Rejected, Lost Infants

Do you see the soul in me

Beyond all of the misery

Held between the both of us

Distracting from the vigorous

Fire, continuous

Beyond the fond

Cling to paper thin grins

Illusive shell, too well

Concealing us within

You, the soul

I, the soul

Precious little things.

Who marked the moment vulnerability halts

When our legs bolt

Upwards and exemptions moult.

Forgive the faults

Of the rejected, lost infants

Cleanse the salt

From the wound

Not let jolt

Us into attuned

Inhibitions, loomed

For which we bask in

Assumed lead to covert doom.

We hurt, weary, wary goons

Spoon fed our shame

As though we’re immune.

The healing continues

Our suffering undone

Whence returned to the ocean

Our waves lay upon.

We’ll dance beneath the moon and sun

For love for all begins with one

 

Mild Musings

This is not a poem but I’ve been having some thoughts recently and I needed somewhere to put them.

In a fairly recent episode of ‘Frankie Boyle’s New World Order’, whilst discussing Grenfeld, Benjamin Zephaniah articulated concisely and very beautifully our culture’s…how do I put this…fucked up approach to how we see and experience democracy. As a concept, our collective definition of the term ‘democracy’ usually adhere’s to a sense that we, the people, have a direct involvement in our county’s or local government. I use the word ‘sense’ intenationally as it relates to the realm of feelings, with which I say the ‘democratic feeling’ is something we’ve been spoon fed via the fog of social and traditional media, or the alpha waves of BBC News at Ten. Through these outlets we learn only that our involvement in how we relate to and attempt to alter the bigger picture is by paying close attention to the cynicism of the news and voting once every few years (or, in our current climate, on a yearly basis). As our pal Zephaniah said, when comparing this to our potential capacity (I added that part), this is simply apathy, whereas true democracy is experienced through a more anarchistic weltanschauung, and I’m not just writing this for the sole purpose of using that word…but it is a fabulous word.

Anarchy, on a large scale, is certainly not portrayed this way. Perhaps it’s beginning to be but nevertheless, anarchy is still prodominantly placed in the field of either unsighted aggression or political indifference. This, at least from my experience, couldn’t be further from the truth. Anarchy relates to community, though with each individual having a role to play. There are successful and even utopic examples of this in relation to government, Marinaleda being one of them. However, in this current state of uncertainty and visceral sense of impending doom, I think right now, it’s more valuable to apply the anarchistic model and mentality to cultural and political activism – everybody contributing, imparting their own skills, knowledge and wisdom.

So where do we go from here?

I’d say – find a cause you’re passionate about and sing about it. Find your community. Passion, how I’ve experienced and interpreted it, comes most to light through our own pain; it is also how we can begin rooting ourselves in a community with those who have had a shared experience of it – we can connect through pain and through oppression. The LGBTQ community is a good example of this; using the pain and intolerance inflicted upon them to a compassionate end, uniting and advocating the pursuit of knowledge and introspection.  Let this be a guide for how we:

1. Continue to wilt the era of ignorance, oppression and unsustainability.

2. Allow ourselves to be vulnerable, as it’s through the honesty of our hurt we meet our tribes, our community. We can choose whether we use our past to bitter ourselves or better ourselves, essentially.

Activism, I understand, is a pretty ambiguous term. I think when most people come across it, very physical involvement comes to mind, like protest marches. This undoubtedly has been and continues to be effective in uniting people and setting a spirited tone, but it doesn’t have to necessarily stop or start there. Physical action might feel the most effective because it feels the most real but other mediums are also valid. The internet is, without question,  an incredible tool when we’re not using it to distract ourselves with meaningless tripe. It has democratised information, repositioned the ownership of media (or is at least in the Renaissance phase of this process) and allowed a platform for each and everyone’s perspective (including mine…right now), therefore allowing people to find their communities online. Simply having a conversation can be activism, one of which you share your earnest opinion, whilst also maintaining an open-mind for new, possible contradictory information, because in that way you’re both learning. Art and music are wonderful approaches to activism, I can give you an endless account of how many artists have influenced societal values, so I’m not going to. In my opinion,  simply spreading good vibes is activism. Even fucking smiling at a stranger is acting as a reminder that they’re a person and you’re a person – perhaps leading into a train of thought that you both matter, lets set aside our differences and let’s all live together in harmony…maybe…it’s worth a shot, anyway. Relating back to anarchy, we all have individual talents and strengths we can wear as our role for improving society, even if your only worthy talent is smiling.

