The last 3 - 4 weeks have been quite hectic for me. I am still trying to adjust to having less free time in my life since doing this writing course and having to do homework. I have not written any poetry for a while and feel quite loss since being unable to write down my thinking onto paper or typed onto screen. Especially after an emotionally draining week that has left mentally tired and wanting to sit down and don't get up.One morning I had felt like a time bomb counting down the seconds. I kept thinking about writing a poem called "I am about to explode!" But I did not even have my notebook and pen to jot down a few words.
The writing course - it has been great learning about the theory of writing and understanding how to structure the ideas and the elements to think about when setting a scene, description, conversation and so forth. All very interesting maybe I might think about continuing the study afterwards. The other day I was thinking about the different parts that make up me and the paths I would like to follow regarding my writing. For instance I feel that I am a poet, a spoken word artist, a wannabe novelist.These 3 labels can be broken down further for instance I have loads of children book ideas floating in my head. As well as those for teenagers and poem collections. It just seems so overwhelming at times. And I do wonder how do I have the space within to be all three. Currently my heart aches for just one day a week where I can just write and be. I feel that I need to plan and organise whilst step out in faith. I am sure that time will be created if I just continue to do what I should be doing. I call it "just plodding on"... Doing what you need to be do. And when in the plodding state you can feel as rough as anything and not in the mood for rubbish.. but you just keep on plodding no matter what...
February already feels like a strange month for me. I guess the highs of the new year have faded away and now the real challenge begins. It is also strange as my focus has shifted slightly, actually quite a bit from my poetry. This month I was meant to complete x amount of poems, upload another video on you tube and perform at an open mic session. Has not happened yet. I have started to write down monthly goals and I need to remember that February is not over yet. There is still time. I was reminded the other day that I need to start thinking about 2 year and 5 year plans - of how to reach my dreams that have been birthed since the womb...
Just submitted this to Magma Poetry magazine, their next issue has a clothing theme.
Jumper
You wrap yourself around me elegantly and internal sighs consume me from within
Memories flash by in floods and I see him
Standing there by the light by the window
And I smile and smell his scent, I am sure it is him
He wears the same jumper that tonight cuddles me in bed
My favourite woolly-warmth old with time and wisdom
I am sure you said it belonged to your father
That he use to wear it when engrossed in a book
A pipe balancing on his bottom lip
you said
The sky moods over its shades of grey reflect my current emotion
Sadness spreads and a tear escapes slowly
It trickles down and kisses my cheek
I miss you
I stroke you now and close me eyes imagining I am really feeling you
Kissing you, touching you
You use to belong to me everything of you was a part of me
Your jumper it helps and heals the pain
I would never go away
You said
Copyright © 2013 Sonneteer Articulates (aka Traysi Matthew, Traysi Speaks)
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Just a little something to sink your teeth into...
Taking off my sun glasses I felt blinded as my eyes took a while to adjust to the bright light. It was overwhelming and the distant slapping of sea wave to sand helped me to focus my scenery. The grey plastic frame was cool glued to my sweaty hot palm and I was able to admire the white sanded beach in its true colours. Not the various tones of blacks and greys that my eyes were enslaved to since I jumped of the bus. It is called a bus but it is a mini van. A shiny blue rectangle box on wheels driving along the mountainous lanes believing its name is Ferrari. Vomiting a dusty cloud of pollution its sickly smell of gasoline flooded through the opened windows and consumed all the passengers. The weight of the passengers caused the bus to groan at every sharp turn and my red painted nails had fearfully gripped the cling-film textured seats. The bus balanced close to the side of the cliff creating a glass road effect. Its birds-eye view was frighteningly beautiful and was unspoiled by the radio blasting the latest calypso tune. Lush green bush smothered the vista of mountains which were scattered with an assortment of tropical flowers and plants. Seat belts did not exist in this bus and our squashed bodies were free to knock about like wooden pins on a bowling alley. I kept apologising to the old lady sitting next to me. She smelt of coconut oil and looked so fragile but she managed to nod and smile a toothless smile at me. Her smooth brown skin was wrinkled with time and wisdom and I loved her style of dress. There was no connection between her paisley patterned bandanna head tie, stripy red and white top and outrageously flowered skirt. But I could relate to the array of silver Grenadian style bracelets and bangles that danced round her thick wrist like a hoola hoop on a waist. They reminded me of my Gran.
