In Amore Et Bellum (30/30)

Never shall there be peace.

In Amore Et Bellum
The road has been rocky, but once again I have found myself here, in April, bristling with poems. Times are busy as I approach the most important exam of my schooling and my upcoming graduation, but this time I feel ready to sit down and spit out 30 poems this NaPo. Last year I never got around to adding all my poems and only managed to arrive at a total of 19 only posting 13, but I have high hopes that this year will be different. Wish me luck?
- noninjaes

Poems So Far...

Spoiler

0. Whether the Weather, Whatever the Weather (I Dream)
1. The Thought Process
2. playing with fire only gets you burnt
3. bandaids won't fix what ain't already broke
4. I won't need a GPS, I know this road too well
5. I haven't slept since last week; why won't you call me back
6. Earthshaker
7. A Study of Humanity and All the Pieces In Between
8. too many thoughts, not enough coherence
9. The Impermanence of Death
10. #302E0F
11. Among The Walled City
12. A Lie I Once Believed
13. Blutack and Pinholes
14. 'brushing your hair is an achievement' or 'survival is not genetic'
15. Sunday Storms
16. A Long Walk For Nothing
17. Godly Creatures In Unearthly Places
18. the sea
19. So many things to say about anger.
20. Untitled
21. Severe Weather Warning I
22. Severe Weather Warning II
23. Meta
24. Sydney
25. Water
26. limbo
27. i am not insightful
28. but if i was
29. Fighting-
30. The Book

0. Whether the Weather, Whatever the Weather (I Dream)
Today I dream of April
today I dream of rain
and summer flowers yielding
to skies of autumn grey
White winds thundering
damp earth shuddering
winter creeps behind the storm

Today I dream of June
and a midnight sky
sans the moon
Frost is building on the windows
toes are freezing in the night
the darkened days are haunting
in ice-nipped winds
and cloudy nights

Today I dream of November
today I dream of spring
and pollen burning
sinus dripping
Ah- Ah- Ah-
SNEEZE
Bless my garden growing
bless my flowers blooming
curse my darn'd fever

In the humid morning sun
December never truly comes
I melt atop my sticky sheets
and dream of April rains-
not summer's heat.

Spoiler

Looking back at a lot of my poetry, a fair amount of it seems to be inspired directly by my surroundings, particularly the weather, seasons, and time of day. Whilst my poems may not tell a story in the traditional sense, they do seem to take on the world of some third-party character. Yes, I do put pieces of myself into them, but not everything my my poetry is a true imagining of myself. For example, I actually like summer, quite a bit, and I actually don't get hay fever. I just find it interesting to see how these things present themselves in my poetry.

1. The Thought Process
blank melancholic empty
shaking like too many shots of caffeine
making my heart sprint in jagged
palpitations
and my tongue stick to my teeth

the world buzzes
around me
it hums about me
outside is alive
inside I am not

white glow static glare
the tap tap tap of the keyboard
nothing
backspace
deadlines
procra-

-stination
the clock ticks forward
how do pixels even tick?
sorry
I'm stalling
ten o'clock
eleven o'clock
nothing

still
shaking
like too many shots of caffeine
(maybe too many shots of caffeine)
my heart is racing
the page is pristine
blank melancholic empty

Spoiler

Firstly, just a short technical note: It doesn't show on yws, but there's a small but noticeable space between each word on the first and last lines (about 5 spacebar taps). A shame whitespace can't be used as effectively on yws.
Anyhow, we all know that point where we're sitting there with a paper or assignment or story etc we need to write and it just won't come. This poem is an emulation of that. Almost co-incidentally, it's also a bit of a nod to my day 1 poem for my first year of NaPoWriMo "Late Night In". And whilst caffeine (specifically coffee) isn't really something I do, I guess late nights, deadlines, and empty pages are a bit of a common theme in my life. This poem goes to explore some of the frustration and anxiety that comes with a deadline and being physically incapable of getting the work done.

2. playing with fire only gets you burnt
The man that slips. His hands that grip
the ledge he holds. The cards he folds
to bet his life, to burn the script.
The man that slips, his hands that grip
his dying soul, his body cold.
The man that slips. His hands that grip
the ledge he holds, the cards he folds.

Spoiler

Today's poem is rather whimsical in tone, despite the content. Nothing too content-heavy or artistic, just me playing around with stricter poetic forms. Today's poem is in fact a Triolet with 4 feet to a line.

