You are currently browsing the monthly archive for March 2012.
Someone once said:
“I don’t care what you do, just be profound.
Wherever you go, whatever you say,
give everyone a reason to listen to what you are saying,
and to write your name on the ground.”
If you are an artist,
then create a work of art to spur others on
to create their own masterpiece;
if you are a musician,
compose opus after opus
so that when people listen to your music in their head
they are always at peace.
Always strive for perfection,
even if you believe you will never achieve it-
one persons morning is another persons night-
everything you make and create will find its intended.
Great profundity happens everyday, and nearly always accidentally;
truth comes from repetition, experience, and wisdom;
inspiration comes from a momentary clear view of the connection of all things-
that changes the way you see and think about things fundamentally.
Like everything, perfection’s definition
is always down to interpretation, and personification-
how everyone feels about something is subjective, selective,
based on sensation;
after experiencing a piece of art,
where one person may take offense,
another may feel enriched and overcome with elation.
Music is the same way:
where some may only hear “noise”,
another may be moved to tears by a songs emotion, energy, and poise.
Perfection, to me, is something or someone
that opens your mind and your heart to new possibilities-
something or someone, which or whom, awakens in you new abilities,
and frees you of any and all of your anxieties.
If that is the case, then I can honestly say
that I see and hear perfection everyday
in my family, in my friends, in the people that I adore,
and in the songs that I listen to- which are always on continuous play.
To make a difference in life,
you don’t need money, you don’t need what everyone else has,
you don’t even need to be famous or renowned-
to make a difference in this life,
you need an idea, you need a fully-formed and imagined picture in your head,
of what you want to do;
then you need to give all that you have got to a perfect moment,
and just be profound.
While I lay in my bed the previous night,
a blanket of fog had risen and had covered my home;
while walking the streets and the lanes of my village,
in the early hours of the morning,
details and landmarks were obscured to me-
it was like everything was covered in foam.
The mist before me was thicker than I had seen in a long time-
it was as if my home was floating in the sky,
surrounded on all sides by cloud,
with the light of lamp-posts dimly shining like stars in a line.
It felt like I was not only walking around my home,
but also walking the pavements of my own misty mind-
the cold of the morning had stolen my thoughts,
as the fog had stolen my vision-
making me effectively blind.
There was no wind, but the air all around was bitterly cold;
there was no frost to be found on the ground,
but it felt like I was at the North Pole-
if it were not for my coat, my scarf,
and the fact that I never stopped for a second,
I believe that I would have been frozen to death;
and if it were not for the sound of my own foot-falls,
I would have thought that I had gone deaf.
There was no one to be seen, and this was 8.30 in the morning;
I found myself missing the sun more and more,
every minute without it felt like we hadn’t had a proper day’s dawning.
The green fields that I rambled across could still be seen under-foot,
but from a distance you could be forgiven
for mistaking them for ghostly-white-
no rabbits to be spotted emerging from their burrows,
nor any birds to be witnessed above in full-flight.
It was like everything- all life, but me- was frozen below the surface,
or still tucked-up in their bed;
while I carried out my morning ritual, as best I could
considering I couldn’t see what was ahead.
As soon as I reached the tree-line of my favourite wood,
a smile came across my face at the sight of this special place to me;
for reasons so complex and important I cannot describe, if only I could;
however, what I can say is that the trees that inhabit this forest
have an energy to them that I have felt no where else-
every time I come back, I feel like I can just be myself.
As soon as I walked among the trees,
the sound of life returned to my ears, and I felt free-
the smell of the trees, the sound that they make when they sway;
the wing-beats of a hawk flying through the trees-
overcame my own personal fog, and got inside of me.
As I stood there,
taking in everything that my senses would allow me to comprehend,
as sunlight streamed in and bathed me in light so clear and energizing,
I thought that I could stand there forever through every element
and season of nature until my end.
Every time I come back to this place
the experience is even more moving and profound than the last-
rain, snow, or sunshine,
wet, freezing, or baking in warmth,
the time that I spend here is just what I need-
it never goes too slow, or too fast.
