Wednesday, 24 September 2014

Ensnared, a sonnet by Adam Common, poet

I cannot spell the words I want to write.
Cannot express the truth of my own heart.
My thoughts apparent, lay within my sight,
But float beyond the limits of my art.
  I suppose that such is love; a tempting pearl,
  That draws the mind up close in to its trap,
  And lost within the glory and the swirl,
  Its caught and captured in a sudden snap.
Inside this shell is warmth, and tenderness,
Embroiling comfortably around the core,
Leaving the bearer never feeling less,
And at the same time always wanting more.
 Inadequate and poor these words may be,
 But filled with worth to those ensnared like me.

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Tuesday, 2 September 2014

Imperfect People, a poem



What such a life will do to such imperfect people,
Carving its lines across them, like they were clay,
All malleable and soft; so easily changed.
So easily reversed from shining to shade.

I feel weak. I feel worried and worked.
I feel your honest hand on my strings,
Plucking and playing by instinct alone.
I feel worthless and lost. Guilty.
Ineffectual, with idle hands
That perform no fruitful task.

I want to act. I want to change something,
Or do that which none would ever ask;
Like today was a day fifteen years past,
When no life existed to stay my hand,

And

And I could drop everything; my life, my friends,
My world straight in to the sea, and let it sink away
Just so their was nothing left to focus on,
But a fearful friend facing that tragedy
That no burdened soul, no matter which,
Should ever encounter alone.

This is not this. This is not then. This is not them.
I repeat like a mantra, but the strings keep ringing.
The sleep evades me, and the grey is ever greying.
What such a life will do to such imperfect people.


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Sunday, 22 June 2014

Triversen #1, a poem by Adam Common

You choleric breath offends me;
Twists once happier guts
Around its vicious screws.

Your relentless mard-arsed stare
Burns only at the walls,
And creeps heat through the edges.

Fidgeting work hewn fingers
Plays tiny little moves
In a pointless, losing game.

Daylight quickly fails.
Sentiment follows the sun,
Vanishing beyond the horizon.

Four in the morning sprints close.
Bundled quilt between us.
I sense your eyes still open.

Nothing good comes of silence.
Our apologies rankle and itch,
Bothering our stubborn bones.

Exhaustion leads to sleep.
Dreams of a phantom always;
A promise meant to keep.

Morning light repairs all wounds.
The bitter engine out of gas, so
We're back to smiles and kisses.

We heal strong, once our vexing love
Has blown an angry load
That turns waning days to ash.


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Friday, 20 June 2014

Click, a poem by Adam Common, poet

The night ends with each sombre click;
I am blighted; hung up on, sad and sick.

They tumble around the tenebrous muck
That clouds the evening; giggling kobolds,
grave goblins all gathered among my junk.

There, you doze. Right there, swimming in it.
Madness abundant, and you're sleeping as if
Nothing is happening, because
Nothing is happening, and I find that
So hard to understand.

Your fingers curl around the sheets,
And your breath comes deep and heavy;
Growing peace from peace
Like it's so simple to do,
Like tiredness means closing your eyes
Can make it all go away.

They twirl.
One of them laughs suddenly.
I jump.

My brow is plowed earth cresting a rise,
Mouth pressed and pursed in to the mattress.
The tingle and ache. The cold air.
The cringe inducing touch of wet hair on
My back, my neck, my face, my thought.
The all-overs leak all over me.

My stomach criss-crossed with the map
Of creased and crumpled sheets.
Still, nothing is happening, because
Nothing is happening, and I find that
So hard to understand.

They tumble around the joyless dusky mire,
That shades the morning, cackling gremlins,
Simpering sprites, digging through my clothes.

The morning comes with a sombre click,
And I am sleeping; exhausted, sad and sick.

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Thursday, 3 April 2014

Design, a poem by Adam Common

Now, as forever, I am covetous.
Your every look;
Your every touch, is precious,
And you are mine.

