Poems from the Dark Side - Form vs Free Form

Dark Connections 

Take me to your dark place, 

that database within your psyche 

where memory has no face, 

just vague guilty connection 

to obsession, 

paranoid delusion, 

combining of separate events 

meaningful 

malevolent 

coincidence. 

Give voice to fear 

peel back the layers, 

ride it on through 

to the end. 

No harm will come 

if you harm none. 

Ride it through, 

until the lesson’s through. 

Ride it through. 

Now Rattle Your Bones

Shelter upwind from clouded memories,

away from where demons of the past swell,

lurking downwind from future melodies,

straining to hear what only time will tell.

As warm breeze dwindles dead and time stagnates,

past demons rise to play with lost marbles.

Sanity is swindled as mind gyrates

in time to music, offbeat and garbled.

But as wind picks up, bone branches they sway,

rattling dances tenderising gristle,

winding the smell of rancid meat away,

fiend song whittled to faint fetid whistle.

When past demons fade downwind between clouds,

sing a new song loud and dance in the now.

The Battle Between Form and Free Form

How do you decide what form to use when writing a poem? Do you choose a form before you begin to write it? Which is better - free form or form? Where can I learn about the different forms?

You don't really decide on form when writing poetry, it seems to me that the poem decides that for you, which was the case for the two poems above.

Try writing two poems on the same theme. For the first poem, choose the form and then write your first draft. For the second, write your first draft and then look for a form that would suit, editing where necessary. The second way is best in my opinion, but there's always exceptions.

Look at how your draft sits on the page, check for a natural rhythm within the flow of the words and exploit that - it should take little editing and it should never be forced. If you choose the form first and then write the poem you'll probably find that the poem becomes stagnant and unnatural upon re-reading - it should flow off the tongue with the natural rhythms of your language.

Sometimes, no matter how hard you look, you will not find a traditional or modern form that the poem will edit into - if this is the case, then create your own form, re-edit the original draft, cutting out anything that jars with the flow of the poem, check the syllables on each line, let it fall into a rhythm of it's own, it can rhyme if you like, try mid-line rhymes, try no rhymes at all.

You may just create the next popular form in modern poetry, failing that, you may have just written a kick-arse free-form poem.

Play around with form as much as you like - it's your poem. Try taking a traditional form and mutate it into something else. Free form works just as well as form, so the battle would be a dead heat in my opinion.

Experimentation is key.

Learn about different forms on these useful links:

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/learning/glossary-terms?category=forms-and-types

http://www.poetryarchive.org/glossary/form

http://www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/types.html

The Forest: raw draft to final poem - an exercise in editing.

Transcribed Notebook Extract:


…Chilled, the trees reach to the sky above me, spreading their roots of natural knowledge throughout the ground below.
What ancient beasts of unknown origin have passed through these now less than swollen forests?
Memories of an ancient time vibrate through the echoes of a goat’s voice, a time when all beings could remember their connection to everything else.
The rain gently washes away technology for a few peaceful moments.
Freedom is here; I must remember to thankfully receive this ancient power of liberty and keep it with me everywhere I go as my soul may share such tranquility.
The wolf was here once, a power animal for someone nearby.
Over there, high in the trees, the bird regards humanity with welcoming song and unseen eyes.
I feel as a guest to nature amongst these trees. Branches stretched out in greeting and acceptance, allowing us to breathe in gentle harmony.
In my heart I still run joyfully free with the ancient power animals whose spirits remain. I can fly with the birds if my mind is softened and willing; they would accept me with open wings and happy tears when I’m ready to join in their harmonies…
-Written in amongst the trees of Snowdonia.

The Finished Poem:

The Forest

An ancient goat’s voice echoed through the remaining trees.
It bleated a message of natural interconnected memories,
Liberated tranquility,
Disconnection from technology.


A vibration in decaying undergrowth
Introduced a power animal’s presence;
The maternal spirit of a she-wolf,
Guiding descendants of her crescent-moon killers.


A guest to Nature,
Humanity can run free in her forest.
We can fly with the birds
If our minds are softened and willing.
They would accept humanity with open wings
If we could all just sing with Earth’s gentle harmonies.

The first draft of a poem is usually an instinctual process, it flows from your body's centre to the pen in your hand like automatic writing; in the case of The Forest this was certainly the case.

Sometimes the original draft stands well on it's own as a stream-of-consciousness poem and in many cases it serves well to leave it as is and not edit in the slightest.

However, sometimes that first draft can be a little too raw, overly wordy and obscure to the point where you'll probably be the only one to understand it.

Editing is a very difficult skill for a poet to use - it can feel like slicing away pieces of your very soul.

The way I like to think about it is that editing a poem is like putting chainsaw to ice to produce myriad sculptures that melt slowly into soul cocktails supped by the poet and their readers.

I Punched Buddha

I Punched Buddha

I punched Buddha this morning,

hope this doesn't give me bad karma.

