As I sifted through my trove of poetry, intending to curate a selection of fresh, predominantly unpublished pieces, a curious pattern emerged. I realized that colours frequently adorned my titles, and even when absent, the essence of colour permeated many of my verses.
Intrigued by this recurring motif, I made a spontaneous decision: why not compile a second collection? This time, a thematic exploration centred around the vibrant spectrum of colours. Thus, a new project was born—a collection of poems intricately woven together by the common thread of colour.
Within these pages lie a kaleidoscope of musings, a testament to the myriad hues that paint the canvas of our existence. Each poem a brushstroke, capturing fleeting moments and profound emotions, mirroring the boundless diversity of the universe we inhabit.
From the tranquil azure of a summer sky to the fiery blaze of autumnal foliage, from the soft blush of dawn to the velvety darkness of midnight, this collection traverses the entire spectrum of human experience.
So here it is, presented for your contemplation and enjoyment—a celebration of colour in all its splendour, a reflection of the rich tapestry of life itself. Welcome to a world where poetry and colour intertwine, inviting you to immerse yourself in the vibrant symphony of words and hues.
As a man navigating the middle-aged realm, I often find myself indulging in quintessentially middle-aged activities. Occasionally, that involves meeting up with a buddy over a couple of pints, delving into the realms of nostalgia.
It’s a scene played out by many like us.
During these sessions, we ponder the past, lamenting its perceived superiority and bemoaning the missed opportunities of today’s youth.
From these conversations emerged a stark realization, one eloquently articulated by Mark Fisher in “Capitalist Realism, Is There No Alternative.” He astutely observes that we belong to a generation sold a dream—a dream that remains unfulfilled. We were promised that hard work and dedication would pave the path to success.
And indeed, we toiled relentlessly for years. Our efforts fueled the success of others, yielding profits and prosperity—but not for us. Instead, we grapple with the harsh realities of everyday life, contending with the relentless rise in living costs, forever haunted by the spectre of homelessness and worse.
The dream was a sham, leaving us disillusioned and powerless.
This collection of poems serves as a reflection of my musings on this disheartening aspect of modern existence. While my previous works often strike a balance between darkness and optimism, such equilibrium feels inappropriate here. Consider this my equivalent of a grunge phase—a raw exploration of disillusionment.
Contained within are predominantly unpublished pieces, offering a glimpse into the depths of my disillusionment that has not been shared elsewhere.
So, crank up those goth tunes and immerse yourself in the abyss of shattered dreams.
Two new collections, varied and contrasting. One is an exploration of modern life and the broken promises of a generation, and the other is life through the lens of a myriad of colours.
The Well of Sunken Dreams
Being a middle-aged man – I do middle-aged man things. Sometimes. One is meeting with my middle-aged friend and getting nostalgic over a pint or two of beer.
Like many others.
We contemplate how things were better, how the youth of today are missing out on what we had.
Out of these conversations came a realisation, one that we found was articulated with frightening clarity by Mark Fisher in “Capitalist Realism, Is There No Alternative”. He makes the observation that we are of a generation that was sold a dream, a dream that did not come true. We were told that if we worked hard, and dedicated ourselves we would do well.
Well, we did, work hard, for many years. Blood sweat and tears make our employees successful, generating profit and success.
But not for us. We still struggle in the day-to-day reality. We fight the rising cost of living and the shadow that we’re a few bad weeks away from homelessness or worse.
The dreams were a lie. And there is nothing left we can do about it.
This collection of poems is a reflection of my thoughts about this and other darker aspects of modern life. In my other collections, I like to balance this side of my ruminations with more optimistic explorations. This did not seem appropriate here. This is my equivalent of a grunge phase.
It also contains largely previously unpublished works that have not appeared anywhere else.
Make no mistake though, this is not just a collection for grumpy old men. This also covers people of all ages and all sexes. It reflects what we all feel. And just as we men should read more works by women and come to understand a different point of view, then also I hope that some women might read this and come to understand us a little bit more.
So, stick on those goth tunes and wallow in the well of broken dreams.