I am entitled to your attention,
And you are dear;
Close to my heart in the way:
That is darkest.
That is sweetest.
That is divine.

Now, as forever, I am close-fisted.
I don't want to share...
I agonise your absense.
Hate the lost time.

I am entitled to your allegiance,
And you are true;
Pure in my heart in the way:
That is blameless.
That is brightest.
That is most kind.

Now, as forever, I am dependant.
Needful and arid...
Fruitless, failed and unfair,
But to your mind...

I'm as worthy as I am tremendous,
And I am yours;
Prime to your heart in the way:
That is crucial.
That is cloudless.
That is most fine.

So now, and for always, I'm happy,
Joyful and light;
Since for all of my sorrow,
You remain all mine.

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Monday, 10 February 2014

Frogs, a Lovecraft inspired poem by Adam Common, poet

Nice things include sunshine and flowers,
Whose beams and petals can be poisonous
To both men and frogs.

Bubbling skin presents in the first case,
The light of day anathema to our lives,
Proof that open sky rejects us all,
Without preamble or prejudice
Shining on through matt or glossy skin alike.

In the second, the pretty leaves tempt,
Flexing those skin-like cups in mockery,
Welcoming us to touch. To taste. To swallow.
She mines the bowel, growing roots that corrupt,
Branching out her death elegantly.

This way, I appreciate my enemy,
His glazed, inhuman eyes familiar
Through our twice shared vulnerabilities.
Somehow, it allows me to kill him better,
Knowing just how very alike we are.

Nice things include sunshine and flowers,
Whose beams and petals can be poisonous
To both men and frogs.


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Tuesday, 4 February 2014

Dirty Look, a poem in triolet form, by Adam Common, poet

I wish you would soften your stare,
So its sharp edges would not cut;
People might see how much you care.
I wish you would soften. Your stare,
All fury, chops through anxious air,
Hotter, thicker, blacker than soot.
I wish you would soften your stare,
So it's sharp edges would not cut.

Monday, 3 February 2014

Excerpts from a diary, a Lovecraftian short story by Adam Common


August 11th 2005
First entry. My Doctor suggested I give journaling a try to deal with my more complicated thoughts.

47 hours and three flights later, I'm finally aboard a seaplane to Atherton Island, which is somewhere about one third of the way between Papua New Guinea and Kyushu. I’m heading out this way to run a fishing concern owned (and mostly ignored) by Hank Marsh's father. Must remember to drop Hank a line once I'm settled in to thank him for the opportunity and for putting in a good word. God knows he doesn't owe me anything after all that happened. It is far better treatment from him than I deserve. The thought does occur to me that he may be sending me all this way just to get me as far from Massachusetts, and subsequently him, as possible.
I’m not really sure what to expect out here. The only information I’ve been presented with is that I'll be running a group of three wet fish trawlers, manned by twenty two of the island locals. I'm expecting the worst to be honest. As previously mentioned, Hank's father, Everett, isn't really interested in the old family business, and Hank told me that this particular arm, (alongside the other operations external to the United States) have been neglected for a good while. I’m going to give it the old college try regardless. No matter what, this is a fantastic opportunity for me, when you consider the details of my discharge from the Navy, and I really wouldn’t like to let Hank or his father down after all they’re doing for me.
Writing this is a lot more awkward that I thought it would be. I have a feeling this kind of therapy isn’t going to work for me.
August 15th 2005
Color me surprised. Quite unpleasantly surprised. The island is a decrepit mess. Many of the employees are run down, useless old men, who are more interested in drinking than fishing. Excepting one, they’re also uniformly lazy and unmotivated. Sadly, the one employee who does show any promise probably speaks as much English as the rest; around fourteen words. If we did have a method of communication, perhaps I’d have a chance at finding a kindred spirit. As it stands, I’m feeling much more isolated out here around all these people than I ever did locked up in my apartment in Boston.
The ships are leaky rust-buckets, with none of the modern equipment you’d see in general circulation on any modern fishing operation. The largest vessel, which hold a crew of 9, takes on water at an alarming rate, and so has only been used recently for incredibly short trips. It’s incredibly cost inefficient, so I’ve pulled it from the roster indefinitely, until we can afford to budget the repairs. This means several of the men are without work until I can get it running again. C’est la vie.
In conclusion, my first three days on the job have been as depressing and soul-destroying an experience as I could possibly imagine. As such, I have decided to continue chronicling my experiences, mostly so that I can have some intelligent conversation with the only person here that I have anything in common with. Me.
Suppose I should actually write something about my condition, since that is the point. I am, of course, still having the nightmares, and hearing the nightly knocking that isn’t really there. I guess moving all the way across the world won't keep that memory from my doorstep.

