Creative Writing - The Blackened Bird

This is a poem that I wrote several years ago called 'The Blackened Bird'. The narrative of it follows somebody walking down a beach and finding a bird covered with oil. It's about nature, pollution, corruption and humanity. The bird is a symbol of and speaks of human nature and what we are doing to our earth and its beauty.  

The Blackened Bird

Once, long ago, I walked down a beach in late noon,

The sun shining sharply on each small grain of sand,

In the clear sky I saw shadows of a full moon,

The sky bursting with beauty no-one understands.

The waves seemed tranquilized by calm, serene,

The roaring rage of the once angry wind dies down,

The majesty of the evening wipes all stress clean,

Nature slowly falls to sleep and loses its frown.

The calm sun sinks below the horizon to rest,

Painting the sky with a palette of orange-pink,

I stop my walk and stare, my eyes start to ingest,

The sea’s glittering with life; I forget to blink.

As I walk down the beach with cheer, I see a sight,

A sight so sick and disgusting it makes me retch,

A bird, feathers slick with oil, walks with all its might,

An image containing horror nightmares can’t etch.

The bird clings to life; life dripping with black, slick dirt,

A blot on the dazzling beach, the beach of glory,

It stumbles around, ensnared in a world of hurt,

Its throat is clogged with oil; the death will be gory.

I stare at it with disgust, horror and pity,

It chokes on the filth of humanity, in pain,

It collapses in the sand, grubby and gritty,

The bird’s death is not noble; it will die in vain.

It dies by our hand; it chokes on our slimy greed,

It must soak in and swallow the muck of mankind,

It did not want to eat oil; it never agreed,

Mother Nature must suffer because we are blind.

Everything starts to dim and the sand turns to ash,

The sky turns black and acidic rain starts to pour,

I am brought back to reality with a crash,

The beach doesn’t seem so beautiful any more.

Creative Writing - Christmas Bells

This is a poem, 'Christmas Bells', that I wrote very recently. I wrote it in free verse to try and capture a feeling of liberation. I was inspired by the festivities. I write about Christmas bells being a symbol which varies, depending on an individual's perception of Christmas, but keeps the same idea of noise and happiness. I put emphasis on the Christian understanding of, not just the symbol of the bells, but of Christmas entirely. If anybody is reading this in the Christmas season, I wish you a merry Christmas and a happy New Year.

Christmas Bells

What a time of festivity!

A time for the world to unite and yell to the heavens,

The palette of silver-blue-red-green-gold swirling around

The minds of the children and the adults alike.

A time when the dampened spirit reawakens and smiles,

Feeling fresh in the chilly winter’s air

Nipping playfully at the bare skin of passers-by.

When the tired souls can gather and rejoice

At the beauty of the Christmas lights, the glowing bundles of warmth and gentle care that twinkle, soothing the hearts of the many below.

Such refreshment,

Such happiness,

Such company.

The sound of smiling sleighbells fills the air,

Reflecting the past, its woe and care

And echoing those of the future.

A reassuring noise that serves testament to our ability to continue annually

And meet at the end for a time together,

To receive,

To give.

Meanwhile, elsewhere, much the same is happening

But in remembrance of a Lord who came,

Lowered Himself into the manger of a baby born into poverty,

Born into a world of corruption and destitution, despairing, hopeless.

Humanity, so selfish, not concerned for the path of God but concerned for their own sinful, wicked ways,

Days doomed in the desolation of their own repugnant filth.

Yet there came a saviour, born into a world, signalled by a glorious star.

A King, not just that but the King of Kings, incarnated and came in the form of a weakling babe;

Yet the most powerful weakling babe that has ever existed.

Such humbling,

Such grace,

Such mercy.

That He would do that for a wretch like me.

The sound of worshipping angels’ bells fills the air,

A resounding music filling the minds of those who declare

That Christ, Emmanuel, came to be among us,

To save us,

To love us.

Let the resounding of the Christmas bells not just be a clamour for the futile electronic lights that attract the attention of the masses

But for the eternal light that will never go out, that will never perish.

Let us listen to the Christmas bells together and not just be happy, but be joyful.

Creative Writing - Night

Here is the second poem that I've decided to share on this blog. This is a poem that I've written very recently called 'Night'. Unlike 'Brambles' (which is the first poem I shared on this blog), I didn't feel that I needed to use any particular metre in this poem, because I felt that free verse communicated the freedom expressed in the poem far better. I wrote 'Brambles' a while ago, and since then I have studied the likes of Seamus Heaney and Owen Sheers in the classroom. Poets like these have helped me understand better that rhyme and particular metres are not necessary.

I was inspired to write it by how I find that my efficiency sometimes increases in the nighttime and how I feel that, occasionally, my writing and my inspiration to write comes more freely to me then. The poem itself was written in the night, something which hopefully reflects in the poem itself. I use light imagery and fire imagery in contrast to the darkness associated with night to try and communicate how the idea of being enlightened in a poetic sense translates into something that happens in the darkness of the nighttime and not the literal light of the daytime. That's not to say that darkness is entirely associated with night; the light of the moon is something I appreciate as well, and I have written poetry about this in the past also.

Night

It's all at night when the true magic happens.

When the rays of light wobble and bounce off each other, bundling, forming, creating.

When the flames form and lick at the heels of Destiny.

When streams of light ignite the fight, fuel the might, singe the fright.

When pulsating forms of pure passion speak tongues and scream ideas to the solemn spirit.

When the grinding gears stop, think, and are then blinded by fits of flames, bursts of bewilderment.

When empty castles stand, flaming, stones heated up with the fires of displaced ferociousness.

When the very being strives to drive closer to complete itself, a fire for the extinguishing of the most undesirable flame ever.

When perceptions prescribe portions of power to particular people.

When the icy depths of that which is claimed thaws under its own sudden heat and dances under the moonlight through the window, careful not to wake all that is outside.

When the mind bubbles with its own juices, inspiration kindles the flame of its own creation and the light of day is allowed on at night.

It's all at night when the true magic happens.

Creative Writing - Brambles

I've decided to share a piece of my own creative writing on this blog. This is a poem that I've written called 'Brambles'. I didn't write it recently; this is something I wrote a while ago. That may be something that's reflected in the poem to some degree. The poem may be an exaggeration, since there are many that experience what I'm describing on a far worse level, but it is still definitely applicable to many people.

Brambles

Brambles crawl through my body, soul, and mind,

Keeping me stuck in a full body bind.

They crawl through my life, burning holes, no stop,

They will not die; they re-grow when I chop.

Remedies are thrown but none of them work,

Fate still mocks me with a laugh and a smirk.

They crawl beneath my skin, hidden from sight,

I’m brought to my knees; they’ve shown me their might.

They will make me itch and scratch all the time,

I wish for the day when my skin is mine.

I get scorned; they say “You can do better,”

But I can’t help it; my skin grows redder.

I get pitied and they try to help me,

Sometimes they do help but I’m still not free.

Invisible brambles hide in my skin,

A battle is raging; maybe I’ll win.