The Colour of Dreams
As I immersed myself in the pages of my poetic endeavours, initially intending to curate a selection of new and mostly unpublished verses, an unexpected revelation unfolded. Leafing through the diverse tapestry of my creations, I discerned a recurrent thread—colours, vibrant and evocative, weaving through titles and themes alike.
Thus emerged the inspiration for a second collection, distinct yet intimately connected. Welcome to a poetic anthology where hues take centre stage, binding verses together with the common thread of colour. This compilation encapsulates a spectrum of thoughts and moments, mirroring the boundless variety and richness of the universe that cradles our existence.
Presented here is a journey through the kaleidoscope of emotions and experiences, inviting readers to witness the interplay of words and colours on this vibrant canvas. Stay tuned for the unveiling of the companion collection, promising another exploration of poetic landscapes beyond the realm of colour.
Unless he went made it through today. Found the strength from somewhere. Put aside his pain.
The trauma his son had suffered had not been at his hands. Logically there was no responsibility for it on his shoulders.
Logic was a weak fence against raw emotion. Emotion that told him that he had failed as a father, that the protection he was supposed to give had been lacking, just that once.
Nobody agreed with him.
That made no difference.
So, he would not compound failure with failure. This was his last chance. He would take it.
He had tried all other avenues. Therapy, prayer, medication. Nothing worked, Yet what it had done was show him the way. It had made clear the path he needed to tread.
So he took a deep breath and rose from his seat. He nodded to the doctor signalling his readiness. The doctor frowned but kept his piece. He opened the door and let him enter his son’s room.
The room was sparse, clinical. His son lay curled on top of the bedsheets, motionless. Awake but unresponsive. He did not look up or acknowledge his father’s entrance.
There was a small bedside table to the left of the bed on which sat a plastic beaker of water. The bed was positioned by the window. Sunlight tried to make an impression on the coldness of the room but failed. The only other furniture was a white chest of drawers and some empty white bookshelves.
Then there were the books.
The books, many many books, that should have rested on the shelves or strewn on the floor. An impressive collection for one so young.
They hung impossibly in the air.
He sighed. He knew what came next. It had all become familiar to him. This time though he did not avoid it. He did not flinch or try to defend himself. This time he smiled at his son.
The books flew at him. As if thrown by immense strength and anger. The hard spines whacked into his flesh like dull nails. Again and again and again. Raining pain upon his body. The books that hit him fell to the ground limply, twitched like dying flies, then were suddenly whisked up and flung again.
There was no let-up.
He could feel his body being pummelled into a bloody bruised mess. But he took it. Stood calmly, raised his arms towards his son and kept smiling. Gave all he had left to him – gave him his unconditional love. Took the punishment not meant for him.
The books whirled faster as the rage grew. Like a tornado of leather and card, they descended on him, pounded him. The pain passed over what was bearable to no longer being processable – so he no longer felt it. He knew he would not last much longer – if this continued his body would fail him. Darkness crept inwards along the edges of his eyes. He kept smiling, locked his legs and stood, arms out.
The whirl became a darkness that was trying to beat his flesh from his bones. He felt like the bones themselves were splintering beneath.
Then it stopped.
Suddenly all the books fell to the floor. Sunlight sprang into the room as if a lock had burst.
His son looked up and held out his arms for his father.
Catapults and boiled sweets Sailing boats and jam jars Watching tadpoles Playing in the woods Hunting newts Swings and roundabouts Wistful thinking For the days That never were
Swords and bows Chivalry and Justice Robbing to rich To pay the poor King’s who were not above the law And magic Ancient lore These were the stories That filled my head before bed What happened to those times?