I still suspect that Hank saw the same things I did. He never explained why he’d seemed to be in a much worse state than me initially following our encounter. He was holed up in the infirmary even longer than I was, suffering from shock, ghostly pale and utterly speechless. However his denial of the fact is absolute. Sometimes, I wish he would admit to it, and share more about how it must have affected him. It would go some way to making me feel like I’m not entirely mad. Is that cruel to say? I regret writing it, but it's here now, and in pen. I honestly wouldn't wish the dreams I have on anybody. There. Fixed.
August 16th 2005

Not all doom and gloom after all. I contacted Colin Burns back in Innsmouth. He runs the operation there (very successfully) for Everett Marsh, and he's my immediate supervisor (though I'm not expecting a visit anytime soon, ha!) He laid out my rights and responsibilities (which are basically whatever I want to do, and whatever there is to do respectively) and gave me a fairly large budget all things considered to fix up the trawlers as best I can. Altogether it was a (probably incredibly expensive) two-hour conversation that was really quite fulfilling. He’s a good guy. He wants a timeline and action plan within the fortnight. I have some thoughts about trying to pick up some able-bodied and experienced fishermen from the other less fortunate islands nearby. They will probably be more grateful for the work than the layabouts I have to choose from here. We certainly have the space. Colin couldn’t give me an answer as to why so much of the village is abandoned, but I’m thinking it’s probably something to do with the work drying up. Looking off-island won't be a popular move with the remaining locals, especially the ones I’ll be replacing, but to hell with them. Maybe they'll try harder and give me an excuse to hire them back.
August 19th 2005

Turns out the one good worker I mentioned before, Afasa, speaks some halfway decent English. He also plays a mean game of backgammon and is in the process of taking every penny I have. Goes a long way to not making me feel so utterly alone here.
May 27th 2006
I can't believe I've filled this whole journal. I picked up a three-pack of Moleskine notebooks with nice black covers last time I was in New Zealand on business just so I can keep this up. I'd be lying if I said I wasn’t going to miss my ratty, dog eared, dollar store notebook, but the world turns ever onwards. Reading back, there’s quite a lot of self-loathing, depressing, and frankly overdramatic tripe in here. Writing about this whole experience has helped tremendously, and despite my initial concerns, I am enjoying the practice immensely. It seems Doctor Chinnery was right.
August 11th 2006
I feel quite bad for not writing anything in two weeks. This is really my first spare minute. Look at me making excuses, like an inanimate object would care. I am supposed to be mad mind you.