Sitting Bull stood witness to the mishap,

spear in one hand, peace pipe in the other.

Frozen Idols of forgotten faced Gods

didn't move a muscle in response

for they too were statues

like the Buddha who tasted my fist,

all symbols depicted as people

with liquid lives solidified,

propped up for others to lie

prostrate in herd mentality,

in fear of mortality,

pieces of broken hearts offered

to those who were flesh and blood,

fractured souls collected and frozen

in sacrifice to show faith

in Gods made of plastic,

base metals and wood.

I punched Buddha this morning,

it was an accident,

meaningful coincidence,

Freudian slip of the hand,

not meant to cause offence.

In recompense I offer this:

It's safe to seek divinity

in another's footsteps,

it's a path well trodden,

cobbled and tarmacked,

leading to universal truths

shrouded in words and symbols.

The path I choose is equally divine,

no cobble or footstep

has passed this way for all time,

at least none that can be detected,

for it is overgrown and forested,

almost directionless,

with a divine knowledge

that this is the way

I'm heading.

It didn't start with punching Buddha,

but that felt like tolling

the bell from a different ship

of fools in the distance.

Why did I punch Buddha? He's a chilled out guy after all, not really the sort of bloke who'd be partial to or deserving of fisticuffs.

However, it is a true story, I really did punch Buddha, well, a statue of the dude anyway. It was an accident. He sits on my windowsill in my cave of a flat in Oxton, Wirral. He meditates next door to a statue of Sitting Bull.

I was sitting there on my sofa ignoring something crap on the TV screen while facebooking away, wanting to write something new and wondering why I had writer's block. The sun was shining through the window onto my computer screen, so I went to close the curtains, lost my grip and actually punched poor Buddha square on the jaw. He hasn't got a glass jaw thankfully, I think it's some kind of clay-like material - anyways it didn't break, but I sat back down and thought

fuck, what if there really is something in that karma thing after all? I just punched Buddha, I'm screwed!

Then I wrote the poem.

I wouldn't say I'm a religious man, I believe in my own thing. I happen to think that organised religion tends to be corrupt and hierarchical to a point where it doesn't really take into consideration the needs and the inherent divinity of the individual and everything else within that individual's universe.

Instead of being a means to set people free on their own path and their own belief system, organised religion sets boundaries where there should be none. It institutionally seeks to control the belief system of each individual so that we all conform to a particular way of being and it seeks to eradicate individuality and humanity's ability to come up with our own set of beliefs.

The Inner Critic and The ‘Hook’

My confidence was in danger of being taken over by self-doubt once more. I was surrounded by some great writers and performers who had much more talent than I felt I had. Negativity was bearing down upon my writing hand, making the pen heavy with stagnant ink.

The best way to boost my waning confidence was to go to the open floor poetry night to perform.
Before I went on, my inner critic kept telling me that I was not a natural performer, too controversial, too obscure, too arrogant.

My awareness of the staring audience seemed more heightened than usual, setting me on edge. I held up my printed poetry as a paper shield, stuttering the introductions and refusing to listen to my own voice as it projected the poetry.

After generous applause I returned to my seat in quiet introspection, attempting to listen to the other poets but only hearing my inner critic’s mocking voice.

They hated it, you stumbled over two lines. You were too quiet and showed no feeling or personality. The guy at the back wants to give you a good kicking.

The reassurance of other performers helped to quieten that inner critic and remind me that I was a good writer, still in development.

One guy reminded me that some people won’t like the poetry and some will, it’s all down to personal preference. He maintained that some of my poetry had the all-important ‘hook’ to get the listener’s attention.
I think the ‘hook’ is also an important part of written poetry and fiction. It can be an object, a person, a situation or a number of other things that the poem or story revolves around, acting like the keystone of a building.

Bad Power Trip

World leaders, take an ayahuasca trip

into collective tribal memories,

forget yourself more with each noxious sip,

vomit forth images as yet unseen:

the alligator man rips at his skin

to reveal your face, reptile mind within,

but still human, emotions wild, like rice

poured from your hands into mouths hot with spice,

our mouths spitting your lies into your ears,

shrinking your head into a tiny sphere,

like the earth in a universal truth,

spinning stories that make no sense in soup

sipped from the bitter ayahuasca cup,

foul tasting pictures of the world ripped up.

The Poet

New poem on what it is to be a poet...

The Poet

It's like ink flows from body, murky textures
of energy transmogrified into dark words,
surfing page lines, fulfilling the need to release...

But then something magic,
healing of soul, feeling
the four humours return to balance in the old ways,
reminding why poets and shaman are the same breed.

Stop scratching surface of page with pen nib,
read back layers that were peeled away
within and between words of black ink...

Discover the true magic of poetry,
all that pain leaked onto page,
transformed into beauty and wonderment,
even the most murky of metaphors joined

to make stained glass images of stunning forest nymphs
on windows through which the world is glimpsed.