human flesh
Impressed its vivid presence upon my perceptual prowess
Then I fell asleep and dreamed of being undressed
By the hands of a lascivious lover

Woken by whispers outside my room
“Let me come inside your maiden’s chamber
For I am the spirit of love and pleasure’s saviour”
I observed, standing before my frigid bed
A vision of such heaven sent beauty
That I wished myself dead

Praying to be freed of my grand illusion
I attributed its existence to thought intrusion
And my evident psychical confusion
“It is a sickness as old as womankind,”
Said my doctor, with sympathetic eyes

When, three months later we became betrothed
The mouth of the love, whose name I did not know
Was forever silenced
But my inner voice still speaks out and proud
In gay abandonment of my secret truth and imaginary life

If you have enjoyed reading my work, you might be interested in reading my first poetry collection.
A LIFE REBORN by Louise M. Hart is currently available for the bargain price of £1.14 at amazon.com
Or…
My debut novel, THE GENERAL PARALYSIS OF SANITY, a mere £1.57 NOW at amazon.com

Write what you know


No writer of fiction escapes from herself. Although many feign detachment from the mortal “I,” our hearts and souls are encoded in the characters we create. This is both a blessing and a curse.

It is widely accepted that most first novels are essentially autobiographical in nature. My own first novel, The General Paralysis of Sanity is a perfect example of the phenonenom. However, despite my subsequent writing ventures, my “self” remains a frequent visitor to the texts I produce. This is both a blessing and a curse.

My favourite twentieth century poet and, I believe, probably the greatest exponent of the form, is T.S. Eliot. Eliot proposed that great poetry should be detached from the limitations of the poet’s ego. The consequence of this principle haunts the literary establishment today. Thus, confessional poetry is often stereotyped as a secondary form and connoted with feminisation. A Life Reborn, my second book is a collection of confessional poetry.

I am a writer. This is both a blessing and a curse.

A poet reborn or…just pretending?


I do not purport to be a great poet, or even a good one. I aim to capture the unpredictable ebb and flow of thought as it intersects with text on my laptop screen. For writing not only reflects the consciousness of the writer, but her soul. Thus, when someone reads my poetry, they access part of me that is forbidden to the eye.

In my new poetry collection, I have stripped myself bare. Like discarded garments, my outer layers reveal the surface of my intent. Beneath, I am as vulnerable as a child. I shiver in the presence of pedagogues, those who truly understand the poetic form and fear that my amateurism will be exposed.

After 20 years of writing poetry, I am still a virgin; not penetrated by the sharp pen of scholastic formalism,
I am merely myself.

Truth is pretence.

A Life Reborn by Louise M. Hart is available from amazon, barnes and noble and most respected retailers.

For updates, please follow me on twitter. @shunterthompson