The Poetry, Prose and words of Paul Kemp.
This body of writing exists solely because of my inability to write anything of any worthwhile quality or quantity. It makes my head hurt when I think about what that circumstances means for the state of this post.
I’m troubled my my recent inability to properly sit down and write for an elongated period of time. Even by this point in the article I stopped what I was doing and watched a twenty four second video of a singing zombie. As I turned my head back to the screen with this article I found myself fighting against an invisible force that was begging me to stop this infuriating endevour, for what reason I don’t think i will ever know. This part of me never offers a trade, it never shows me a good looking alternative to creativity in order to sway my conscious mind into changing allegiances. It simply gives me this horrible feeling that I should probably stop what I am striving to do and just let my mind and body slowly disintegrate into some sort of crack or leak I have in my mind leaving a body, a pair of eyes and a set of basic needs and urges to pacify constantly as I slowly wait for something to happen to me.
It is at this stage in the article that I realize that I written more in this short amount of time than I have done in months. I must ask the reader to forgive, as I have no real intentions to serve you in this article. This article is simply to help me get used to the physical toil that productivity in regards to creativity brings to my mind and body. I suppose if there is anything you can take from reading this (If you are still reading this) is a unique perspective in the subject of a person’s mind.
It is at this point in the article where I got distracted again.
I’m simply sitting inside a different box.
A box made just for me.
A box made by my enemies.
I’m simply trapped and defeated.
One seat, filled with ten other men.
Men from whom I ran away.
The distance was was enough untill this day
102 anno domini.
It took the lot of them
It took an alliance of them all to unmake me.
And keep me alive to mourn their heresy.
A heresy quite well done.
I am The Doctor, that means “really clever”
In many languages, I think. Probably.
I’ll have a plan in a minute, maybe more.
Timey Wimey don’t fail me now.
I swear on fish fingers and custard.
I would never let it happen again to them.
Those who follow me, and save me time and time again.
I need to be saved again.
When the Pandorica opened, I feared.
What was on the other side.
But to my surprise
It was a roman.
I believe this particular blog has been going for around 4-5 years now. It has been a place for me to express and share my poetry with the world. Finally after years of being a poet I have managed to get some of my stuff published!
Watch this space.
It is rare that I come across a poem that enthralls me as much as this poem did. Kim Wheeler Is a talented writer and a friend of mine. I am simply sharing a piece from her that I believe the world should see. However you remember our fallen heroes today, let this poem be a part of it.
The Sixth of June
By Kim Wheeler
Metal water horses trot on surf of midnight-black azure
Their load as precious to their host as any that has gone before
They go to liberate a coast that many trod not on thus far
But country bids them so to do and hence they land upon the shore
Their welcome takes them by surprise, all hell around is blast and din –
And groan and yell and wail and bang, but even so they falter in.
Their courage soars, at thought they may put to an end this troubled tune –
But barrage greets their valour. They will not forget this sixth of June.
As comrades fall, they venture on and run for any cover hence
They trip upon what can’t be named and falter on the bared-wire fence.
The carnage seems interminable, they run and run and stumble on.
Though sparks of what they’ve seen today, will never from their minds be gone.
The sanguine soldiers that remain, secure a post, then two, then three
And after what seems like a lifetime, take a beach in victory.
As beaches, bridges, strongholds fall; they march on through the foreign mire
They stop not long, but venture on, remembering their hearts desire -
To return home, to be with kin, to force upon their foe, a peace.
To lay down arms, to breath the air that only comes with sacrifice.
Their orders passed, their task is done, and heroes all, they return home
And for their forfeit, quiet prayer and knowledge they are not alone.
Go make another claim
Don’t forget to take the blame.
Or knock on more doors.