Walking distracted towards my destination.
A to B.
When,
stopping me in my tracks,
I hear the bellowing bells in the brick orange tower
clang raucously together:
ding.
ding.
ding.
The transcendent, abiding sound of metal against metal,
that has signalled many a moment.
Contrary in variety.
I look up at the origin of the alarm which tells me another
hour has gone by;
the sky about it is a grey-blue in colour,
kind of bleak
and the colour of oblivion.
But the orange of the centuries old building
creates a kind of beautiful contrast-
the preservation of Time,
the change that occurs over Time,
the stillness of Time.
– Accalia Smith
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Photo taken with Nikon Z50 on Nikkor lens @accaliasmith / @acreativeconcoction
The Moon #2
We can only see
What the light shows us.
A slither you now are
To our eyes;
A small piece of the puzzle,
A slice of the cake.
Not the full picture
Nor the whole sponge.
A slither of light arched
Into a darkening void
Back bent, fading
From our sight-
Until the earth turns
And more is revealed.
More pieces of the puzzle placed
For us to see your rounded face
With its curious expression:
(Shocked or shouting?
mocked or missing?)
Up to interpretation.
For we can only see
What we are shown.
- Accalia Smith
This is my second poem on the moon, a follow up to the first which I titled ‘The many faces of the moon’. This one focuses less on the literal attributes of the moon but to what its story means to our lives. Are we the moon with only part of ourselves revealed to the onlookers? Are we only interpreting part of things because we’ve not been shown the full picture?
It’s also a commentary on poetry in this way – that everything is up to our own individual interpretation. Only you reading this now will have the experiences you have, have the childhood you had, have the life you have – we can only attempt to try and be in each others shoes and see different perspectives but we can’t fully live them all. It’s those experiences that make you have the interpretation you have depending on what matters most to you. Poetry is a ‘slice’ of what you want it to mean in a way, directed a little by its writer and the words they chose to use.
Similarly we are the writers of our own image but people will interpret what you ‘show’ them differently. Journalists can write what they want you to know, interpreting what is important for you. Marketeers decide for you what they think you’ll want in your lives, interpreting you. Politicians show you what they want you to interpret and they interpret you too.
Sometimes we misinterpret – although perhaps there isn’t a wrong way to interpret?
Perhaps there is if all the facts and opinions are not given to us. How can we make up our own minds about anything without the full picture of it.
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In these times of rapid change, uncertainty and unprecedented crises people have united and divided. Today, in England, shops will begin reopening again and with them a moment in time comes to a close. With this in mind, I have been releasing a poem a day, each one my responses to the times as they unfolded- beginning right back to March as lockdown was about to begin to the present moments of anger and injustice.
This is the eighth poem in the ‘In This Time’ collection and the second half of the poems titled ‘The Window’ as my feelings toward this time change – each one marking a beginning and an ending.
The Window #2
I look out
The Window;
the portal
to the outside world.
A temptation.
And a reminder that
out of these four walls
Light spurts out
of the dark and heavy cloud,
warming the yearning face.
Open.
Cold. Fresh. Free.
The aftermath falls,
releasing their clutches
from the leaves and branches.
Collapsing on the floor
with their comrades.
Exploding together
with the splash
like a record scratch,
bouncing like the needle
with a breath,
an expansion,
into music.
I look
outside my window
And the storm
calms down.
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In these times of rapid change, uncertainty and unprecedented crises people have united and divided. Tomorrow (15th) in England shops will begin reopening again and with them a moment in time comes to a close. With this in mind, I am releasing a poem a day, each one my responses to the times as they unfolded- beginning right back to March as lockdown was about to begin to the present moments of anger and injustice.
This is the seventh poem in the ‘In This Time Collection’ and the second half of the poems about protest. Written at the beginning of this new wave of activism, this is important over this weekend as protests continue in London.
Protest #2
Anger
into hate
Anger
into Love
People stood in opposition
People stood together
Championing what is right.
Stood with a sign
Do you know the full story
Stood with a sign
What is the history
Stood with a sign
This isn't a trend
No excuse for fire with fire
Set the example you wish to lead
for others to follow
Prejudice is age old
Prejudgement.
Stereotype.
Lets break it down.
Set a new one.
Take down the wall.
Brick by brick.
Love by Love.
Change by Change.
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Normality
Its all too much
And yet
There is nothing.
Life
And its freedoms
Struck still.
And I do not know when
the play button
will be pressed again.
When will normal resume?
Or will it forever be buried,
put away in a tomb?
And new 'normals' be born
at the break of dawn
when are shackles are broken
when we feel safe and free
in a fearful yet hopeful
divided yet united
angry yet liberated
distant yet closer
new normal world.
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What matters
to you?
and
Most importantly,
Why?
Can you back up
what you believe?
Can you look in yourself
and see them-
A reflection of your beliefs
in your vast ocean
Crashing against
the shore
or
Lapping against
the sand
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The Window #1
I look
Outside my window
And there
Is no change
I look
At the images blaring
On the screen
In the corner
It tells me of panic.
Of a crisis.
Of death lurking
In the corner
But outside
My window
The sun smiles down
And there are twittering gatherings
In the trees.
A chorus
of sound
and silence.
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