3. bandaids won't fix what ain't already broke
isn't it funny how we crave something beautiful
sometimes
like our own dirty emptiness
needs to be filled
with dollar poetry
and virgin romance

until we whitewash our walls
as if there were faults in the grease stains
on the tiles
(from mum's spaghetti)
as if there was a mouldy void
we were desperate to fill

with kleenex and clorox
and plastic summer roses

isn't it funny
how we're never quite enough
until we're filled with synthetic pain
and shrill derision
for something
anything

isn't it funny how we crave something beautiful
isn't it funny how we never crave ourselves

Spoiler

I didn't really know what I was trying to say with this. I guess I was kinda looking at all this profound poetry and how cliché it seems to be that all this poetry has to be mysterious and profound - all beautiful and artsy, as in there isn't enough fun whimsical stuff. I don't know if it's hypocritical or ironic that this very poem feels to emulate such a cliché. Anyhow, my train of thought lead to me thinking about how people seem to have a desire for all this "angsty" art and writing and poetry in life - how we have a bit of a taste for synthesised emotions. As I said, I didn't really have a direction in mind, but it did seem to end up commentating on how people want all these supposedly perfect things, not being happy with themselves, when really, they're perfectly fine and don't need fixing or changing to be considered whole or beautiful or anything. Late night thoughts are weird. To think I was gonna write a poem about how many people don't remember me and how many new faces there are since the last time I was around here.

4. I won't need a gps, I know this road too well
highway, endless, single lane, ninety k's
two hands on the wheel
fog
rising thick between the valleys
like waves crashing
their frothy peaks filling
the hollows beneath her eyes

wind chill, rain, headlights
rushing
twenty k's over the limit
are they out of their mind?
irrelevant
they're gone
into white upon white
the horizon is a blur

too many years ago, she remembers

white fog, white sky, white knuckles
it's a ghost town out here, he said
the hills slope with empty green
would hate to get stuck out here, he said
headlights pass
rushing
this fog's a killer
rain pounds against the windshield
he wasn't wrong

half a k down the road
she sees it

indicator, brake lights, gravel
fresh tulips in the back seat
(they were his favourite)
black umbrella in the front
icy fingers prick against her skin
coat, umbrella
useless
mottled wood
mud stains
a name, haphazardly carved
a pen-knife, probably
like sharpened nails clawing at a memory

she leaves her tulips
she leaves her respects

indicator
crunching gravel
fog reaching through the barrows
rain, unrelenting
seeps cold into the windshield
seeps pink into her cheeks

two hands on the wheel
she blinks
highway, endless, single lane, ninety k's

Spoiler

We went for a trip up to the Hunter Valley today with all its rolling hills and seemingly endless roads. As you might guess, it wasn't the most pleasant day weather-wise. The story this poem tells isn't one of my own experience, however, I did gather the imagery from my trip today. The poem turned into something solemn, but at least my trip today was nice.

Also, note: for those who don't use the metric system, k's is short for kilometres (kilometres per hour specifically) which is what speed is measured in here.

5. I haven't slept since last week; why won't you call me back
bitter sweetness, restless
tepid three am's
so dark so cold
so much lead between the eyes
can't think, can’t
breathe, can't
pick up the damn phone
already, please
leave a message
after the beep

silence,

i'm sorry

Spoiler

I'm really tired right now even though it's still only 7pm. I guess tiredness is where today's inspiration comes from - the stupid things you do when you're really tired late at night. Not much else to say right now. I'mma put it down as tiredness.

6. Earthshaker
I should have heeded those seismic tremors I felt the moment you stepped through my door.
You were porous, igneous, like nothing I'd ever seen.
I was enthralled, I can't lie. I fell for your subduction.
When the ground shook and the sky shattered, I should have known.
Instead, I became like sand;
Sedimentary, sentimental,
stupid.
I was mindless, you made me metamorphic.

I should have known,
(but still, you warned).
When continental plates collide
you'd make a mountain out of me
but only to watch me crumble.

Spoiler

To be honest, with this one I just wanted to make a lot of bad jokes about rocks and earthquakes. On a more serious note, however, this poem is inspired, partway, by the sentiment of the way people collide when they interact. In away, it's about falling for someone forceful, and rather than being a force of your own, becoming a side-effect merely morphed by the process.

