The Scar

© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

I’m love,
I’m hate,
I’m experience,
I’m the scar.

I laugh,
I cry,
I’m the crashing wave,
I’m the power.

I build,
I burn,
I’m going nuclear,
I’m the stars.

I’ll live
I’m strong.
Made of sticks and stones
Beyond harm.

© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Originally Published 18 July 2014

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Where did it All Go Wrong?

Older doesn’t necessarily mean wiser

Gruesomeness Warning (Clicking on the Link Reveals a Colour Picture of the Adult Me)   

Here we are as promised my poetry collection has been published and is available via Amazon for Kindle and as a paperback. I am really pleased with the look of the Kindle version and the mere existence of a physical book I have written, though it does feel a little like an out-of-body experience holding a book filled with my own words. I would describe it as pleasantly freaky!

Anyway here is a link to the book Wreckage hope you enjoy it.

Thank you all for your kind words and support on the blog over the last three and a bit years I really wouldn’t have wanted to do it without you all.

© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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.

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Primitive Archaeology

photo credit: ▲rwed untitled. via photopin (license)

Preserved in the permafrost of time
Lost beneath the layers of deceit,
The decrepit solutions for a forgotten age.
The sage solutions, easy fixes, neat tricks.
A sticking plaster to hide the wounds
From prying eyes, and dying sighs.
 
© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

NaPoWriMo

photo credit: jimforest divine hand via photopin (license)

I wanted to do something for NaPoWriMo (National Poetry Writing Month) which starts on the 1st April, but not being the greatest joiner-in of big organised events in the  world I tend to like doing them in my own quiet way (or being awkward). What I do think would be nice though is to post a reading of different poems (one each day) and all by different poets whose poems I like and I’ve decided to do that on the Made of Sticks and Stones Facebook Page. So if you’d like to join in then click the link and like the page and we will see where the poems take us.

 

Winter Moon

photo credit: Charlie Day DaytimeStudios Supermoon and Clouds via photopin (license)

photo credit: Charlie Day DaytimeStudios Supermoon and Clouds via photopin (license)

Whose is the moon

That floats on high;

That lights my way

On winter nights,

That sails above

And reflects below.

Whose is the moon?

Not mine, I cry.

TL-Clouds-Moon-713-47 

© 2015 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Originally Published 3 January 2015

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Anyroad

It’s December so time for my Advent calendar and this year I thought I’d take a wander through the alphabet starting with A, and yes anyroad is a word, well it makes an appearance in my dictionary

Anyroad

On this path to Nowhere, out of this darkness
Into the deeper shadows of the future.
Shocked by what I’ve lost. Forgot until this moment
What should have remained buried and abandoned
On my escape route from my crimes.
Instead it exists as the only landmark
In this morass. The scar upon the corpse;
The tell-tale smoking gun;
The reminder of what I’ve done
And why my past can’t sleep soundly
In its grave.
 
© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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The Cartography of Skin

Day 6 of my review and a poem about the journey.

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: my bloody valentine via photopin (license) photo credit: my bloody valentine via photopin(license)

A tattoo of scars
Draws a map of how I’ve sinned.
It shows the route that I have travelled
In my journey on Earth, from birth until today.
Continents drawn contain the highest peaks
Where eagles dwell, then swoop down into
Vast valleys of despair lit only by lights absence.
There are islands of love here and there
Set adrift on barren seas.
While monsters lurk beneath the waves
As ocean tides rise and fall
With the pulsing of my heart.
With this tattoo of scars
I travel; on a path mapped by
This cartography of skin.

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Inspiration Imagination Perspiration

Inspiration is strange. At best fleeting and unpredictable, at worst a minefield full of memory traps.

I remember a time back in my college days when I was sitting on a bus heading into lectures when the lyrics of a song began to come to me – I even began humming a tune to match as I created this song, and I knew it was good; I was literally shaking with excitement, not least because I didn’t even have a scrap of paper on me to write down the words and a bump in the road or screech of brakes might be enough to scare the willow the wisp of creation away. So I sat there, probably looking as if I was desperate to empty my bladder, as I rocked back and forth repeating my work of genius to myself over and over as the bus chugged its way up the hill towards campus.

As soon as the bus stopped I ran to the shop to buy a new pad on which to write down the lyrics, direct from my subconscious, between the pristine lines of the white paper. Pad in hand I headed straight for the library, lectures could wait. Finding a quiet corner I began to write, word after word spilling out to be scribbled down in feverish excitement on the page.

Make you cry

Make you break down

Shatter you illusions of love

Is it over now

Do you know how

To pick up the pieces and move on.

The rest of the day passed in a daze, I felt ten feet tall, as the strains of my magnum opus reverberated within.

It was not until I was on my way home and listening on the bus to the album Rumours by Fleetwood Mac on my Sony Walkman that I came back down to earth. But not until the very last song when Stevie Nicks began singing…

Did I realise that what I thought was my genius, was in fact a word for word copy of Gold Dust Woman by Fleetwood Mac; a great song, with great lyrics, but still I can’t listen to it without thinking it should have been mine.

I’ve had other moments like that over the years from creating Doctor Who, but without time travel, to coming up with the dance routines for Beyonce’s “Crazy in Love” video (though I think that is more of a recurring dream than any ability of mine to throw shapes on the dance floor).

I don’t think I’ve pressed send and posted anything on this blog yet, anything that was originally written by someone else, but it could happen as it is very crowded in my mind with stories and music and pictures too. And that is a very frightening thought when you are striving to be a writer, and an original one at that.

But isn’t it the fact that it was “Gold Dust Woman” that imprinted itself on my mind, as opposed to any other song, that gives me a chance of being original; or as an alternative to being original, then reinterpreting a genre through my own experiences. That is what will make my writing original the fact that I’m the only person to go out with the green eyed girl on April ninth 1996 or skin my knee and ruin my cowboy costume on that particular August day as a five year old.

I do know that another Stevie Nicks voiced Fleetwood Mac song started the process that led down the path towards the world described in Embers but that is just one of a myriad different influences music, film, book and even real life that fire the synapses into life.

It is the combination of all these experiences that gives me a distinctive voice, it doesn’t mean that that voice is worth listening to but they do make me who I am; for better or worse, a dreamer.

But not a writer, wandering about in a thunderstorm waiting for inspiration to strike doesn’t work, only hours spent over a keyboard or notebook do that and even then all you get is the bare bones and the beginnings, because that is when the real work begins.

You can find some of my influence over at Soundtracks but what about you all? What or who inspires you to write, paint, sculpt or simply to get up in the morning?

© 2015 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

These Silent Stones

'The Artist's Halt in the Desert' by Richard Dadd http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/legalcode

‘The Artist’s Halt in the Desert’ by Richard Dadd http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/legalcode

I travel alone through this desert
Though my companions are many.
The silent stones around this oasis
Weep tears into the water

While moonlight glistens upon my fears.
False memories, these heartbeat melodies
Are the ghosts listening outside the circle
Beyond the fire glow, out in the dark

Shadows of the night. These desert sands,
An hourglass with eternity running out
A warrior’s fight with demons not of his making,
Surround me becoming part of my being.

I travel in silence, but never alone
While comfort and solace lurk round the oasis.
The darkness relents with the kiss of the dawn,
Earth rotates and day begins again.
 
© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.