The Pocket Of My Life…a poem

The Pocket of My Life a poem by Neil William Holland

In the pocket of my life I found there was a tear, I could feel it.
I think that grief and sadness had worn the fabric.
I probed within, something I had never done before.
In the lining of my life things had gathered.
I pulled them out one by one.
First came the dream, from younger days
when dreaming mattered.
Oh it was somewhat faded and somewhat tattered,
but I recognised it.
I knew it was my dream, still there, still wanting fulfilment.
I pulled out happiness.
I hadn’t realised how much happiness had slipped
into the lining of my life.
In truth, I never realised how happy I had been
on so many occasions.
How sad that I should let happiness slip away.
I pulled out choice.
Somehow I let the power of choosing slip into the lining of my life.
The Lord has always given me this precious gift called choice.
I laid them out in front of me, side by side,
all within my grasp again.
My coat of life suddenly felt lighter.
The dream was brighter now that I could see it.
Now that it was free.
I removed my coat of life and studied it with fresh interest.
I hadn’t realised how tired I’d let it become.
I kept looking, reflecting.
My life looked new and bright again.
My dream intense, alluring.
I carefully wrapped my dream in choice, it felt empowering.
My dream, my power of choice, my happiness meant to be.
I found my spirit again.
I found my purpose, my reason for being,
the reason I was me.

Like A Bird On A Nest

Sometimes, most times, I sit on poems like a bird on a nest. I look at them quite proudly, warm and variegated in their colouring, turn them, fiddle them, incubate them. Then, even with all that tender loving care maybe they just don’t hatch. There comes a point where perhaps they are simply not fertile enough, never will be ready to hatch and fly as poems do once they are fledged and ready for a life of their own. it’s what we do, poets, we give something life only for it to fly away and have a life of its own. It’s what we hope for.

Sometimes though, you just want to soar, free from the burden of it all, but deep down you know you must start all over again, trying to perpetuate that species of writing you know simply has to exist. It’s inside, eternal, a driving force. Ok, perhaps not all eggs lead to magnificent birds, but if only one, just one of those eggs finally hatches and soars with all of those other magnificent birds it will be something to truly marvel at. Your own D.N.A, a piece of you up there silhouetted against the sky like a printed letter on a blank page and a natural testament to you as the provider. Sometimes such creating, such giving, seems a lonely thing but still you must fly and nest and incubate, hoping. Always hoping.

In reality, most of the time, I line my nest with the feathers of other birds, each one a phrase or a line that fired my imagination, wanting to nurture and hatch my own complete but original bird from all those collected. I line my nest with them, warm in the knowledge that they truly are fine feathers. Warm in the knowledge that hopefully, one day, all my eggs will hatch, warmed by the fine feathers I surrounded them with. Now, I sit, and write, and incubate. Just don’t try and tell me it’s pointless, for what is a world without birds?

Madeira Through A Poet’s Eyes.

Some things in life just leave their mark on you, affect you. On our first holiday in Madeira we chanced upon a flower festival and I saw a lady selecting blooms from a display which people were allowed to do as it was ending. However, they were not for herself, she promptly walked up to my wife, a stranger to her, handed the bouquet to her and then walked off down the street. I watched her go, this small elegant elderly lady and I am sure she was just a member of the public in Funchal. What an act of kindness, a thought for someone else, a creator of memories. Isn’t it good to be human sometimes? How far does an act of kindness and selflessness reach? I’ve held on to this memory until finally I produced a poem from it which I like to think is my gift back to the lady, the island and its people. We had the flowers in our room for our whole two week stay. The actual flowers are in the vase below. My poem they led me to create is also below. Sometimes the world can be a truly wonderful place.

A poem for International Disability Day

Today is International Disability Day and here is a poem I have written today especially for it.

 

The Flower of Disability           by Neil William Holland

 

Sometimes a flower lies waiting there

sometimes fine blooms lie latent there

but there they are and there they bloom.

 

Some flowers take longer in our care

but love and heart can grow them where

they reach for life that they may bloom.

 

How rare these flowers that take a while

who ask so little, just love and care,

who bear such pain behind their smile,

young lives who simply want to share

a chance to grow and bloom.

 

With rainbow smiles of every hue

who just love life like me and you,

embrace them now in all you do

that you may bloom.

 

Respect is all that’s asked of you

support and mere civility,

that all may grow and we may share

the flower of disability.

A Poetry Recording

It has taken me a while to post this but it relates to my fairy recent (for me) post The Fastest Poems Ever Written and this is a recording I made of Looking At An Arthur Berry Exhibition. The tone of it  is about my response to his paintings, which are very dark colour-wise, and very reflective of life in a raw sense, a bit like Lowry which Arthur’s works were exhibited with.

Here is the final tone-poem I recorded in response to my tour of his work. You can read more on my earlier post if you wish, The Fastest Poems Ever Written.

 

Poetic Splinters

Poetic splinters, you can get them for sure, many poetry enthusiasts have dared to guide their poetry to left of centre in one way or another. The Beat poets for example, and often this doesn’t sit too well with ultra traditionalists. Without new views on poetry however there are no new developments and I can’t help thinking that word-smithing such as Rap and Slam Poetry to name but two splinters have helped many young people to engage with the sacred art.

For my own part, try as I may, I cannot peel my poetry away from a sound enhanced treatment, and I am now pretty sure that what may be best described as digitally enhanced poetry will be around for quite some time yet. I am though also keen to keep myself in a straight line down that central poetry course we call traditional poetry and to this end I have tracked down a local Poetry Stanza of The Poetry Society and when I am able I intend to be a regular at the group (if they will have me of course).