The premise of what I’m trying to say here is that when we introspect, when we’re honest with ourselves and honest with others about our societal views and own vulnerabilities, we are participating in a cause – this is activism. The more time invested in activism, fantastic, but there’s no need to feel intimidated, everything counts. Arthur Schopenhauer once said ‘All truth passes through three stages. First, it is ridiculed. Second, it is violently opposed. Third, it is accepted as being self-evident.’ Thereby this rationale, even if the reaction you ignite is one of anger, that is still in the way of progression – engagement over indifference every time, baby.

Thanks for reading, love Natasha x

 

We can abbreviate life to action and reaction

Or action, then reaction, reaction and reaction.

A fraction of a notion, in motion

May probe sensation’s drive

Ripe for devotion.

Impaction’s inevitable when erupted emotion

Blinds us or binds

A universal commotion.

A step to the left, a shimmy to the right,

In sight, filtered by ego is a one-way flight

To total despair

At least in the mist of western air

Though compared to eastern time

Their circular take bears truth’s resemblance

Aware of impermanence

 

Breath in, breath out

Reaction, reaction

‘A transitory shout! 

There’s no absolute?

I shoot a dispute of manic uproot, 

Lest destroy or clutch what we can,

I demand material thread

Or to be no more than zonked, 

Horizontally spread.

For all that is, we may as well be dead – 

We derive from naught and die as such,

Void of all sense of whom we have touched’

 

Breath in breath out,

Reaction, reaction

The hedon’s attraction to nihilistic grounds

Drowns the sorrow, though too

The true sounds of silence.

We are all a flicker of light

In spite, such guides captains away from

Rock-strewn shores at night

Or simply be a sight of ecstasy-fueled beauty,

Spanning acutely.

 

Breath in, breath out

Reaction, reaction

We are, in part, sensitive.

We learn, collect, reject,

Partially discern

The movements of prior,

Yearning for our lost entire.

Movements come, movements go

A step to the left, a shimmy to the right

Permanence, a fib in material sight,

But let things be instruments

For rhythmic delight, growth of insight

And anarchistic height.

 

The distaste of the fast-paced rat-race

Shan’t debase our might

Though still it be infiltrated

For needless foresight of vacant tokens,

Quickly broken.

Awoken to perspective, this energy

Can be used to diffuse

A blaze of solitude

With our potential aptitudes

Interluding the narrative

With a state of renewed, revitalised mood.

Lest not be ruled by instruments, by systems,

Schooled by ignorance, so wilful

For all forms deprived of breath are neutral.

 

Our ideas, intentions compell,

A chair be brutal if expelled

From one’s hand into another’s face

Or a place of refuge, an emblem of futile space.

Our grace goes beyond

The arms of fathomed embrace,

Traced behind the barricades

Of fixed or unconfronted past,

Our Ernest path, perpetually harassed.

 

Breath in, breath out

Reaction, reaction

The material is confined, intuition vast

And lasts the longest,

Withstood in mind’s mast.

Alas, time, rounded or not

The ocean is merely a legion of drops.

Flock from despondent, dismal stop,

Swap bittering for bettering ourselves

Propping up those by self-compassionate overflow.

The top is mirage, we are in the know.

Forgo who we think we are,

The roles we play

For no more than one minute

The stillness holds the greatest mass of possibility,

Our true, known infinite.

Summer Executions

Summer executions

By adrenalised confusion,

A cry for authority

To maintain the conclusion –

Irrational’s the new rational

Tone set for disillusion

Compromising for exclusion

An assured diffusion.

 

Trickle down democracy

Deigned to extent of self-fulfilling prophecy.

Give me sound bites, provoke fear

As it’s the only trace of feeling that’s a mere

Refreshment from despondency.

Don’t respond to me, only take

At stake is simply my will to keep hoping

My method of coping,

The inevitable scoping

Of anything loud enough

To redeem the degraded self-esteem.