When I exit the forest, and return to the outside world,
blue-sky and bird-song is everywhere around me,
and there is the faintest aroma of a cooked English breakfast on the breeze,
as leaves before me twist and swirl.
All is right with the world again,
and all is right again with me.
I have a smile on my face,
I can think clearly,
and I can see.
I think about the woods, the trees, the fields,
and how lucky I am to live where I live,
what it all means, and how when I am here I never feel alone-
and I thank my parents for raising me in this place of perfection-
the Centre of England- so that I may call it the place where I belong,
the place I love, and the place where I shall always call my home.
Does this go with that?
Should I paint my bedroom Red, or should I paint it blue?
At the time of being asked
seemingly world-shattering and defining decisions,
but which are really changes in light-
because what goes with what should be simple:
go with what feels right,
because they are the rooms of you.
I have watched people literally agonize
over whether there decoration should match their fashion-
I am all for coordination, but when you get to that level of minutiae
style becomes a job, a chore, all for everybody else’s eyes-
a world away from a passion.
I am not an interior, or an exterior decorator,
but I do know what feels right to me-
my tastes in decor may be reviled by a so-called “expert”,
or by someone who thinks that their opinion is superior to mine,
and they can feel free;
however, said “experts”, I am afraid, would have to prepare themselves
to be told that they don’t know what they are talking about-
I am sure they would be well-meaning (or not),
but either way I would tell any visitor to my home
that it is the most perfect and inspirational place on Earth,
of which there can be no doubt.
The rooms of my home are an “Aladdin’s cave”,
each room mirrored in every corner with tokens of me-
details of complexity, echoes of my own voice,
imprints of imagination- works of art, life, and poetry.
Wear what is comfortable;
mix your vocabulary with what you hear and with what makes you smile;
be adventurous in your choices;
never have a psychic, nor an interior decorator on speed-dial;
listen to the opinions of your real friends, but don’t be led backwards;
be creative always; paint your hearts-desires on every wall, and on yourself-
because your thoughts and opinions are more important than any awards.
Every morning, I wake-up, I look around,
I walk through my home, and I take in the view-
I look at the people, the pictures, the art, the identity of my creativity-
I sigh with bliss, and I think to myself:
Mark, these are the rooms of you.
Out of the cloud of creation-
new worlds, new energies, and new life, arose into being;
out of trillions of unification’s-
derivations of the most powerful forces of nature
began to become self-aware,
began to evolve, began to leave a record, began believing,
began spreading everywhere.
Reflection led to contemplation, contemplation led to thought,
thought led to ideas, dreams, possibilities,
colours, colonies- of every sort.
Creative people always seek out creation in all its forms and guise,
those who love to inspire others
love to discover something that they wish they themselves had created,
and they live to be surprised.
Musicians listen to nature for their inspiration,
writer’s and poets listen to people for their muse,
artists capture a single moment, in hope of making it last forever;
but when two or more far-away, but inspired, artisans are brought together-
that are capable of creating unmatched beauty alone-
the ensuing explosion of creativity
is tantamount to relighting the big bang fuse.
When a philosopher meets a writer,
or when a poet meets a virtuoso composer-
when words, emotion, and music, become the same thing,
and impossible to be any closer.
When an amazing collaboration seems to come out of nowhere,
as an artist you become compelled and drawn to new horizons
that you were incapable of perceiving before;
when something that you gave rise to and nurtured
grows beyond you and takes on a new life of its own,
you simply cannot ask for more.
Out of an infinite crowd,
two minds can unify to paint a new landscape,
where both artists signatures are ever-present in their creation;
out of our distant relationship to one another,
can come a shared, unparalleled, experience,
and an epic collaboration.
A poet within a sphere,
a sphere within a wheel-
not stopping for anything,
with no breaks to their rotation,
and no limit to their zeal.
The world is the clock that never stops,
and Earth is the pendulum that never rests;
people are the hands that connect the dots,
and Life is the face that is always refreshed.
All that live are so small,
and yet they are so big;
all that feel are apples of truth
of the great poet tree,
and in time fall to ground
as if they were a twig.
The reason for everything is there to be seen-
always, everyday, all-around, every second;
its simple, and yet amazing;
it sometimes becomes clearer to see when we are threatened,
and it is more inspiring and forthright than anyone ever reckoned.