Today is the one-year anniversary of my arrival, and despite my initial impression of the island, it’s not all that bad. Dare I say, I even like it here now, though that has much to do with the changes that I’ve made to the operation here. The men, led by Afasa, made me a cake to celebrate the occasion. It had pineapple, which I hate, but I ate it anyway to be polite. It’s the thought that counts.
In the last entry I mentioned that I’d managed to pick up two more small trawlers from an operation that went bust a couple of islands over. I’m not even going to try to spell it. It’s the one with the burnt down lighthouse. You know. That one. I also hired back six of the locals I’d let go of last year. They are good men. They just weren’t used to having structure. In my heart, I did regret letting them go, so I'm glad I could do something for them now. Anyway, I think I was right in the end. Now the operation is going well and they can see me hiring from off-island, they're really grateful for the opportunity, and the last two weeks have seen them producing some really solid results.
In bad news, Charlie got in to a fight with Martin again last night; third time in as many weeks. Martin came away with a busted nose, all because their boat is called the Oz, and Martin, insufferable Aussie that he is can’t help rubbing it in the Kiwi crewmembers faces. I’m not going to release Charlie for it. He seemed genuinely contrite, and even apologized directly to Martin in the end, but one of them is going to have to be transferred to the Carmen.
We’ve also made good progress on fixing up the village following the storm. Amazing what thirty-five men, some fresh paint and a lot of corrugated steel can do for the aesthetic. The village is already looking much sharper than it has since I first arrived.
October 19th 2008
The big news today is that one of our trawlers, the Oz, has gone dark. The men on that boat are all experienced sailors, and Terry, the mechanic, is honestly the very best I could find. The GPS puts it about 80 nautical miles to the east, with little to no movement. Makes me think the engines are out, but we can't even make radio contact.

I’m really quite nervous, though I’m sure it’s nothing. I had the nightmare again last night, and it’s put me in quite a paranoid mood. I keep looking at the sky and seeing that same sickly yellow color it was when I saw the city out in the sea. I know it’s nothing really; just some bad weather and an old boat behaving exactly as it always does.

On the way out there on the tug out with Martin and Afasa as I write this. Really hope the guys are alright. They're the most efficient team we have, and I like most of them. Except Charlie. Charlie's a little shit.

---
I am not feeling good about any of our current situation. We got out to the Oz, which is in fine condition, despite the fact that the whole crew is missing. Did you note my sarcasm there? It also isn't running and the electronics are out. Martin panicked (of course) and immediately suggested piracy, because that's the kind of thing that Martin does. I think it’s much more likely that they got picked up, and are back at the island already. If that’s the case, I’ll certainly be having words with them. Leaving a ship is a big no-no.

Disconcertingly, we hooked the Oz up to the tug and started to make our way back, but after a couple of minutes, our own electronics ceased operation, and shortly after that, we were also suddenly and inexplicably motionless. Martin sent up a couple flares in the last few hours, and Afasa is below decks trying to get us going again, but so far, neither action has seen any result. Perhaps some kind of electrical field is causing the problems? I don’t know. I’m not a scientist or a mechanic.

---
We're turning in for the night. Afasa is taking watch. We all agree that there is something fishy going on. Get it? Fishy? I'm a riot.

I haven’t mentioned this to the others, mostly because I don’t want to scare Martin, but we are very close to Atherton at the moment, and nobody has followed our distress flares. I’m starting to think very scary things.
October 25th 2008
It’s been days since we got back from the Oz. It's taken me some time to process what happened out there. I will describe events as best I can.
I woke the next morning at around 0800 by the dense smell of what seemed like stagnant water left still for many years. My initial grogginess and disgust at the smell soon gave way to a deeper worry as Martin was meant to wake me to take watch from 0400 until 0700. I headed out on to the deck to find Afasa shrugging his shoulders at me with a wet towel wrapped around his nose and mouth to block out the smell. Afasa is an experienced fisherman, used to their fouler smells, so when I write that he found the scent unbearable, you can appreciate that this particular odor was beyond the pale. It was coming from the sea itself, which had taken on a sickly hue overnight.