Life these days
Seems impossible
We have to remember
These obstacles
These weights and walls
Were made by us
We just have to find the strength
To remove them
You fly the yellow and blue flag
You welcome them with open arms
This is all good
It is the least we can do
But you
Left children to drown in terror
Because they did not look like us
Their bones
Will contend you
Fires rage
But not here
Bombs fall
But not here
People starve
But not here
Only when this comfort zone
Is breached
Will we really act
But our ability to do so
Will be inadeqaute
Adrift Lost Floating Free No goals No direction No chains Just reflection Sparkling stars Burning sun Gentle waves Life undone Free Floating Lost Adrift
I am a ship Crowded into the harbour wall Anchored sound And safe But I can see the sea Beyond the gap Calling Lulling The storms come The harbour shields But still, I am tossed And battered by Uncaring waves The chain is strained The anchor holds For now So many storms I have seen How many more Before the chain breaks Setting me free Lost at sea Sailing unfettered Unmoored
Always descending, never ascending. Moving downwards, moving down. I can’t get used to this feeling Moving downwards, moving down. Is it really like this? What are we doing? Do we really want this? Is this the thing to be? The chains that pull the valves and the levers, That drive the steam through pipes of dreams.
Dream worlds falling, morning calling, Pull the chains on, shoulder the yoke. Down to business. Down to labour. Moving downwards, moving down. I don’t like this, what am I doing? I don’t really want this, what is to be? Enter the shaft that takes us downwards. The light is dimming as our dreams descend
Collaboration Is knocked out of us Systematically In the school system Filling us up instead With competition And greed Perfecting us As the ideal consumers The perfect wheels in the Machine Those who hold the levers Know Collaboration Could bring them down
If you liked this poem check out my novel – the theme of this poem is the central theme of the book – see below.
Mankind Limited
Trapped. In a world where everything is measured and control pervades every area of life, four people begin to break down. Instead, they break through the walls of deceit and propaganda and into a world of revolution.
Each, in their way, vow to overthrow the established order. They embark on a journey against the forces arraigned against them, forces of state and self-doubt.
Ultimately their paths converge on a dangerous road and the discovery of an ancient secret.
On one level this is a story about how different people react to the ever-growing and relentless pressure of everyday oppression. It explores their journeys as they are broken and rebuilt and investigates their modes and motivations for rebelling.
At another level, it is a critique on the darker side of capitalism and free markets and how that has driven us further and further away from the evolutionary advantage that gave us supremacy in the first place. It questions whether the human race has doomed itself or whether we still have the capacity to wrench ourselves from the track we have so tightly committed our society upon.
Look into the eyes of the dragon and despair. The beast is released. They thought it tame Thought it was a game Now It’s free And they will pay the consequences Of their fear
Image from Pixabay
The quote, the first line of the poem, is from my favourite film, Excalibur by John Boorman, spoken by Merlin.
The story of the impossible
The impossible climb
Save the last dance for me
While the world burns around us
I’m a believer
But I cannot believe what I see
Walk away
Never really a choice
Nights in white satin
But no knights to defend
Ignoring the suggestion again and instead, I am taking the first five random songs from a mix that my music player gave me – which is a mix of my own chosen songs and others it suggests I might like. So the five titles I interspersed with my thoughts.
Pink A delicate shade Of colour Hijacked By toy makers and marketers To smash young minds Into shape And conformity Give it back To salmon And cold autumn evenings To flushed skin And lips And artists And leather bound books And bank notes And fresh ink Pink
So the soldier walks alone beneath the starry night He has no aim but distance from the bloody fight But the war it still pursues him snapping at his heels He slips into the forest deep beyond those broken hills
O glory days Those glory days They’ve shattered and they fade They only left a rumour A shadow where they laid
So the sword is silenced with a deep and lasting chill In his heart, the war goes on the beating never still Behind the hallowed orders that laid so many low Is revealed the empty truth the sickest, cruellest blow
O glory days Those glory days They’re gone they never were So the soldier walks away from guilt that he defers
In our depths There is a repressed scream Distant Held back Leaking through As stress As inexplicable grief As depression But what that scream really is Is the child inside Yearning for escape
So it seems to me that beyond the news Beyond the web of the media spin There are places still where the only views Are battlegrounds full of unearthly din
I see the most pious places burning Where the holy words still hold high accord Where simple souls for peace are still yearning The peace that those holy words won’t afford
Yet here where reason and science abound We live comfy lives secure in our ways No bombs rain down on our manicured ground There is no revolt, no passion ablaze
There’s something wrong with this picture I see Is it really this way, can you tell me?
Scott Andrew Bailey - Author 