We can sometimes feel cold, and alone,
when we are on our own-
and no matter how enlightened we are to the facets of life,
we can sometimes forget
that the wheel of life is run by a river,
and sometimes we all go under, and we all get a little wet.
The great thing about life
is that it is connected at both ends-
once forged, birth and death are the same thing-
everything depends on how you see it,
and what you comprehend.
Everything is imaginary, everything is allegory;
everything is true, everything is real;
everything rides on the rim,
connected by the spokes of the Big Wheel.
It is a peaceful and beautiful afternoon;
and yet, I am restless.
For some reason that I can’t put my finger on,
I feel in distress.
I feel like I am atop a great mountain,
all alone as the cold winds blow, unsteady my feet,
and clear my mind;
I feel as if there are clouds below me
that are preventing me from leaving my mountain-spot behind.
I feel like I am on top of the world, but that it doesn’t matter
because I can never go back the same way that I came;
I feel like I am the soul-survivor of an expedition,
and the reason why I am is because I am to blame.
Someone I have known all my life is getting married soon;
and while I am happy for her, I still cannot stop asking:
why is that not me?
The reason why is probably glaringly simple to others;
however, I am always the one who sees things a million miles away
before I see what is right in front of me.
It is a deficiency that I have worked hard to exorcise,
but my progress, if any, has always been short-lived-
perhaps it is a remnant of something that happened
to me when I was a kid?
I am happy in myself, in my relationships, in my work,
and in my life in general-
every minute I am inspired, able to breath deep, think intently,
and express myself in any way-
and for all that, I am incredibly grateful.
But I am missing something, something I may have had once, but lost-
something for which I feel like I am paying a heavy cost.
Machines don’t have regrets, and I am no machine-
wherever I look in my life I see echoes of another reality,
and indelible footprints of where I have been.
I have no real regrets, either-
only after-thoughts of what-could-have-been,
what could have I done better, and will I do better next time-
and I am proud of myself for doing so when I do,
because those questions are a part of my nature,
and one of the reasons why I continue to climb.
Everything that I am, that has happened to me, and what I have done,
has brought me, for better or for worse, to this apex-
and the only question that I have now,
and the question that will always keep me going, is:
what’s next?
The World doesn’t end below your feet;
the sky continues beyond the horizon;
everything you can imagine is happening on every street;
the Earth is taking you for a thousand mile an hour spin,
while gravity saves you every second from having to hang-on.
Below the surface, a four billion year-old system is alive,
active, and is adhering, unhampered,
to a universal law of self-preservation-
one that it passed on to the offspring of its spawn-
namely to humanity, however it is known sub-consciously
to all forms of life, in a million incarnations.
Below the ground, our sphere is fractured,
and is always on the move-
at its core it is steady, energetic,
in the best centuries of its life;
while closer to its fragile shell,
it is constantly colliding with itself,
changing shape, and forming new islands and grooves.
Below the snow, below the ash,
below the skin of Earths vast network of interconnection,
and its gift of breathable gas,
the planet that is our home, and upon which we all live,
is the rock-star of its own concert-
and unlike its loyal and life-long fans,
it does nothing but give.
For every second that you look up at the sky,
breathe in deep, and feel energized by the rays of the suns heat-
look down once in a while at the ground,
feel the vibration and the rhythm of Earths pulse,
and feel love in your heart for what lies below your feet.
The voice came out of nowhere,
and with it one word: “hello”.
We all sat staring at each-other,
perplexed by what we had just heard-
seemingly the voice of a ghost in the answer machine-
and then we all burst into laughter: my Dad, my Mum, my Sister, and Me.
Where the voice had come from and why, neither of us knew;
but the fact that we were all present at that exact moment
that the voice spoke out, we all knew was significant.
I half expected the voice to say “goodbye”
when my sister left the living room,
however it did not. Not that I was surprised.
I was intrigued, though. I still am.
It was a familiar voice-
a voice I have heard a hundred times by now;
however what, or who, it was that said “hello” to us
remains a mystery.
The Life, the Light, the Tears, of the Poet of the Sphere 