Poem of the Past: Coriolanus


I have really neglected these posts for the past few months. I don’t have the excuse of saying I hardly have time to write or paint, but that’s summer life really, always filling the day with work and play. And of course more than a few shitty instances that have occurred since my last post have hampered some inspiration. I can see how some people like to write through the grief of saying goodbye to loved ones, but I never could do it. It brings up too much that I’d rather just push away, forget about feeling bad and move on.

So until I get my act together and start something (possibly get a few short stories going, complete a few outlines… the normal stuff that writers wish they’d do but never do until that final push of “I need to get this done” occurs), here is an oldie from earlier this year. 


With a sword in his hand
he must be strong;
With a powerful yell
he must command;
With resolve in his eye
he must be leader;
though it can’t be so.

His stride is long
but steps are faint;
his tracks are washed out,
a stomp easily forgotten
as the ground rises around
and the rain falls;
flash-floods in his wake
not of joy, the fearful
path is washed out
with his back to us
slowly, far away
and we can breathe.

His thrust is resilient,
yet it’s a glancing blow
a poisonous strike,
determined to win
can it be precise; he falters
with the sun is against him
and it twitches, one stray glare
and the blade is weakened;
dropping now, drilled to the ground
with a grip lost, it slips
slowly, down
and his hand is outstretched
as one we can ignore.

But he is only that: just a man
consumed by pride and vanity
burning away until a tunnel,
his only vision, remains as
he is human;
He is one of us
and reaching out,
never sought or seen
in a plead to be drawn in,
embraced for one last time
proved worthy and finally

Passion or disturbance

philosophical, poetry

So it’s just one of those days where I question if I’m doing the right thing. I’ve done it before, right in the middle of a career, and started over again. But I hope this time I have found the right answer. At least for a longer while. I can’t stay in a career where every day I question if I’m really making a difference, when every step leaves me with a foul taste. Hobbies are different from passions; I’ve learned that the hard way.

Today I reached out to acting and modelling, something I haven’t done in about 10 years. I put myself out there, dipped a toe into those waters, but really I don’t want it, no matter how glorious it looks. I like my ‘dusty’ research, I like learning and the thrill of discovering something that not many others care about. It’s just one of those things everyone wishes to try because it doesn’t look so hard, it gets you recognized and successful. It’s not the success set out for my own future. I’m only 23, and it seems so early in my life, but so late at the same time. Don’t you ever get that feeling? If you only started earlier, where would you be now, or why didn’t you figure it out sooner? For a while, I felt I wasted a few years on my artistic goals only to see it was a fun hobby and maybe some extra recognition and money. Now I don’t feel that way. It was an experience, and though I may not have loved every second of it, I did enjoy it. I still paint, I still write fiction and as seen below, poetry. It’s a mode of expression, and if it leads somewhere that’s its own accord. I’m not guiding it, only giving it a voice.

Also, just found this very interesting painting that I wanted to share: Guillermo Kutica. I feel the dreary tone is fitting even though I found a light out of my musings; sometimes the dark just needs to come out.

Also, just found this very interesting painting that I wanted to share: Guillermo Kutica. I feel the dreary tone is fitting even though I found a light out of my musings; sometimes the dark just needs to come out.

So that’s what I’ve chosen to write about today, that instant after the seed of doubt sets in, when you are able to take a step back and say “No, that’s not right at all.” That step back was the most useful piece of advice I was ever given in art classes. If you focus for so long on one section, the whole piece is lost. To remove yourself, give the eyes a break and reevaluate after a few rejuvenating moments, and it’s all that is needed to see what you truly need to do.

(passion or disturbance)

I stray sometimes
if only to learn the truth
do I really need another route
or is it there
to test
and make a jest of me?
A perspective, desperate
needed in times of loss
faith stays in the trail I chose
and realize
it’s all I truly need.
When glory by another name
presents itself
shiny, fresh and alluring
of course I’m drawn in
like the moth to a light
a way out of darkness
when I am in the dark
the depths of my desires
of course I question
and doubt every step
dark is hard for human eyes
I can’t distinguish the ground
from the pitfalls
I need to stop this
distracting me
no matter how tempting they may be
the appeal for something new
washes over
pulled away with the tide leaving
and pushed aground later
when it’s too deep to swim.

Am I afraid?
Take the risk
draw blood on the way
I’m scarred for life
where the passion takes hold
it has hooked on
to my heart
and will never let go.

Daily Prompt Challenge: Tattoo…You?

musing, philosophical

Tattoos and tattooing has become a complex idea to me. I studied for a while as a tattoo artist before I realized the field was not for me; I was happy building my own collection, but didn’t have a strong need to share them with others. Tattoos became a way for me to express myself, more than paintings or poetry or novelization as I carried it with me. And it didn’t start as a way to rebel, or go against society like most of my relatives believed.

I saw tattoos when I was about 12 or 13 as a form of art and expression. That’s what I believed at the time, and in a way that belief has carried through to my perceptions of it now. I always wanted one of my own. I wanted something outward and colourful to represent the art inside of me. And so many things in my teen years gave me a reason to create one of my own.

That’s where my first came from: a budgie in flight, about to land, with the phrase “In the Presence of Angels” held in his feet. It was kind of an homage to my first true pet, Angel, but also to show I did care about those around me and their opinions. They were my angels, and I never wanted that to change.

