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Martin Peacock

Updated: Mon, 3 Jun 2024 04:13 pm

martinpeacock2@gmail.com

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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, which is why i'm here. 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. But that's not why i'm here; i simply want my poetry to be read, and hopefully liked. I think i've done my 10,000hrs, but does that count for anything? Only you can tell. Your opinions matter enormously to me. I'M HERE TO LEARN FROM MY MISTAKES, SO PLEASE, IF YOU HAVE ANY CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM, LET ME KNOW. And if you'd like me to return the favour, i promise i'd not be harsh. Talk to me! I don't bite (at least not intentionally.)

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.

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Comments

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Nigel Astell

Sat 15th Jun 2024 13:14

Thanks Martin for your comment on There is No Such Thing as Society.

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Stephen Gospage

Wed 5th Jun 2024 15:50

Thanks, Martin. I'm so glad you enjoyed the poems. For me, climate change is the No 1 issue of our times and I have written a number of poems on the subject.
Enjoying your poetry. Will post more comments when I get back from a short break.

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