poetry, writing and poetical images

Having been a closet writer since the age of twelve, it is prime time to allow some of these poetical musings to be spread into the minds of other folks. Please enjoy browsing through the collection of text based and image based surreal meanderings. 

 
 
 Uncertain Certainty, 2015.

Uncertain Certainty, 2015.

Fighting Systems

Maybe I'm allergic to a certain kind of sound,
The stuff that's shrill and cutting,
rhymical conundrums.

Maybe I'm resistant to a certain kind of soul,
That grates and grinds against me,
Sharpening my sides as I struggle.

Maybe I'm a running from a certin kind of face,
the growling, grovelling confidence, that suits the master race.

Feb, 2017.

  Kinesis , November 2016. Written and made on the Beta Beta Residency in Braemar, Scotland. 

Kinesis, November 2016. Written and made on the Beta Beta Residency in Braemar, Scotland. 

 

Yes

Yes,
We might not see tomorrow,
And yes,
We may breathe our last breath,
Now or now or now,
Yes,
We may be fragile, hollow,
Bowing and kowtowing to the rhythms of time,
Yes,
We construct our destruction,
And yes,
Fighting ourselves is what we do!
And aye,
Do it all with smug satisfaction,
That the wee dot Sagan yabbered on about was pure me and you.
Yes,
We wait when we should really dive in,
Yes,
We want freedom from our own skins and from dying,
Yes,
We know all this and still,
We are beautifully ridiculous creatures that imagine worlds in which to dwell,
Within and out of our control,
Contorted visions,
Splicing the enticing fantastical realms-
We risk it all.
And give up to ideas so vast,
Listening to our hearts!
Yes,
Doing that best,
Yes oh yes!
 Navigation Points, November 2016. Written on Beta Beta residency. 

Navigation Points, November 2016. Written on Beta Beta residency. 

Obsolete

Obsolete

Slap that,
quit.

That’s quite enough,
of that,

shit.

They’ve got the back,
of what you thought you knew,

rewind the day,
reverse the pay,
the play,
the scipt’s whack.

What a lot of crap.

the mind’s black,
retro hat,

on the beat,
anything but neat
but the whisky,
when your imagination’s frisky.

Shut up,
and in,
the world within.

Notify your next of kin,
that’s it,
Fin.

February 2016

 Type your text here, 2016.

Type your text here, 2016.

The Practice (I)

Carving courageously,

it couldn't be any more true,

or less in fact,

the fact of the matter,

is the matter doesn't matter,

it is the idea, that counts,

but the folk still want to feel,

and that's the reality- the realness,

that's why we drink and eat,

why we paint art in the streets,

why we make love, and make pain,

why we burn under suns or dance in the rain,

it's the living that means more than the idea in our minds,

but sometimes,

feeling isn't possible, and the real isn't so real,

and the light seems so grey,

and then day after day,

it's hour upon hour,

of the same words in the head,

and all seems lost, and gone and dead.

and then BOOM!

without cause,

without reason,

the emptiness goes,

it‘s thrown aside and asunder in the magnificent haze,

and in the thrust and throws of living,

it's aliveness and air in lungs,

it's singing in the corridors and sweetness on the tongue,

it's sparkling, dizzy energy that smacks you in the heart.

Creating, giving,making, carving,

building worlds and being free.

I, Me, We, Us
Sarah Calmus 2017

We live with us,
We know our swings of love and lust,
Our pain,
Our self disgust,
Our hopes and dreams,
Our angry pent up sassy king
Or queen demanding everything,
if gender binary and lingo is kept to - of course,
We know our darkness and how we repent,
Our malevolence and malcontent
Our time daydreamed and time well spent,
We are our own judge and jury
And peace and fury,
We know how our heart beats fast,
And our face keeps smooth,
We know when tears and blood fill our every groove
And nook and cranny in the mind,
And do we mind,
And who we mind,
And when and where we find the time,
To find and forge our friends and partners in crime,
Our binds and farces,
Our born into classes,
Our expectations and bastardisations of ideas we
inherit and deconstruct,
Reconstruct,
Making it real, feeling the feels,
Giving a fuck and giving it up,
Or not,
And what we want from life,
We know more than most,
We know our crows and our boasts,
Our flaws and our flops,
How many seconds we can hold our breath ‘til we pop,
Our favourite shows,
What turns us on, what makes us glow,
Our whims and fancies,
Our darkest fantasies,
Our poems and our songs of choice,
The people that make our hearts rejoice,
The memory haunts and what we want,
And what we need,
Well not quite so,
If we banish greed,
As whether we know all this now,
Whether it’s true,
Whether we kowtow,
To us,
To I,
To me, me me,
We are nothing in the end if we are not we,
And the friends who are there to stick around,
To hug, to chide, to dance with, to play and bound,
The ones that bother to love us still,
Who trust in us despite our Id ,
They are the few who know us better,
Who see things in us that are really real,
So no matter what we think we feel,
Sometimes seeing ourselves through them is what
matters most,
And listening to ourselves but not at a cost,
For we will find that we are lost,
So get the map and circle the track,
Navigate from friends who’ve got our back,
Who know the craic,
Who know us well,
Who reserve judgement of character,
And love us still,
And Sometimes,
Not all times,
We will see ourselves through them,
And that will be the truest reflection of us in the end,
And by looking through cracks but not being drawn in,
We will know ourselves better than we could ever hope;
Through other humans.