:: Eversong ::

:: Thursday, March 27, 2003 ::

Ages of the Eversong (Chris Turner)

In the time of ages past
A traveller came from afar,
Across hills and oceans vast
Under the watchful eye of the Hooded Star.

Now the time of ages present
The traveller comes to right our wrong,
Ere we remain existent
And all is not lost before the Eversong.

For in the time of ages to come
The traveller will chart our destiny,
But if this lonesome outcast should succumb,
All are damned to nightmarish eternity.

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This is the opening poem of a fantasy work of mine, still in writing. It's very abstract. I'm not too sure what I think of this one yet - I'm storing it here just in case I lose the scrap of paper with the original on. It's meant to be prophetic, but I doubt it'll have much meaning without the rest of the book. Incidentally, the title is "Ages of the Eversong", which you may notice is also the title of this page. I like plagirising my own work :)
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:: Plod 11:25 AM [+] ::
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If (Rudyard Kipling)

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream--and not make dreams your master,
If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build them up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much,
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son.

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One of my favourite poems. Simply wonderful.
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:: Plod 7:48 AM [+] ::
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The Proprietor of Carefully Selected Junk (Chris Turner)

Selecting quality junk is a skillful art,
And purveying it a noble cause,
A trade for the most stout of heart,
A calling for those who need no applause.

Toiling in the muck and grime,
Bringing delightful treasures to our eyes,
Sorting the hideous from the sublime,
He turns clutter into a fruitful enterprise.

Come market-day he dons his dickie-bow,
It's all suits and a smile,
No hint of his world below,
His unkempt look now most erstwhile.

And afterwards, like Jekyll and Hyde,
He's back among his warrens of gunk,
Finding and restoring with pride,
That next piece of carefully selected junk.

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This poem was inspired by my father, who is a professional antique dealer. I wanted to poke a little fun at his trade, contrasting the world I see at home - endless piles of clutter stacked in cardboard boxes - with the world in which it is all taken to. Honest to God, if anyone ever saw the inside of the antiques trade and where most stuff comes from, they'd never touch it with a barge pole :)
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:: Plod 3:35 AM [+] ::
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Sleeping Off Insomnia (Chris Turner)

Tick, Tock, Tick, Tock
Ever onwards goes the clock,
Bang, Crash, Bang, Crash,
Damn the neighbours midnight bash,
Boom, Whump, Boom, Whump,
Sliding into downward slump,
Jingle, Clang, Jingle, Clang,
Mind be silent - hurtful prang,
Thump, Pain, Thump, Pain,
Never sleep again.

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Just a short. I fancied experimenting with a bit of repetition and sound in my work, and chose an insomniac as my subject. What goes through the mind of someone who cannot sleep? Do they blame their surroundings or themselves? Can they think properly at all, or are they reduced to simple, brutal, primitive cognitive functions? All these are little questions I considered while writing this poem. I hope it captured a mood for the reader, especially the pounding rhythm. Is the narrator suffering from a headache, or a far worse pain?
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:: Plod 5:14 PM [+] ::
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On the Values of a Good Book (Chris Turner)

You can find great comfort in a book, my friend,
And read of happy tales and deeds of nobility,
Or you can be moved by sadness and pain,
Or chuckle merrily at comic hilarity.

Non-fiction is good for wise owls,
Bestsellers are good for chatty types,
Classics are good for the educated souls,
And poetry is best for pretentious types.

But above all, my friend, a book needs passion,
A product of the artist's internal fighting,
The craftsman's touch seeping through every word,
Because, my friend, the only thing better than reading is writing.

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More a piece of doggerel than a poem, I scribbled this down in the early hours of the morning. Just some thoughts of mine on literature, but I don't like it much. I really just wanted to stick in that middle verse!
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:: Plod 6:57 AM [+] ::
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The Man on Platform Five (Chris Turner)

The man on platform five doesn't have much to do,
He just sits and stares at passing trains,
His eyes staring vacantly in the distance.
Trains chunter past him, he doesn't bat an eye,
Crowds of busy people bump into him,
All to busy to notice the man on platform five.
His anorak is creased and dirty,
His hair invisible under his tweed flat cap,
And all around him a disconnected swirling world.
But this doesn't seem to bother the man on platform five,
His silence is his world, inaction is his pleasure,
And his thoughts are his comforts.
When all around is hurry, bustle and noise,
It seems strange that anyone could find the time to be the man on platform five.

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I scribbled this poem in my scrapbook after observing an old man at Sheffield station. He was totally lost in his own world, seemingly oblivious to everything that was happening around him. I wondered what was going through his mind, but then simply decided to write what I saw instead.
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:: Plod 6:52 AM [+] ::
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