Alchemical Reactivity


© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

It is fitting that I came across this old blog post (originally posted 18 May 2015) now just as I am releasing my first poetry collection. As it was the first announcement on the blog of that goal. Back then I believed I’d have it released before the end of 2015 and I also intended to have some short stories included in the collection too – well both the timescale and the structure have morphed over time.

Part of the reason it changed and became all poetry was the vain hope that once I’d completed it I would have got all this poetry/feelings nonsense out of my system. A vain hope indeed – despite my continued assertion that ‘I am not a poet. I am a human being’.

It has taken so long either due to perfection or anal retentiveness. I’ll leave it to others to decide which of those two is the most dominant trait in my personality.

What I can say is back many years ago when I first thought one day I will write a book I intended to dedicate it to  ‘The Detractors, Doubters and Critics’ with the epithet ‘Fuck You’. But what I have come to realise was that the No. 1 detractor and critic of my work was me myself.

So the book’s dedication is now a far more positive statement and directed to a far worthier group of people. Because in the end the self-criticism was self-defeating and my harshest critics out in the real world are not the audience this collection is intended for. Because whether this shifts one copy or a million I am proud of my work. It is not perfect, but then it does not have to be.


Now here is the original post Ode to Ode Writing from way back in 2015:

Ode to Ode Writing

I am not a poet

I’ve decided to put together a collection of stories and poems; hopefully it’ll be ready to go some time later this year. But that is not the point of this post.

The real point is, when did I succumb to this poem writing infection and even to start aspiring to be a poet.

It’s kind of embarrassing isn’t it, this feelings malarkey, if I am writing fiction I at least get to put all the slushy stuff in the mouths of a character. Poetry doesn’t allow me that luxury, most of the time. The majority of the poems I have written, appear to me, as honest reflections of who I am.

I was originally going to call this post “Bungee Jumping” but I’m not sure there is a rope attached to my legs when I ready myself, pen in hand, to jump into the abyss.

Scary isn’t it?


© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.



Home to Roost

photo credit: itsokstay_calm free the birds via photopin (license)

I’m transported back to the beginning,
To the moment we first met, before the shame and the regret.
To when we still held our own secrets and had not cried those teardrops yet.
Before the setting of the sun on the longest day

Back when we just matched, before we became detached;
From reality, from each other. We went from lovers
To two strangers, barely speaking, merely passing in the hall.
When the indiscretions stepped out of the shadows. When the truth came to call.
© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

A National Treasure

I’m leaving my body to science.
I’m gifting my mind in a state.
They can discuss my dandruff in Paris
They can view my arse in the Tate.
They can talk about me on the buses
Or on the sofa while eating cake.

I’ll be advertised on the telly
Take “Essence of Me” for all aches.
So it’s my honour, nay my duty,
To preserve Me in a right state.
So I’m pickling my liver in whisky
And starting now before it’s too late.
© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Liar Song

photo credit: davemmett Infidelity via photopin (license)

Liar song with discordant voices, a twisted echo of the lie.
On-and-on, ever on, until the end time when we start again
Putting the broken pieces back together.
Burying the truth in a shallow grave, sitting waiting for a little rain
And the new shoots and new delusions to deceive.
Intoxicating the two of us, like that undying phantom of our first time.
© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Hostage of the Breeze

photo credit: Claude-Yolande La robe bleue via photopin (license)

Secrets catch on the breeze,
Whispered by the wind
Like a sacrament of memory.
A tale no one knows how to begin
Or what should remain untold
To maintain this fragmentary truce.

If the wind should change
And withhold the truth
Until another day,
What then?
What becomes of the future
If secrets remain unspoken.
© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Shed a Drop

I’m lost in your summer
In your gentle heat haze.
Adrift in your ocean,
Those shimmering blue eyes.
Falling and falling,
Forever and a day
And I can’t help recalling
Every word you say.

And I wonder
Am I doing it right
Gazing on your beauty
In wordless delight.
Searching ever searching
For illuminating phrases
To shred the darkness,
Shed a drop of light.

If I am the shadows
Then you are the rays of the sun.
If I am a drop in the ocean
Then you are the one.

Searching ever searching
In wordless delight
Forever in twilight
Stumbling at dusk.
Wanting to shred the darkness,
Shed a drop of light.
Silence maybe golden
But it don’t get the words right.
© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Flight of the Unbeliever

If I had wings, if I could fly,
To lift me up before I die.
To move beyond this fragile state
To the horizon, before is too late.
I’d fly off to uncharted shores
That my kind had not espied before.
I’d fly out far cross tropic seas
Until I found somewhere I could believe.


© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Transit of Venus

photo credit: Thomas James Caldwell Big Pine Key Sunrise via photopin (license)

Clouds dissipate before me
The confusion disappears.
I lose this transitory blindness, and see afresh
The tempting beauty of the morning.
© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Sick Dreams

photo credit: National Institutes of Health (NIH) Host infection stimulates antibiotic resistance via photopin (license)

These scenarios play out in my head
‘What if I’m really dead?’
What if this emotion is only a dream,
A dramatic play, scientific cause and effect,
A holographic to and fro, a dance of atoms and dark matters
Between the beats of the clock
Time spiralling down, tick after tock.

‘What if I’m not real?’
All these senses, just inventions, and there’s nothing to feel.
A numbness stretching out and back
As far as I see. But the seeing ain’t seeing
Because this existence ain’t me.
All the flesh and blood fumbling to make a mark
When it’s pitch black, just black, nothing but dark.
© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.