Terrible Tuesdays #1

Dear Reader,

Lately I have been a little puzzled over the way I add to this blog, since it is almost as chaotic as my mind; making it perhaps useful for me to understand, but perhaps less sensible to you, good reader. And so, I thought I might start this; the first of a structure of posts (or so I hope it to be). I have never been a fan of Tuesdays; they are not the start of the week so you are unlikely to be excited for any new things beginning, and they are far too far from the end, and so you have a long way to go until the weekend. Therefore, I have decided to add a little something to keep myself distracted from the inhumane horror of having to experience one ever week; this is to post a new piece of poetry each week on Tuesday, so that I can forget for a little while about how terrible the day is.

So, honest reader, allow me to introduce my first of these poems, and I pray, should you also tire of Tuesdays, to read on and yourself be distracted from these dismal hours.

Dawn, May 2012

Out the dawn rose up ablaze
And set a dance its hopeful rays,
As quick against the gasps of night
It cast them all about in flight.

Come you angels;
Rise and sing,
Seabirds caw and church bells ring.
Fall you spectres;
Hide away,
For light and love shall rule this day.

High the clouds forgot their woes
Amidst their weightless crimson flows;
Where soon the summer shall be borne,
For now there rides a springtime morn.

Come idle song;
Birds and more,
And play the tune of ev’ry shore.
Name your chorus;
Call it day,
Now let it live and love alway.

‘Tis truth in brightest kingdoms lie
The thousand embers set to die,
But as they rise who’d comprehend
That they as well so soon must end?

Rise you sunlight,
Bright and grand,
Golden as immortal sand,
Church and steeple
Ring you well;
Of these finest people tell.

In the east the sun is crowned,
In the west the moon is drowned;
And the shore is bathed in all
Till those final sun-sparks fall.

Come you angels;
Rise and sing,
Seabirds caw and church bells ring.
Fall you spectres;
Hide away,
For light and love shall rule this day!

I hope, dear reader, you have found some interest in my tuneless verse,

Until Tuesday strikes again (wouldn’t that make an amazing film title?), or until I next have a chance, farewell, dear reader,

Mike

Self Indulgent Musings

Honest Reader,

Alas, it seems quite readilly the blatent reason for this blog becomes apparent; surely as much for the betterment of myself than for the informing of others to any really useful extent. It is even now, that I prepare to write a post to gladden my own heart by expressing it, than with any expectation to entertain or inform by that. So, dear reader, I tell you there is no need to read on, this post, I’ll honestly say, is somehow to try and gladden myself, than to attract the attention of others.

Rosie, the most beautiful, clever, and all round amazing girlfriend I could imagine, is off at Creamfields and after 12 hours of no contact I’m already missing her so much that I felt the need to blog about it. Here then, let me tell a story that I find quite funny, since its absolutely minor importance means it’s quite amazing it is remembered at all, but the fact that it is remembered is perhaps the reason that I shall try and continue it on through this humble post. And also, it will take my mind off of everything else.

I ask to take you back (should any reader have really been interested to continue on) to England, in the 1850s, a young man had recently returned from several years serving in the Crimean War and had met up with his sweetheart. They went together to a social function and, with the amount that they had missed each other, they longed to hold each other (and likely more besides that the original teller of this story didn’t want to mention). However, society being as it was then, there was no chance that they would be able to do that for some time, since they were not even staying in the same house and the only times they would meet would be with others too. For this function, though, they both had dressed up to look their best, the only scruffy thing being on the young man who still had very long side-burns, known then as Artillery Wiskers, and they were a common sign of a current or ex-soldier.

The night dragged on and the two barely took their eyes from one another, when, long after it had become dark outside, a parting guest openned the door and a gust of wind entered the room, great enough to extinguish all the candles in there and plunging it into darkness. There was a chaotic scrabble as servants hurried to try and light the candles, and, in the darkness, the young man reached forward to kiss the girl he had loved for so long.

A minute passed and the servants suddenly got a candle alight, and moments later the whole room. There were gasps as the people present at that social gathering looked at the two lovers to see them still locked in an embrace, a look of some discomfort etched into both of their faces. The poor young man had caught his Artillery Whiskers in one of his sweetheart’s earings! The two lovers were pulled apart, to the further discomfort of both of them, and they were expelled from the event, both taken home immediately to their own seperate houses.

The article I read that explained this story was written only a few days after the event occured, and so I cannot say what hapenned to the two lovers, but I like to think that they went on destroying those strange social graces of the period, but hopefully with a little more grace than their first attempt seemed to contain.

Ah, and now I find myself quite a bit happier, dear reader, for the expressing of some of my feeble words.

Until once again my senseless fingers find a keyboard, farewell, most wonderful reader,

Mike

Thoughts of Poetry

Honest Reader,

I am most glad to be writing to you again, and after a great day of enjoying London with Rosie, I must ask you to forgive any mistakes made within this post by my tired fingers. While returning from London I doodled some small poetry upon some recipts that I had in my pocket (the only paper I had available), I thought then that I might produce tonight’s poetry here for your considered eyes; though it may not be perfect, it is perhaps of more interest than an empty blog, and I’m sure you will excuse any lazyness you might see.

So, should you be of a mind to read on, I pray you enjoy what is writ.

A Small Note
Here scrib’d the poet something small;
For there was not much space at all,
He thought to write of heaven high
And all of England passing by,
But he mus’d not of dreams above;
His heart is lost in nought but love.

