Awakening Time


Awakening Time

By

Louise M. Hart

 

In exchange for my mortality

I was sentenced to purgatory

Shunning the luxury of life

I escaped the descent of death

Yielding no being no body

No voice or breath

 

Today I stand on insentient land

For I would rather be insentient

Than subject to death on demand

 

O’ children of life I banefully cried

Deserted earth

And parted the sky

And whilst the goddess above

Beckoned my love

The demons below

Seduced my soul

 

Torment chose their eyes

Hers winked

Like the stars

Above which she knitted

A complicit pattern of survival

 

Awaiting the world’s arms

Lay a shadow of dreams

Supporting humanity’s potential

For spiritual need

A need forever on the periphery

Like an infinite why

Conceived from the loins of a materialistic lie

And nurtured in the garden of truth

 

The awakening time is here

This life is queer

My awakening

Time

 

 

 

Addiction


I want to adorn a page with beauty
Write with Byronic poise
Across lines of truth
But my mind is stained with age
And my fingers are
Tangerine dreams of literary nicotine
The cigarette smoking pertained residue
Of my propensity for purple prose
Deformed by keyboard whiplash and an addiction to self abuse

Like a star that descended before it shone
My birth Mother is the cosmos
And the earth that I inhabit
A mere shadow
Of the dark side of heaven’s sacrificial son

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.

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Symptomatic


Although I live, perhaps, too much, the life of the mind, I am not immune to the impact of external events. My recent flights into the writerly realm, where I claimed authorship of my own identity, have been invaded and colonised by thoughts of self doubt. I did not purport to be Woolf or Joyce, I merely admired their work and wanted to employ my art to get through; sometimes the cut and thrust of existence becomes too acutely felt, disproportionate in effect and affect. Affectively, bad for one’s health. I thought I was truth. Now, I do not know.
Is this the come down of a swing of mood or a new stage of my life? Only time will tell. Tomorrow, I may experience once again the wonders of sweet despair, rise from my bed of pain and greet the world with a smile. Tears, however, are forever near. This is the life of a Thursday’s child who has far to go. Do you sense my anonymity? Are you, also, afraid to reveal the fear, which speaks like a barking hound in your inner ear? Let me know, for I shall cleanse your spirit and watch your soma disappear, like laughter embedded in a frown of woe.