“Words are, of course, the most powerful drug used by mankind.” ― Rudyard Kipling “Any word you have to hunt for in a thesaurus is the wrong word. There are no exceptions to this rule.” ― Stephen King. This is utter bollocks in my opinion. Writers from times way back when have always built themselves and had at their disposal a glossary of words, or alternative words. Words that can replace the more obvious or less poetic words or phrases that would normally be used. This can help greatly with the flow of what you are writing and what you are trying to say. It is a handy tool and, these days, is available at our finger tips. There's nothing shameful about using a glossary to create a piece of beautiful, emotive and powerful writing. It will never write your work for you and if anything it shows you care about your work. Moral of this story: Don't listen to pomposity and snobbery. I am a contemporary artist and poet based in Cornwall. My first published collection of poems, a chapbook titled, "BAD ANGELS", is available on Amazon in paperback and Kindle editions. My art can be viewed here, if you fancy a look, although it is in dire need of an update. www.marchawkins.org or you could come and say hello here www.facebook.com/Hawkeyeartist/ or hear some stuff here https://soundcloud.com/user-702646893
I was challenged by a member of the writers group I was part of to write a poem from a woman's perspective. I had recently watched a documentary on female genital mutilation which inspired me to write this, Type 3 being the harshest of the practice. TYPE III Colonial history will still dictate how the men around here Practice love through hate For aesthetic purposes; an ethnic marker Gender controlled by husband...son...father Against my will. I can let nature take its course, the uneasiness in how I pass Bears nothing to your immoral force with which you open me up Your gateway to a selfish pleasure And I once believed that being loved Was close to being treasured I am as trapped as a bird in a cage Modified and made ugly by your commission Disfigured by tradition and religion and holy wars And chained by the fear that renders me yours Against my will My sisterhood grows, from northeast Africa To the sub-Sahara Young and joyless and bound by doctrines No pursuit of happiness. No pleasure to come No great expectations. Nothing foretold Nothing that has been or gone Objects more of control than desire My eyes that once shone with innocent love Now burn with hate fuelled fire…and all because... You denied me a fall from grace, you denied me self discovery No different to putting scars on my face Or is that too much a public recovery? You denied me womanhood. You denied me choice I censor my thoughts and silence my voice And I think of our mothers and their mothers And of the honour and pride they felt When this exact same fate to them was dealt And why did they not feel humiliated? Abused? Mutilated? Used? Maybe when we live in a world without light We relinquish our strengths and fall prey to our plights Enlightenment and knowledge, I was lead to believe, Are the roads to freedom Our mothers learned nothing other than to serve and to please And here am I, enlightened but sedated Imprisoned, captive, segregated Dysmorphic now, a victim still And all of this against my will SPRAWL Veins, veins, length and breadth, intertwined beats to freedom or desolation; a terminus lost on a circular. An ebbing destination, unchartered targets, Follow the signs. We are a one way street, follow the signs on software maps. Stumped by sequential lights and us, caught in a dragnet within steely fish, gasping for air, choking on smoke, bilious coughs, hacking sputum, gobbing phlegm globs in interval gaps within gridlocks; nose to arse to nose to arse. The rage, the stares the shouts, the finger, the Grrr’s, the Rrrr’s, the honks, the blares, the bumper to bumper expletive shares. The rolling down, the alighting, the threats, the fighting. The falling down, the separation, reseating, the rolling, the thunder, the trudge, the stops, the starts. Follow the signs, follow the signs. Robotic conveyors for humans, mechanical fossil fueled chariots, grumbling, grunting, wheee-ing and screeching, and screaming and spewing and chuffing and guffing black plumes, air tarred, veins, veins clogged and bogged, viscous, molasses, liquid black blob. Road fogged, numbers logged. Veins, veins, follow the signs, slow crawl. Veins, veins, follow the signs, follow the signs, sprawl.
All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.
THE PEASANTS HAVE GATECRASHED THE RECEPTION (20/05/2018)
BREXIT TEARS (03/03/2018)
MOTHER OF A COLUMBINE MURDERER (28/02/2018)
YOU COULD SMOKE IN PUBS (11/02/2018)
LOOK! LISTEN! (09/02/2018)
TRIPPING OVER THE WELCOME MAT (08/02/2018)
NA OR T (08/02/2018)
TYPE III (08/02/2018)
PERFECT PAMELA (08/02/2018)
FUCKING HELL, IT'S BORIS (08/02/2018)
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