It sounds so sappy now, but it still resonates true. Since then, I’ve inked impulse tattoos on my legs, ones that immortalize quotes that refer to an event, and memorial tattoos. My last memorial one, a candle and rose on my foot that started as a random image, probably relates the most to my feelings about being a tattoo artist. It was a fleeting idea, one that I attempted and left to pursue bigger things, things that I felt needed my attention more than something I was only half-passionate about. That doesn’t mean I’m not planning another tattoo as I write this post as I can’t stand stopping because of one little bump in the road.

Tattooing is an art form to me, and because of my tattoos I feel so much more comfortable in my own skin. I feel I don’t need to hide anymore as my ideals are out for all to see. If they analyze the images, go for it. The little skull on my ankle? I thought he was cute. The swallow on my shoulder blade? A permanent reminder to keep moving forward and to keep exploring. They may not be the best of tattoos out there, but they’re mine. What I can’t stand is people overcompensating their positive feelings on tattoos; I get it, you kind of don’t like them, but feel the need to compliment every one you see to show you approve of their existence. Whatever.

My skin feels bare when it doesn’t have colour on it. It’s a blank canvas, just waiting to be covered. My parents probably don’t feel the best from that idea, and I most likely won’t cover a lot of my skin, but it’s still an open. If I want to have a permanent reminder in the future, I have no qualms against inking it in my skin. My tattoos show events and things that are a part of me, and though my tastes may change over time, I can’t and don’t want to change who I was at any point.

Maybe tattoos play a bigger role in my life than I thought…

cute skull

Help I’m Alive

Art, philosophical, poetry

I realized I have not posted on here in a while… quite a while actually. Writing terms papers does that really, too much writing on one day and BAM, don’t feel like writing anymore for the day. Hence the Metric song title as a blog title (very good song by the way, I love the songs where you like the sound, and then actually listen to the lyrics and enjoy those too). BUT I am back with a nice little poem and maybe a few thoughts somewhere in between. So this poem is a few weeks ago. I have recently began to focus on a workout now that I’m away from the barn so often, I actually need to exercise myself. I took up yoga, Vinyasa style, as it’s offered at my school. Pretty neat eh? I love it, and at the end of each class there is a meditation portion that I thoroughly enjoy. You’re not meant to think about anything in particular, but I make sure to write directly after it to have a record of that session. Sometimes I come up with great ideas, others I just feel  really refreshed. But this poem was written as I was walking home from the class:

I feel the hollow

where the ribs hold up my skin

and the muscles pull them upwards

up and up

to breathe deeper

            it’s obscure in there

the only light let in

from the life I need

the blood rushing around and through

I feel the vibrations

everything within is moving

sluggish, upbeat

but today it holds strong

as far as it can manage.

My toes are cold

the extremities are losing purpose

my body must be in a bad state

I feel them as numb

an odd sensation

when I can still move at will

unlike sleeping

because I have full control

if I need to be awake

            in an instance I will be

and to feel the lack of reason

to feel the limbs fold in

when the most vital needs win the struggle

of circulation

chokes me.

Where does it stop

do I decide how much is needed

or will it tell me

or never stop until it is all

shut down.

Do you ever feel the sensation of just being? No focus on the world around, but only on the world running inside you. It’s magnificent; I never realized what I was taking for granted in myself. The way you breathe, the circulation of everything necessary… In this age, we’re so focused on the material, emotional feelings and such around us and I admit, I do it too. The art around me on my walls attests to that easily; the stack of clothing I just unpacked made me very happy at its presence in my hands as my own. But to step back every so often, to just feel this world without judgments, emotions or an inner dialogue really gives the chance to experience it. It’s like a next step from realizing yourself: placing yourself in the world as its not so different from the body’s rhythm. It’s too cold now to just go out an sit in a park (I don’t even know if there is a park nearby), but the few instances that I can, I just observe. In the end, it might not be the best thing to do as you do become ‘outside’ of it all but I feel it can center in a way that I have never been able to experience before. It’s great to get different views every so often, isn’t it?


Oh I need to do another post on my Halloween research, that stuff was interesting… Maybe I’ll post it tomorrow if I have the time, share my horrific and ghoulish findings 🙂

Mind Over Matter – september 24

Art, poetry

I know I’ve neglected this for a while now, but that’s the life of a student. Ah well, the Poem a Day continues off-screen, and that’s all I need sometimes. Here’s one that came to me in September, plus a painting I just finished about 20 minutes ago.

(mind over matter)

It came back again
in my most vulnerable state
my mind was relaxed
meditation, unmoving;
the grass was whispering
against my skin
the trees in the distance
swayed as the current pushed
swirls in the sky
colours moving into themselves.

Then the sky clouded over
the colours dulled to grey
the oscillation held still
and my head turned to the side.

Heartbeat jumped in surprise
it was only a few feet away
staring through a haunting gape
the holes in the face
my pulse rose
meditation destroyed
but saved when my mind kicked back.

I lifted my hand
and with the wind
through my fingers
I wiped it away
rubbed from existence
erased from my world.

I turned back to the grass
and lay down in its embrace;
I felt the needles grow higher
and overcome me completely.

Image‘Gone Now’, acrylic and spray paint, 2013.