Why am I continually fascinated by digitally enhanced poetry? The answer lies in what can be done with it, how it can colour the reading, give it atmosphere and nuances, how it can interplay and bring mood, how it can render a partnership with the imagination. That is ok I think, yes? It’s another way of rendering the essence of what otherwise may be plain unaccompanied prose. Does poetry need this? No of course not, but we live in the age of the digital world and it seems a shame not to let poetry in on it. I am hoping to continue the work in 2016 and add to my Bandcamp collection, but I am also hoping to develop my traditional skills and if you want to improve your game it plays to be in a good team surrounded by good players, preferably better than yourself, hence my aspirations towards my local Poetry Stanza. It seems like a sensible plan methinks. I’m enthused by the thought of it at least having lost my poetry mojo somewhat when everything in the world seemed to be pushing me away from the thing I know I love.

So, anyway, have a listen to the last thing I’ve done, Under The Stars. It is poetry about my dad, something we shared together on special nights. I hope something of those moments can be found by listening to it. I hope too, that you may see how the words and sound-atmosphere can work in synergy. It is almost essential to listen through headphones, as that offers the nuances really. Peace to all.

Currently reading

Poems of the Second World War..
edited by Dennis Butts& Victor Selwyn.

In particular the poem The Shelter (extract) by Wilfrid Gibson.

Why?
I love the lyrical language that opens the poem and which continues to unravel the story contained therein, a cameo of life at that time.

‘In the air-raid shelter of the Underground
Stretched on the narrow wire racks ranged around
The walls, like corpses in a catacomb
With brows and cheeks cadaverous in the light…’

What follows in the poem is a lyrical narrative containing a story that is a hugely compassionate boy-meets-girl theme that rises above the ordinary due to the circumstances of it all. The poem is both a poem, a narrative prose and also a signpost to what may matter in life philosophically, all at the same time weaving a spell on me as a reader.

On the opposite page to the poem is a full page black and white photograph of people in the air-raid shelter right in keeping with the theme which strengthens my enjoyment and appreciation of the poem’s setting, but of course you don’t need it to enjoy this lovely poetry.

Enjoy…Neil William Holland aka Soloneili, the poet in the car.

Noah

Hello, this is a poem I wrote and recorded about one of my grandchildren. I hope you enjoy.

Noah

In the hierarchy of sound
I place the ticking
of my late grandmother’s clock
as middle C.
The purring of Sooty
her black cat sits
somewhere below,
Its meow sits considerably higher,
as do all the sounds of Noah,
my grandson
now three months old.

Asleep on the smokey rag rug
the crackling pops and whistles
of the coal fire reassure,
as do the buttons, buckles, and RAF wings
I play with in their cream coloured tin.
I effortlessly slide from my childhood
to Noah’s as he lies listening.

I have no ticking clock for him.
Only my low grandfather voice,
and my burning desire to ensure
his life is full of music and me,
desperate to be his middle C,
wishing for him,
a world of beautiful polyphony.

poem by Neil William Holland. a.k.a. Soloneili

Words for Peace

Words For Peace

If I could leave my words for those I love, to understand,
lay me down where grass is sweet and flowers grow,
that I may share the life our meadows know
and spend eternal peace in my beloved land.

In silent prayer I wish for those a friend to me,
may peace be in your life and quiet waters flow,
to nurture heart in those you love and know
and all conjoin in high serenity.

Alone mere words cannot repay the debts we owe,
nor wishes cleanse the souls we’ve grown to be,
but surely love uplifts when all is low
and binds us in one true affinity.

If all could leave their words for those they love to understand
and lay their thoughts in meadows sweet where flowers grow,
we’d nourish all we hope our children come to know
and place true peace in our beloved lands.
…………………………….

The above is a poem by me, Neil William Holland…a.k.a. Soloneili

Free Gift of friendship.

Thanks to all who follow me, I truly appreciate it and I’m only just learning about the etiquette involved of blogging so my humble apologies if I’ve not acknowledged anyone, I’m sorry, but I hope you enjoy this track which, if you like it, is free to download and indeed free to everyone who comes across it. There is something about all religions that attracts me in terms of the wisdom contained within them, and Buddhism particularly holds a fascination for me, even though I’m a christian. I believe that there is good in the true essence of all faiths and that with faith comes hope, and a life with hope is a life that is always filled with promise.

When I put this track together I wanted to convey a sense of serenity and voice which reaches out through the mystery of its sound and when I came across the throat chant I knew I just had to use it and this is the end result. There is also much to be heard on the wind and that too is embraced in the concept of this piece and in my mind the gradual unfolding of the throat chant is an unfolding of consciousness that seems to carry a feeling inside me of some sort that is hard to define. I often find this with sound and I love the way sound can reach into every crevice of a room and perhaps it can reach in to every crevice of our lives in the same way. I have a Tibetan singing bowl which I love to strike and allow its resonance to do just that, to resonate inside me on many levels and to enter every crevice of my life. These nuances of sound, the interaction between the physical qualities of sound and the spiritual, more abstract qualities, of life maybe speak of things we don’t yet understand but which are as important and as relevant as the food we eat. After all, I believe it is truly important to feed our soul just as much as our body, and what can possibly be wrong with having faith and hope, nourished by what we believe and what we place our trust in, whatever religion it may be. It’s not about being enthusiastic about religion, it’s about being religiously enthusiastic about life. Please enjoy and best wishes. Neil