In Thought of Being Back ’12
Beneath a stern selenic gaze,
In August’s dying hue,
The heavens whisper moonlit praise
Past oak and pine and yew,
Towards a sea
Where I should be;
The Land of glad Cymru.

Invested in a deeper hint
Than many nights would stand,
The shades they shimmer, fly, and glint,
Above the loit’ring sand;
By ocean’s song
Where I belong;
In that far western land.

A poet’s song without it’s fire,
Without the water’s tune,
What art is left that might inspire
Beneath another moon;
Oh still, no fear,
I know ‘tis near
When I shall be back soon!

Farewell, kind reader,

Mike

The Sunlight’s Pause

Worthy Reader,

Just a short note for today, since time seems to be running all too quick lately; I would simply like to introduce a secondary project of mine, something that likely will come to nothing but may be worth introducing here all the same. I have started work on a dramatic poem, to be produced over time with short parts being uploaded; this is all due to my new tumblr account that I needed to try and find a use for.

So, should it interest you of a late evening*, then I hope you might visit my tumblr poem The Sunlight’s Pause.
Until next time, dear reader,

Farewell,

Mike

*Any other time may also be applicable.

Summer Distractions

Earnest reader,

With much gladness to my soul, I send you again my heart felt greetings from my clumbsy keyboard, and, as I too often have said this summer, I must make my appologies for the scarsity of posts that have appeared recently. I am very glad to say that I have been so busy of late as to be unable to blog regularly or sensibly for any good amound of time, and it is indeed a blogger’s need to have good amounts of time to sit and think to compose something worthwhile for such kind readers as I find here.

So, you may ask, what distractions have kept you from this blog? What is more important to me, dear reader, than the eyes that fall upon this page? Well then, I appologise, for that is not the meaning of my post here, I am, as always, humble servant to any of the few eyes kind enough to read this humble blog, and it is simply circumstance and a wish to produce a blog of quality that has kept me from you.

A distraction, finished.

Allow me to explain, then, of the good events that have so far come about this summer. Firstly, I have been fortunate enough to have had Rosie staying for the last few days, and it is surely very poor humour to forsake company with your girlfriend to post such poor quality posts as I produce. Secondly, I have been busy binding and repairing books this past week, and perhaps the fact that I have run out of bookbinding glue has brought that to an end, although, as I am in the process of ordering more, it may be I am a while from posting the next installment of this humble blog… Then I have also been very busy advertising the ghost walk, the first one of which ran on the 15th, and I am glad to report without incident or issue.

However, dear reader, do not fret; it is not that I have forgotten you in this hour of work and triumph, no, do not worry, for some humble poetry has been produced that I thought I might now add to this rather useless post to entertain, inform, or whatever other purposes you may use this blog for. I pray you enjoy them should you be kind enough to read on.

Upon a Lonesome Gentleman
Inspired by some of Kingsford’s poetry, this poem is writ from the point of view of a man who has none about him in the world but himself, time and age having removed them from him and the world itself. Hoping for death, the man finds himself musing upon distant church bells.

Oh hear my wise
You lonely bells be done,
And curse my eyes;
Push back the rising sun.
Turn back the time
To where our last day went,
And end this climb
To when these days are spent.

Like laugh I would,
Oh let me do the same
With persons good
And nought to fear or blame.
Such fellows passed
As have the days they knew,
And I’m the last;
The last of far too few.

I would again,
Were days to be returned,
To let not wane
The friendships I’ve long burned.
The bells beat on,
And there they do remind;
Those days are gone,
With heartache to remind.

Let days be done
And bells be silent too;
Now only one
Recalls the days we knew,
And let the air
That does from birth sustain
Become despair
And take leave once again.

Upon the Scouse Brow
Dear Marylin, a northern beau,
Brought her beauty to a show,
But ‘bove those eyes that brightly shone
Her brows were sadly painted on.

I have numerous others yet to be finished, so I would be glad to post that shortly, I also have the second tutorial on sigil to finish, although, seeing how little of use I might be able to cover sensibly in it, that may be a work that goes without posting.

For now, most welcome reader,

Farewell,

Mike

A Ghost Walk Begins!

NOTICE TO PEOPLE LOOKING FOR THE OFFICIAL MALDON GHOST WALK WEBSITE: Click here to go to it, I’ve noticed this website is ahead of it on google for some reason, this is the personal blog of the researcher, nothing more.

Dearest Reader, much cherished by this simple blogger,

I am glad to be yet again at my keyboard, envigorated at the prospect of producing another post for your fine eyes to read. It is with a glad heart, and similarly glad lungs, liver, and a marginally happy left knee, that I would like to explain recent matters involving my project for the summer; that of the Maldon Ghost Walk!

Having spent now several months reasearching and collecting together stories from residents of Maldon, a few days ago I finished the script for the ghost walk. I have since then been designing and printing posters and leaflets, as well as updating the website and organising insurance, and, in all, doing all the little things that might bring together this assortment of affairs into one great final work.

And thus, I am happy to announce that on the fifteenth of August shall be our first ghost walk, meeting outside All Saints Church in the high street at 7:00pm! Please, come one, come all, to this fine show and be entertained by the very darkest articles of Maldon’s mysterious past!

Fondest of fondest farewells,

Mike