Afasa informed me rather alarmingly that Martin was gone, and the Oz had entirely vanished, despite being connected firmly to the tug. Upon inspection, we realized our chains had been unceremoniously sheared by some silent force while we slept. Concerning Martin, Afasa had woken him at 0100 for his watch and taken himself to bed. That was the last either of us had seen of our companion. We theorized that Martin could have taken the boat, or perhaps he was correct about their being pirates abroad. If it was piracy, why would they leave us? We have tens of thousands of dollars of equipment on the tug, and I'm positive pirates would make great use of the boat itself. The theory didn’t make much sense, but I didn’t want to believe anything else. I certainly didn’t want to consider the dreadful alternative; that my dreams and memories were coming to collect on the debt of that unwanted, dark revelation several years ago.
We surrendered to the concept that we needed to get away from where we were, and swiftly. I fired off another flare, on the off chance we would be rescued, and Afasa went back to his work in the engine room. Three hours later we got joy. Still no radio or electronics, but the motor was running and we could move. We set course for Atherton.
Unfortunately, Atherton wasn't where it should be, and the smell hadn’t diminished. It lingered in the nostrils, adding to the despair I felt at my false hopes being dashed. Of course, we had drifted somewhat, but the sea where we were becalmed had been mostly unmoving for those previous 24 hours, and remained that way, still, stagnant and reeking. As experienced sailors both, without electronics to aid us, we knew how to make use of more primitive equipment to find our way.

In our failure, bafflement and growing concern, we headed in a general south-westerly direction for a dense clump of larger islands we knew to be nearby. I knew in my heart it was for naught. I knew we would find no land, because I knew there was no land to be found, save one. We were lost at sea, and utterly without hope of aid. We drifted for days, rationing the food we had, and firing off our dwindling supply of flares occasionally in vain and empty dreams of salvation.
The days were a haze of rambling, increasingly confused decisions, and rapidly depleting wills. Feelings of illness and disorientation harassed us, preventing any real work on trying to get our equipment operational again, and despite our plentiful supplies (something I insisted on for every ship) we were constantly thirsty. Despite all of the, the evenings confounded us worse. They came unexpectedly late for October and the stars above us were all wrong. I ever felt like I was in some distant, constructed place, similar, but nothing like the oceans and skies I had known in my life.

Afasa was increasingly terrified by our situation, and the effect wasn't uncontagious. On the fourth night since the disappearance of the Oz, our engine cut out again, and Afasa immediately became more insensible and distraught than I had ever seen any man. He spoke of an ancient sea-god his father had told him stories about as a child. It haunted the seas near Atherton like a ghost, and was as vast, ancient and powerful as the moon. It hungered for souls, and cherished those of fishermen more than any others. The people on the islands would make sacrifice to this dead god twice a year, sending their sons and daughters on boats that would always unerringly return, crewless and rimed with frost. Some of the other nearby islands would try to resist, but without sufficient sacrifice in his name, he would send his ghastly spawn to take sailors bodies and souls as replacement nourishment. In the face of these assaults, the islanders would always relent.

As Afasa spoke, he became more and more frantic in the telling, his eyes more and more manic. Eventually, he fell face down in to a mumbling, babbling and intense fit, having convinced himself that the spectral sea-god was coming for us. I tried to restrain him, to help him calm down, but to no avail. Afasa is a large and uncommonly strong man. He shoved me on to the deck and pinned me. It was then I heard his nonsense babble clearly. The words from his lips were familiar to me and dreadful to hear in the context of my waking hours. I’d heard them a million times before in my dreams, but nothing could prepare me for my nightmare becoming real. Ia! Ia! Cthulhu Ftaghn!
Ph'nglui Mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn!
My sanity collapsed in on itself. I began to cry. With the full weight of Afasa upon me, his hands closing around my throat, I felt myself falling away from the world. It was real. It was all real. My head swam. I couldn’t breathe, but I daren’t struggle. They’d come for me. It was okay. I realized I’d been waiting for this for years; ever since my first encounter with the horrifying reality that resided just beneath all I had came to regard as true.

