Martin Peacock

Biography

I have been writing poetry since 1998, most of which has yet to see the light of day. I'd like to be published, but don't feel confident enough to submit my work. When my PC/printer died, i found myself with a backlog of nearly 200 poems, handwritten, which were becoming illegible through constant redrafting, so i thought i should put them on my phone for safekeeping. Then it occurred to me that it might die - I've had phones do that before - and so i decided to put them here, as a repository. I'm not sure if i'll ever get around to doing them all, as all too often i lose faith in them and think, 'why bother?' We'll see; time will tell. I don't get out much. I'm in my 60s, and two grinding years into my looong wait for an assessment for autism, which feels like it will never arrive. A last note on 'likes': please don't be offended that i don't 'like' poems. Apart from the occasional comment btl in the Guardian i've never engaged with any social medium, and i find the whole concepts of 'likes' and 'upticks' an insult to our intelligence and imagination, doubly so on sites like WOL, being populated by creative minds like ours. When i'm moved by a poem i'll say so, and say why. What does a 'like' express? Nothing. It gives us both a brief oxytocin hit to 'like' and be 'liked' and that's all. It absolves us of the need, or desire, to explain our thought processes. Which, for a poet, is the antithesis of all we stand for. I accept that this will put noses out of joint but you may take it as read that's it's nothing personal. All i ask is that we talk to each other. Isn't that why we're here?

Samples

OH SUN (S.A.D.*) Oh sun, your lustre mocks this man; today he feels worn thin, infirm, his body unreliable, his sallow-skinned complexion wan and paling; how akin - in form and texture so unpliable and loose - to a wraparound shroud! The warm reflection of your rays reminds him sadly how, in youth, in vitality he stood proud upon the earth; how bygone days seemed so full of promise and truth; and how now, by contrast, his time is spent repentant, in shadow, wracked with remorse for past mistakes, the errors of his misspent prime, his immaturity, the slow reveal of his unheeded breaks. Oh sun, you're not to blame, but please divert your flame away from him; don't watch him wallow in regret. See how low he seems, on his knees? Don't snatch away from him the slim belief that he may one day yet recover what he feels he lost so long ago, in aeons past when first you shone upon his face; for though it's lined now, creased and crossed with worried furrows, aging fast and furious, bent to the race of time, in dark occlusion hid he knows he has it in his heart to anneal his wounds, and return to life, though brief its run, and rid himself of grief's tight cloak, restart his clock, and feel your healing burn away the last remaining trace of melancholy from his eyes. Oh sun, do this one thing for him, let him be born again in grace and gratitude: give him this prize and he will sing for you a hymn of praise to raise you higher still than any god; give him this boon and he will return the favour, and in his pantheon install your name, mightier than the moon or stars, as his supreme Saviour. (S.A.D. - Seasonal Affective Disorder)

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.

Blog entries by Martin Peacock

RAWTENSTALL LETDOWN (18/07/2024)

CALLING #3 (IMPOSTER) (06/07/2024)

CALLING #2 (06/07/2024)

HER OWN ROSY CHEEK (06/07/2024)

CALLING #1 (03/07/2024)

AS SENSIBLE AS A LETTUCE BUDGET (22/06/2024)

SONNET: ON BECOMING ELIGIBLE FOR MY PENSION (22/06/2024)

7-UP: PRICKS, I KICK AT YOU (22/06/2024)

AFTER READING YEATS (22/06/2024)

TWILIGHT (22/06/2024)

Read more entries by Martin Peacock…

Blog link: https://www.writeoutloud.net/blogs/martinpeacock