The Death Of Poetry Will Be The Death Of Me E-Book

Darren Hobson

• Herausgeber: BookRix
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

This collection of poetry is another golden chapter in this indie author's book of life, never before has a poet written something so horrific and so truthful. Just by reading the titles of his poems you know what to expect, deeply driven verses with sentimental opinion, the words come at you like snowflakes in a blizzard, hard hitting but completely true and mesmerizing, once you start to read this collection it will be difficult to stop until you have digested every last word. This is food for thought and this sums up the world we live in today.

Leseprobe

Darren Hobson

The Death Of Poetry Will Be The Death Of Me

This collection is dedicated as always to my muse and our two demonic cats, it also dedicated to Dino, especially the poem The Passing, also dedicated to all the victims of crime, people taken away from this world too soon, from brutal acts of war and murder.BookRix GmbH & Co. KG81371 Munich

The Death of Poetry.

 A sun rises on a new day

I place a word on a new page

You might think that is predictable

And you would bet a week’s wage

What if the sun did not rise?

To your horror and to your surprise

What if I gave up writing?

Who would make you laugh then?

For there can be no poetry

If there is no glorious shining sun

Imagine what it would be like

Writing under a black hole would be no fun

Things would be close to insanity

As the whole world panics and attacks

That would be the death of poetry

And that would be the death of me

You have heard of many horror stories

And you have seen the various remakes

You have seen the same old mish mash

Using the same old silver and wooden stakes

There may be a different angle or back story

Maybe filmed in glorious 3D

But these modern twists on an old folklore

Do not do the justice for me

Maybe it is time to get to basics

And let us all stop looking for glory

Let us find something from deep within

And let us write one last fantastic ghost story

And the coffin awaits for us all

No matter whom we are

Stop playing around with yourself

Get your ideas down on paper

Let the pen do all the hard work

Pull the cobwebs from your imagination

Dust off that self-confidence

Write down something original and tantalising

A new form of menace!

So when that sun arrives on a new born day

And the words are all written down

Distributed and published work

For when Armageddon comes to town

You can say with your dying breath

That someone somewhere read your story

It did not make you a millionaire

Because you were never looking for glory

The best payment for the storyteller

Is to see fear in the audience’s eyes

All types of listeners listening vehemently

With the lust of the upcoming surprise

All of these centuries that have passed

As we stand on a bridge trapped in time

Watching as years slips under our feet

Trying to keep our lives in line

Constantly learning

Burning to be told

A fantasy of dimensions

We find intoxicating

Inebriating

Simulating our minds

To plough through monotonous

Insidious lives

Tediously wanting to be told

Through a story or poetry

That life can be marvellous

The sun will always shine

Writing will always be mine

To wrestle with and toil through

Grinding out another verse

Labouring at my art each and every day

Trying to make my words read

By more inquisitive people

Who are searching for someone

Some artist that will stimulate

Wake up the primal parts of our minds

Dragging them through another day

Warmth from the sun and poetry

Breathing life into ancient woes

Narrating the past and fixing the future

Poetry cannot fail in this modern age

It is too big of a monster to be conquered

It lives underground and is hard to find

But until the pulse remains in her

Then the pulse when remain in me

There could never be the death of poetry,

Meaning there could be no death of me!

Cemetery.

 A wanderer on a long road

Maybe heading out of hell

He packed his lifelong belongs

In the smallest of rucksacks

Travelling light

Drifting through the night

As the road stretches imaginably

Into the horizon

Our wanderer should feel defeated

The shoes are falling to pieces

Blisters burning under his feet

Since what our drifter has come from

Means he can never retreat

Keep on moving

Seasons are changing

Fleeing from that place

Can’t hide in a cemetery

If Death is waiting there

Ominously and impatiently

It is hard to see the stars

When there is only darkness

Everywhere

Inside and outside

The monsters and the madness

No time to cry

Tears are a waste of much needed liquids

Onwards and upwards

Cannot turn back now

Looking forward

The wind between his teeth

Pain in various places

Forgotten where

Drifting like the seeds in spring

Seems like nowhere

Cannot rest

Cannot hide

This road is my only companion

Cannot stop

Cannot wait

Imagination is the only way forward

It disguises what is real

Constantly fine tuning the vision

The wanderer sees before him

Autocorrecting

Resurrecting old dreams

As he walks through the darkness and cold

He imagines autumn colours and warmth

Golden fields of corn

Dancing in the autumn winds

His concentration lets him down

As darkness waves at him

The last thing he wants to see

Is another damn cemetery

A century of entrapment

Rotting away the years