Then, as sudden as a breath, Afasa’s hands were gone from my throat. I gasped for air and rolled to my knees. I threw up on the floor. It was a rank, salt-water mess, with no substance. Then the drums, and the dull, muffled bells, close and loud. I looked up and saw only those ancient spires, once spied on a distant rock, but now looming high before me; two jagged shards impaling the ochre sky. I heard the men there, if they could still be called that, chanting their nightmarish words in croaked, terrible voices repeated so many times in my head since the first time I’d heard them. I collapsed and knew nothing else.
I woke in a hospital bed in Catarman, being tended to by a pretty Filipino nurse with a penchant for extreme pillow fluffing. I'd have flirted more if I wasn't in a psychotic state of denial. I’d apparently suffered weeks of exposure and dehydration, and had been found alone, drifting off the eastern coast of Northern Samar on the 19th of October; the same day we had left to bring the Oz back to port.
Colin visited and filled me in with an incredible lack of information. The Oz and her crew are still missing, as is Afasa. Despite those last moments of madness, I am incredibly sad for his loss, for I am positive he is as dead as all the others. Poor Martin turned up back on Atherton Island in his bed. He had drowned somehow, but being a small island out in the middle of nowhere, the strange death seems to be going mostly unremarked. The GPS signal we had received is gone, and it occurs to me that if the electronics on the Oz were out, there was no way we'd have been receiving a steady transmission in the first place. Colin had a lot of questions, for which I gave him very few curt answers. What I could tell him would only get me committed.
October 27th 2008
Two men in dark suits with quite terrifyingly unblinking eyes came to visit me very briefly today. They provided no identification, and seemed to know many unshared details of both of my experiences with the city in the sea. They told me that there would be severe consequences associated with my sharing of any said information with the world at large, then furnished me with the details of a bank account in the United States, created in my name. Finally they told me that as long as I remained silent, I could expect no more communication from them.
What has my life become? I’m moving back to Boston, and I’ll be getting there solely by plane, train and automobile. I swear that as long as I live, I will never set foot on the deck of a boat again.


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Friday, 31 January 2014

The Broken Back, a poem by Adam Common, poet

And there she was,
Resting on the precipice,
My broken backed beauty,
The stuffing slashed from her seats.

My poor lady,
Her burned out husk invaded;
Stolen away, raped and burned,
And left face down in a river.

She'd drowned.

I'd wept for her.
Knees were grass stained for the trek,
The same amble of the lost
That men often walk alone.

Then I returned.
To find her gone, reclaimed
By the city, the river,
That all at once broke her down.

I cried.

To feel her curves,
That rough leather, cold metal,
Steady, assuring voice
I would never hear again.

And so I raged.
Death to my pale enemy,
That thief in the bastard night.
I'd love to take your love from you!

That's all.

What more to do?
She lays as scrap, broken backed,
In some depository,
Buried with her dead brothers,

And I live on,
Rusting and cracking for her,
Rolling downhill on flat tyres,
That never quite leave the road.


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Monday, 27 January 2014

Seed of Destruction, a Lovecraft inspired poem by Adam Common, poet

On my laurels in this awful place of death,
Destiny enquires what I intend,
And should hear clearly as I gladly respond
"To hell with all you chose to predestine."
She listens not, directs my attention
To the right, the north, the open, starry skies,
Where the wind smells strong of all the rotting things
That have presided long beneath its open eyes.

Watch my hope erode from that great gaze.
How I raise my fist, my crimson hand,
To unlock them from their vast and creaking chains,
To hone their teeth upon the bones of man.
I must resist the urging of my blood,
Which screams for me to bend beneath its will,
That will of mine to have a weaker heart,
And dedicate myself to powers ill.

But fate is not my master. Never was.
I tear my freedom from her iron curls,
And, blood or not, I do the better thing,
And burn this horrid place right off the world.
The pop of covert tendrils fills my heart,
Beside the screams of dreadful, hidden things.
The fires cleanse, the flame doth purify,
And my salvation rides on blazing wings.

The north still calls, from horrid polar black;
Those deepest seas where evil things reside.
They wait for me to free them from their moors,
My hand will ache until I dare oblige.
But never will I heed their bleating hails,
Those empty hearted goats who wait beyond.
I'd better serve by crafting my own fate,
A poisoned trek to send my spirit on.