Jaded nights to beseem

Continuing in the mainstream

And if you dare gleam

A slight glint of an alternative

‘You poor lamb, clearly you’re weak, 

Admittedly the future’s bleak  

Though let speak the antique arcadia 

Of tory mania 

We will provide the stability  

As you drop your fucking dream 

Pick up your brick and think of the queen’. 

 

Hold me down to life’s great intensity,

Emitted by illusive propensity.

It is in this awareness thou shalt not participate

In the realm of thought that validates

Isolation over trust

Compassion, quelled by lust,

A must, much wielded

With thrust, joy be yielded

As the sole purpose we see through.

Acting on our true

Weight of empathy

As a sole remedy

For all that is connected

Inspiring the deserved elected.

 

The revolution starts with you

The war on terror’s

An internal endeavour,

It ceases whenever

Introspection sever’s

The decision to be terrorised.

Theresa May’s Mind

 

What there lurks in Theresa May’s mind?

The remnants of trauma of which to find?

An untamed ocean under lifeless locks?

Or a linear guide of who to mock?

I flock from sagacity

To a rageous tenacity

When she has the audacity

To ‘snap’ our capacity

From the ‘strong and stable’ base,

Disgraced by the unfigured promises she has to face.

 

I could extend on manifesto amends

Though the focus will lend

To a softened end;

Theresa May, with love I say

Do not betray your truth.

I may show my youth

To assert the ruthless simply require compassion

Though the only way to fathom

Wilfully ignored tortured cries

Is if she turns a blind eye to her own.

Unknown whimpers behind a brittle thrown.

Tone set by denial shall break the bone

Of worth, and birth

The barriers of isolation.

 

A nation based on reason

With themselves and their demons

Shall meet the field of forgiveness,

And the will of trust

That anguish lies in every one of us.

Ignited Rhythms

 

We sit adjacent in the cradle of thought

Addressing nought but our eardrums for

The possibility of a warm utterance

‘Hello there, I see you’re alone’.

Hammer too heavy to shape the stone,

Made known how irrational

The national badge of retaining, constraining

The taming of the void.

Though let our sight be clasped by the annoyed

Tones of relations, patience inflated to face our needs,

Displeased as they sanction our desire for greed,

By this wave of reflection it is we bleed.

Though choice shall entitle how we proceed

To pick up the scriptures align with the speed

Of our wit and the height of our strength.

At length are the elders in awe, the portraits of glee

Concealed within the pate of thee.

The faithful forgotten, unseen, rejected,

Ignited rhythms to be elected,

Our violet flame thus far perfected.

From reassurance we shall stand

As ourselves, united, hand in hand.

Grasping at the Stems

 

Grasping at the stems

Arises truth again,

Simplicity foreseen, yet

The gleaming light scarcely trickles through the ambry of doubt.

Instead, I order a drought of connection

To compress sentiment into pretending

The realm of joy lies in the pending

While open scars await mending

Lending the drive to the hindrance of worth,

While sheer resolution was gifted at birth.

A humble union with the grounds of earth

And what lies upon her

Shalt not wither the war of mistrust

Nor the gyves of yearning end,

May the moment be still

A cry to transcend.

Whole

 

Dispelled with gratitude, the frozen rejection

From whence you came, a resurrection

Of wholeness, impulsive deeds be.

Raw wounds open to the density

Passion carries, required for strife

In the beaten sphere.

The shackles of longing reside near,

As absence wakes a thousand questions.

Yet the honour of your joy

Shalt not cease

As the momentum allows the pillars to fall

In the value of beauty, of pain

I begin to feel all.

Flake

 

Caught in the web of accepted unease

Spirit regarded as contagious disease

By a fear of death

Taboo to redress

‘Invincible tis I, I own the right to be’.

 

The rupture unbound by compressed emotion

While true notion of self is found in devotion

To truth, to breathing, to the bleeding

Leant yet unseen, through the unread mirror

Of projected screams.

 

Let the layers flake,

Confront our mistakes

Our worries, our woes.

The breadth of noise will tremor

Under the capacity for silence

For all that is and ever will be

Shall go.