7. A Study of Humanity and All the Pieces In Between
i.
I find myself walking
(on a line)
somewhere not quite between awake and fantasizing
where frosted glass blurs
like the shimmer of midday sun by a desert oasis
heatwaves thrumming through skin and burning
my body
alive

ii.
have you ever had that sinking feeling in the pit of your gut like a stone has bored its way straight through to your very centre and is pulling you down to the dirt as if lead isn't heavy enough (isn't cruel enough punishment) to keep you pinned to the floor
it's grinding against your insides so unclean rub rub away with the pumice i don't care if you think you're bleeding to death you deserve this goddammit your deserve this
guilt

iii.
people are often likened to thunderstorms
in the way the very air around them shakes
with the spark of their own anger
their own intent
rumbles unheard in the distance
your hair stands on end
the oxygen crackles
ignites
violent flash of indigo white and sparks
dancing in their eyes
as they shout
and slam the door

iv.
we are hollow folk here
made of darkness and numb
like the anaesthetic they inject
into our blood into our bones
to make us not feel
the surgery
they said it would fix us
our diagnosis
was broken

Spoiler

Some of them are obvious, others not so much, but each part is about an emotion or feeling - something I find to be very raw and powerful. This poem is a bit of a study into the nature of human emotions. I feel my standard free verse poetry style shows in most of them, but I like the second part. It's different and I feel the format does a good job at reflecting the nature of the emotion. It feels very real to me.

8. too many thoughts, not enough coherence
echoes
trapped between walls
like mirrors
reflections
deafening
they blur together
endless
a cacophony
static
i'm out of my mind

Spoiler

It's less than an hour till midnight and my mind's drawing blanks for today's poem. For lack of anything else working I made an attempt to capture the moment and just kinda threw it together. The best I can say is at least I did something.

9. The Impermanence of Death
six feet, tombstone, and a hell of a lot of heavy between you and daylight

they found you wallowing like a common insect among filth
decomposing, deflating, like that weight on your shoulders was squeezing the damn life outta ya
I thought you were a dying man
I thought you were dead and gone
you'd picked up and left me like every other dusty mosquito that'd ever sucked my blood and spat it back out
and you expect me not to be mad
you dare to drag your boneless corpse out here and demand me not to be mad, huh
it's almost sad, mate
did you think I'd be glad, mate
but at least I don't hate you
no, not yet

just because you left this place doesn't mean you're gone, man
doesn't mean I won't keep grieving
doesn't mean you're dead to me

Spoiler

Sometimes you lose someone and they just won't go away.

10. #302E0F
I wouldn't call myself claustrophobic
but when the silt surrounds me with nothing
but murky unfettered clay I can't help
but to think of your eyes your piercing stare
and how it drowns me every time I blink
until the dark consumes me whole and spits
me back out I am too tasteless too much
to swallow you cannot intimidate
me I am not afraid of this darkness
you cannot suffocate me I am not
claustrophobic

Spoiler

Sometimes these notes at the bottom are difficult. Anyhow, I went diving today. The visibility in the water was absolutely terrible, barely half a metre. I get a bit freaked out when I can't orientate myself. I refuse to do any night dives. Interestingly enough, when you can't see, such a vast space as the ocean can seem extremely confined.

11. Among The Walled City
I was lost among these ground-floor streets
in squalor and darkness where the city never sleeps.
This maze of entanglement:
skyrise on skyrise, no forethought.
Just higher and higher as the people flocked
to this lawless sanctuary,
to these city blocks.

These alleys with pipework exposed and rusted
crawl with sad people, their lives unadjusted
to this dank air, polluted
by cigarette smoke and fumes.
This city is a joke
that they still call their home,
this place with no hope.

Spoiler

I was reading about the Kowloon Walled City today and had a lot of images of an almost dystopian kinda place. Whilst playing around with a bit of rhyme I ended up attempting to put something descriptive together. It's sloppy and I wanted to add more to it, but it's getting late so this'll have to do for now.

12. A Lie I Once Believed
you told me all is fair in love and war

like fighting this was such a crime
and loving you was not
like bullets never left a scar
and my heart was yours to rot

Spoiler

Something short for today. I might end up expanding on this later, but otherwise, I wanted an excuse to reference the quasi-title of my NaPo thread this year. I guess that's what I get for leaving thins so late. Whoops.

13. Blutack and Pinholes
you left me
with constellations across these barren walls
from the life you pulled from the sky

with these star signs of peeled paint and pinhole memories
you had me reading horoscopes
and believing

this milky-way sky was only temporary
that the sun would rise again to fill the holes in the ceiling
with clouds of crinkled poster paper to keep out the night

instead
a clump of drying old blutack and a fresh coat of paint
to pretend this universe never began at all

Spoiler

You can tell a lot about a person by the way they decorate a room. This poem reminisces a bit about someone who, when they moved in, cluttered the walls with pictures and posters, but has since moved on, taking their mementos with them. Most notably, it touches the scars such decorations leave on a wall and how they serve as a reminder of that someone, and how you must eventually clean up the mess left behind and move on. Thinking about it, this poem doesn't even necessarily apply to an outside person, but rather, could very well refer to a change in interests and the nostalgia for something once dearly loved.