Read my other Lovecraft inspired poetry by clicking on THIS LINK 


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Friday, 24 January 2014

Deep Cold, a poem by Adam Common, poet

 Deep is
The light of
The Autumn
 Sun that
Spills between
Our two
 Lungs.

 Static
The time as
You shift, breathe,
 Allow
The stuff of
Warm dreams
 Out.

 Cold as
The white night,
Snow capped and
 Bleak as
The roofs that
Line our
 Street.

 Thin now,
The veil of
My dark and
 Deep eve.
Static so
Not to
 Wake

 You so
Soft beneath
The cold of
 Sheets and
Me so warm
Outside
 Them.


Inspired by looking at THIS PICTURE
by favourite Twitter bod @Diana605


Posted to Open Link Night at dVerse





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A Better Heart, a sonnet by Adam Common, poet

Better the heart that does not beat at all,
Than one that beats and bleeds for fickle love,
Whose wild attentions swing and glide and fall,
Like blind funambulists at play above.
Such barbs of cruelty spill from perfect lips,
That do not know the taste of contrite word,
And so resentment forms from grains and drips,
Compounded by the blame so oft inferred.
How dry the earth we walk when on this path,
Bereft of life and joy and kinder things;
And wishful are the thoughts we choose to have
While every moment hurts and burns and stings.
Better the heart that does not beat at all,
Free of the warmth that has me so enthralled.

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Monday, 20 January 2014

Asylum - a Lovecraft inspired poem by Adam Common, poet

He looks on me with mirrored eye,
Smooth & black to spite the sky.
This moon. This empty nighted moon;
It's light, a cold and pleasing boon.
Such a gift he kindly gave
With no expectation due.
His tendrils reaching from His grave,
Damp with evening's oozy dew.

Barred windows casting silhouettes.
My mind too weak to bend them yet
His voice bids me sit, and stay a while,
Sweet words through broad and lipless smile.
"You wait. The stars will soon be right,
And I will break your spirit free,
To hunt your prey through blissful night,
A blackened, loyal hound for me."

The rousing scent, the earth's blood boils,
Hands pull me through it's stale soil,
And help me cross it's russet pools
To find my bread in a hive of fools,
All naive to His dreadful will;
The glory waiting to be found
Beneath the mud, the shadowed hill,
Where he sleeps in cool and lifeless ground.

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Sunday, 19 January 2014

Broken, a poem by Adam Common, poet

The trickling summer.
The wasting season.
The sorry moments sad without a cause or reason.
The screw renews its turn;
The blazing sunshine goes,
Glory passed me by wearing winters bones.

And my elation turn to sodden fear,
Sink my feet in to earth turned soft by tears.

How to turn this day
In to something kind?
Feels like peace and quiet are difficult to find.
The screw renews its turn,
And there is only she.
I stand unmoving here, her arms surrounding me.

So what's the point of this life,
Or even living.
Nothing changes for me.
I can see it there,
Unbroken stare,
Fearful but strong.
Tell me I don't want to die.

Because I think I might.
I think I might.
I think I'll drop.
I think my tired heart might choose to cease and stop.
The screw renews its turn.
And creaking wood might crack.
And leave me paralyzed, laid up and broken backed.

But it's a lie.



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Wednesday, 15 January 2014

The Scarecrow, a Wizard of Oz inspired poem by Adam Common, poet

I've been reading the great Eric Shanower adaptation of the Wizard of Oz lately and have a new found appreciation for how brilliant and deep all of the characters in both the original and the adapted versions of the book are. Here is a poem from the perspective of the Scarecrow, who can't understand why Dorothy would want to leave Oz, when Kansas is such a dull and dreary place.

She speaks of Kansas, bleak and greyish waste,
That lacks the plenty which my land can yield,
And states "to those with minds, no better place
Than home, despite the woes that home may field."
This mystery a ghost I fail to see,
Perhaps because my head is stuffed with straw,
How can all thoughtful men much rather be,
In arid lands, and not leave Kansas all?
So my conclusion then, I must surmise,
Is that this boring land, bereft and plain,
Is fortunate to what I call my eyes
That normal men all come with tender brains.

