I hope you'll forgive the slightly shameless self-promotion, but I know a few people here were interested in my last book, and so I wanted to let you know about my forthcoming collection of poetry, 'In Memory of Real Trees', which will be officially released on November 28th.
If you'd like a little more information about it, you'll find a copy of the press release on my blog (http://www.markcharlesworth.blogspot.com/), and if you'd like to get in touch for more information, to join the mailing list, or to leave comments/feedback, it'd be great to hear from you over on mark.charlesworth@hotmail.co.uk
I'm also currently looking for any suggestions of interesting ways to promote the book, so if you have any ideas, send them to the above email address, and, as a thank you, name's will be acknowledged in the third book.
For now, I hope you enjoy this sample from the book. 'Damaged Goods in Transit' is the opening poem, and I like to think that it nicely introduces
a lot of the themes and ideas which are addressed over the ensuing pages.
Damaged Goods in Transit
Are you lonely again?
Have you come here feeling lost?
Do you sit there counting out the cost?
Are you scared tonight because there's so much to fear,
or because you've put your dreams on hold
for yet another year?
When it gets painful
and when it hurts,
do you find yourself asking what it's all really worth?
How often do you wish your life away like me,
hiding beneath the pillows from everyday tragedies?
Do you ever feel you're tearing blindly
to hopelessness, loss and apathy?
Water trickling down the plughole
into a void, expansive sea.
You turn off the lights and lay naked in the dark,
staring at the ceiling;
listening out for homesick aliens.
Do you feel vulnerable, dark and cold?
Too tired to sleep,
too empty to weep,
pray with heart and soul that something fills the hole.
Do you feel like a stuffed toy unravelling at the seams
when you stare at the news on a flickering screen?
Just a frightened, vulnerable child again:
that desperate incomprehension of suffering and pain.
Walking on ashes, smoke choking your neck,
the earth shakes and trembles like a shivering mess,
crippled by the anxiety of claustrophobic dreams,
pleading 'what have we done?', stifling the screams.
We walk upon gold but in blood it gleams,
take up arms to ruin the glittering streets,
we bow to the mercy of murderous thieves.
Now we're damned straight to hell by our self-absorbed greed.
And it's hard to have faith
when the world seems so fragile:
damaged goods in transit
through infinite space.
Are we walking hand in hand
down the executioner's mile,
waiting for spare parts
or a last saving grace?
And as the dusky shadows fall,
you're afraid the sun won't rise again.
Crossing the border to the city's edge;
into the hills and to the end,
past broken glass and broken homes,
broken dreams and broken stones,
broken fortunes giving way
to open sky above open wounds.
There's a crimson stream which slowly runs
through fields untroubled by soldier's tombs,
winding through miles of unexplored woods,
then bursting out from the canopied cocoon.
From the hilltop clearing, you can almost see
the scars of the suburbs stretching slowly beneath:
just writhing embryos of a larger disease
that feeds on corruption and thrives upon fear,
but close to a night sky that sparkles and shines,
you felt safe from the nightmare below.
So you carved an inscription upon a stone,
in crumbling earth planted a seed:
'for the day when the branches are replaced with bones,
in memory of real trees'.
