Roses are read...(a short poem)

"HIV" - a poem for National HIV Test Week

HIV

wedged into the bloat of Mankind, it lurks

coiled in the caverns of our insides

and it snares without hooks or nets or clamps

until all of our blood is occupied

and bellowing out, breaths become a blink

ground down by the weight of a dying heart’s pulse

and snaked into the body’s tributaries

the dried blood-tide ropes its territory

its naming has never contained it

no sound has delayed it, and yet we deny it

judging its victims, sinner, demon, beast

until it snatches one of us; too late we know

it has the seared conscience of a desert rock

and born deaf and dumb and bound to nothing

it forever strafes its code in spaces

whose first and final tourist is silence

and despite all the lines of ink we scribe,

it imprints itself and imprints itself and imprints itself

on every nation’s flag; yet it begs no translation,

because death has swallowed all our tongues.

ZHZ

#HIVTestWeek

A Haiku for Chorlton Book Festival

The hum of the wind
finds a hymn in the rooftops;
houses have no ears. 

National Poetry Day 2014

The UK's National Poetry Day will be taking place on Thursday the 2nd of October and what is so special about this particular Poetry Day is that this year's theme is "Remember".
I was particularly moved when I heard this as the selection of this theme is a "nod" to the centenary of the outbreak of World War I, a war which transformed the world and brought about the modern age, and it was in this crucible in which fine poets such as Rupert Graves, Thomas Hardy, Wilfred Owen and Siegfried Sassoon - to name a few - were forged.
Of course, poetry itself is a form of remembrance, of moments that have passed which we hope to cherish, crystallising an emotion, a glance...

Today, we live in the world of social media so I thought it would be great to suggest a few social media web sites that may be of interest:
National Poetry Day on Facebook

National Poetry Day on Twitter

If you are keen to learn more about this years's National Poetry Day then visit the Forward Arts Foundation; they're doing lots of fine stuff and you can post your own events on their site.
The Poetry Society has also produced information on this year's National Poetry Day.
I'm looking forward to this year's National Poetry Day and remembering and hoping that, through the power of story and poetry, we can connect with those who have passed, and retain the harsh and cruel lessons of disharmony so that we can produce a lasting peace.

ZHZ.

Metaphor: The Heart of Poetry

Long before the typewriter, philosophers had charted the realm of poetry.

Over two thousand years ago Aristotle wrote:

"The greatest thing by far is to be a master of metaphor. It is the one thing that cannot be learned from others; it is also a sign of genius, since a good metaphor implies an eye for resemblance."

Aristotle, De Poetica, 322 B.C.

It is true that a poem can come to life without a single metaphor, but with it...from the tiny serifs of letters, wings can sprout.

It's so simple to create metaphors, that it is a tragedy that so many can't. Yet, it is so difficult that it takes veritable genius to do it. But children see them everywhere.

How confusing, how contradictory.

A few weeks ago, I spent hours rifling through the pages of poetry manuals. I discovered that few chapters, nay few paragraphs, explained how to master metaphor. Was Aristotle right, that you can't learn how to give life to a new metaphor? That you either have it or you don't?

I think Aristotle was wrong.

You eyes are narrowing. You're asking me: "Oh yeah? How do you create metaphors then?"

You want to know how to crack open your the Pandora's Box that nestles in your head?
You want to fill the world with new creations?
Then come with me.
All you have to do is-

-Look.

Look and keep looking until the object reminds you of...something else. And keep looking until you see...something else. And don't stop...keep looking until the world blurs and the object becomes a Stereogram. Not everyone has the knack of seeming them pesky things, but they're there alright, there at the edge of the world.

I tell you that those untouched, unknown, magnificent metaphors exist.

Dive, I say dive...go deep and keep going until you reach the solid and infinite home of imagination and grab hard- and come up fast, real fast before the blighters escape you and yank them out and let them breathe and when they do your metaphors will wail and they will keep wailing until they become cliches...

I promise.

ZHZ.

The Origin of Poetry

Poetry is potent.

The rhythmic gush of a poet's mellifluous syllables stir the embers of our frail hearts. In human history, poetry's invisible beat has spurred us into action and we have discovered the far and distant shores of enduring self-revelation.

But why? Why does poetry have this grip we cannot see, but holds us helplessly in its narrative? Whether with iambic pentameter or free verse, words, sometimes arcane, sometimes modern, fall into the depths of us and each time they hit they crack against something hard.

Why? Why does poetry shake us in this way?

The reason lies in the beginning, before we were born.

It was when we were nestled in the black of our mother's womb and the slow systole diastole of her heart comforted us in warmth. And that was all we had before we could speak: that muffled rhythmic thud of sound.

And sound. And sound. And sound.

That's why we can't help, but be ensnared in loops of sounds made words and each time we hear the beat of poetry our soul swells as it remembers the first thud that comforted us in the dark and we know, we just know, that we're finally coming home.

ZHZ.