Get this wonderful graphic novel adaptation here. It's a beautiful book, much more faithful to the original text than the classic movie. It's also much, much funnier.




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Monday, 13 January 2014

Memorial, a poem by Adam Common

Such a ticking to claim the tiniest of lives.
Such a tapping, as loud and lovely as you are,
And I remember.
The long night.
The bitter twist.
Our boy survives,
And we held you firm for all those long morning hours,
And I remember.
You'd sit quiet beneath the desk, await our advance,
And lunge, and grunt, and stomp, and chewed while I scratched you,
And I remember.
I'd wake at your turns, gladdened by your noisome dance,
Because you lived, and ate, and drank, and licked my hand,
And I remember.
Such a toll to claim the most meaningful of lives.
Such a clamour, as loud and lovely as you are,
And I remember.


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Cthulhu - a H.P. Lovecraft inspired poem by Adam Common, poet


My goal is to share a Cthulhu mythos themed poem each and every Monday until the end of March. After that, my focus will switch to another literary great. Look out for that announcement. Here is an edit of a previous reader favourite. Enjoy

"That is not dead which can eternal lie
And with strange aeons, even death may die."
H.P. Lovecraft

I awaken tossed in bracing foam,
Whose subtle fingers turn my stomach's walls.
I cling to what remains of distant home,
Her cradling bed. Her soft and silent halls.

I'm cast on driftwood, sure to meet an end
Soaked and drowning, lone upon this sea,
With sleep no haven, nightmares of descent
Down to some bleak island, ever drawing me.

Mercurial, the sun brings lasting pain,
A lasting thirst, and at last a distant gleam,
And with it distant hope I might be saved,
Or that some land had formed from all my dreams.

Long hours pass. I bob, I drift, I float.
That shore's salvation ever closing now,
The hand of madness loosed from 'round my throat,
I feel God's hands themselves direct my prow.

Though not a faithful man I must consent,
No other explanation crossed my thought,
For how the becalmed sea so smoothly sent
My sail-less vessel swiftly to its port.

I found the land, and found myself more lost.
Her beach a marsh, a slick and muddy mire,
Scattered with rocks and turgid, bulbous moss,
With a taste of pardon, but more of ash and fire. 

Once filled, I walked, and found a dryer course
On which I might just find some better fare,
But all for naught, I found just a barren gorge,
And a sightless cave, more likely something's lair.

Fatigued, I slept beneath the careless sky,
And those unfamiliar stars regarded me,
But did not seem to care I clung to life,
Inconsequential as I seemed to be.

I woke at dawn in darkness, on my feet,
Deep in the black of a vast and hollow earth,
And as my eyes adjusted I could see,
The kind of terror only madness births.

The grisly vision of a mountain spilled
From an ocean void that did not care for man,
Whose foul appearance tore at mortal will,
And mocked the lie of all I think I am.

A writhing face of feelers, slick and foul,
It's body bulbous, tentacled and grand.
It saw me and my heart and pulled me down,
And made it so I could make to stand.

His name, her name, its name, and I awoke,
My bed, my room, my prison in this life.
I smell it still. The briny, awful choke
Of blackened water, masking hidden strife.

This world is done. It scarred my waking days,
And he sits, not live, not dead, but in between,
For those shores to rise, and the stars to light the way
To an end for which he sleeps, and waits and dreams. 

Read my other Lovecraft inspired poetry by clicking on THIS LINK

If you haven't read any Lovecraft, I would recommend this story to get you started. The link is for Amazon.ca and as you can see, super cheap but if you're in the US, UK or anywhere else, go to their site instead.



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Sunday, 12 January 2014

Relaunch

I am relaunching my blog. You'll notice a lot of old pages and posts are gone. Heavy editing will now occur on some old poems, while many others will never show up again.

That said, new material where I have previously lapsed. Good times.

I'll be trying to make three updates a week.

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