For one thing, I’m immensely proud of the fact that I wrote the poem completely unaided. It was entirely conceived, crafted and completed using only my brain. No computer, no dictionaries (rhyming or normal), no thesaurus – just me hacking away at the words using pen and paper.

I forget where the title and topic came from. I just remember that I heard or read the words “danse macabre” somewhere, and it sounded interesting. The rest sprang from my current, dark muse.

Here is the first draft of the poem. It starts out exactly the same way, but you’ll notice that it started off in a very different direction:

And here’s the last draft – I made some minor changes while typing it into the computer:

All up I had about 11 pages of drafts, working notes, scribbles. I must admit though, my handwriting has become extremely lazy as a consequence of doing almost all of my writing on computers, and often resembles a backwards form of Arabic more than English!

It’s hard to say whether my choice to forego technology affected the outcome. I feel that it’s about the same – in terms of how long it took to get from conception to completion, and also how my brain is almost as reliable as a dictionary in providing the words that I’m looking for (maybe I’m biased towards using words that I know than the ones that I don’t).

How would you rate Macabre compared to my other works?

There’s no point in crying and no use in trying,
Your life’s endeavours will fail.
Whatever may be, in the end you will see,
That I will always prevail.

Which Tom, Dick or Harry will you run off and marry?
‘Til death do you part – what a lark!
In sickness or health, in poverty or wealth,
My role I’ll most faithfully hark.

And what of a job, or which bank will you rob,
To fund your miserable life?
P’rhaps dig your high-heels in and touch the glass ceiling,
Or be kept as a mother and wife.

You cannot decline the ravages of time,
The clock is also my slave.
With the years at your tail like the hare not the snail,
You’ll rot as you race to the grave.

So will you heed? Come ride my black steed,
Stop hiding behind a façade.
In the end young or old, the meek and the bold,
Will all dance the Danse Macabre.

If you have ever experienced Clinical Depression yourself (not just feeling depressed, however bad), or known somebody close to you who has suffered from it, you will know that even if I were to try to explain, it would not make any sense. It would leave you feeling frustrated and wanting to help, but you can’t – the mind of a person suffering from Depression is not rational. Rest assured that she is currently getting professional help.

I thank you to pray for us and keep her in your thoughts as she heals, and allow our (her) story to be revealed in the fullness of time.

Here is the poem I wrote. It is partly a description of what I’m seeing, and partly my way of trying to understand what’s happening to my wife. It’s not a happy subject and does not have a happy ending, so please bear that in mind (especially if you’re suffering from depression…)

—-

What must it be like to live
When your purpose is to die slowly
To give life to light.

The agony as your wick is burned
And your body is consumed by fire
Until nothing is left.

To keep on living in pain
Hurting those closest to you
Seeing them suffer.

Affected by the merest breeze
Flame wavers but fights to stay alive
For what reason?

But if you want to end it
You extinguish yourself
And create darkness.

Here’s an as-yet-untitled poem from my archives, that doesn’t rhyme:

What is this thing in my mind
That permeates all my thoughts?

What is this thing in my heart
That makes it hurt when you’re not around?

What is this thing in my eye
That sparkles when I’m looking at you?

What is this thing in my soul
That rips open my emotions and betrays them to you?

What is this thing, and where did it come from?

Many blogs are successful because they manifest the outgoing, sociable or sanguine nature of the blogger, and their success in the virtual world reflects their success in the real one. I’m obviously not one of those people – I use words like “manifest”.

Other blogs have purpose, stated or not, such as Lea Thinks Aloud which focuses mainly on book and movie reviews, or my other blog THRIFTerrific where I’m trying to concentrate on sharing tips to help people save time and money.

But cyberseraphic (as a blog) is more than 5 years old now, and it has become a cumbersome ship to steer. Nevertheless, I will persevere. My recent accomplishment in successfully completing “A chance encounter” was a very fulfilling experience in spite of the very long gestation period and the anguish suffered during the writing process, and so in this next season of my blog I’m going to focus on more creative writing (and probably the occasional post bitching about the writing process).

Hopefully, in several years’ time when I’ve achieved my goal of writing for a living, I’ll look back fondly on this post as the turning point.

—-

* SEO fans, see what I did there?

—-

While watching workers passing by,
I saw a man without a tie.
“What right have you sir, if I may,
To be so naked in this way?

“Wherefore do you smile and grin,
So gay of step and high of chin.
When others ’round you, drab and grey,
Look down upon you in dismay?”

Accosted thus, he raised his palm,
Responding with a gentle calm:
“I’m sorry that my dress offends,
But what care I for fashion trends?

“My countenance displays to you
Most truthfully my every mood.
It speaks more than a tie could do,
Regardless of the stripe or hue.”

“But kind sir,” I interject,
“Have you so little self-respect?
So candidly you bare your heart,
And make known all your inner parts.

“Oh, that I could be blasé,
If all my thoughts were on display;
Won’t letting others see your mind,
Give rein for them to be unkind?”

“Answers I have few, dear miss,
But as you fret just ponder this:
I have faith in God above,
And put my hope in truth and love.

“Where I go, I do not dread,
I trust the ground on which I tread.
And whom I meet I will not hate;
Why more enmity create?”

I weighed his words and found them just,
His earnestness I longed to trust.
We spoke ’til late into the night,
Of many things both grave and light.

Then I: “‘fore day’s first rays are cast,
Please let me tell you of my past.
This hatred self so full of sin,
That joy stays out and pain stays in.

“How could you love one such as me?
Quite crazy you would have to be,
That you would know my deepest shame,
Still from my eyes each teardrop claim.”

He: “Let your eye be unimpaired,
Remain courageous, don’t be scared.
Let not your handsome face be marred,
No matter how your heart is scarred.

“I see why you your past disdain,
But count it not on you a stain.
Let sunlight pierce your clouded soul,
And take back what the darkness stole.”

Seeing the candour in his eyes,
I finally purged my own disguise.
And in my nakedness I saw,
That which I’d missed the day before.

No more ties or skirts or shoes,
Not greens nor greys nor browns nor blues.
Just various people black and white,
Trying to tell what’s wrong from right.

Then he took my hand in his,
And softly in my ear he said:
“Let your heart and mind be free,
And meet me in my reverie.”

Take this entry for example. I started writing it more than a year ago, after reading an interview with Stephanie Meyer, the author of the book Twilight. The article spoke about how the catalyst for the first book was her status as a stay-at-home mother, a situation which gave her the freedom to write, and keep writing, as soon as the idea occurred to her in a dream. Oh, to have such luxury! The writing process makes the relationship between time and space so clear: writing with limited time is like trying to act in a limited space – maybe like how a tennis player would feel playing squash. Everything is faster, closer, more intense.

I’m working on a poem, which I hope to finish and publish soon (possibly my next entry here, the rate at which I post…), but my worry is that people will dismiss it as a trifle. They can hate it all they like – deride the subject matter, disagree with the sentiment, criticise the format… that wouldn’t upset me as much as if they thought I had cobbled it together with minimal thought and effort like I might have done on other occasions. This one was a hard slog… each word meticulously chosen, each line painfully scrutinised for both meaning and meter, and each stanza weighed against its neighbours to ensure balance. Despite this, the end result will simply be a single, insignificant mote in the vastness of cyberspace, resulting in neither fame nor fortune.

Hence I salute you, fellow authors and poets.

(Caesar’s made up additions)

He picked a peck, then pecked the pick,
He pecked the lot, wow what a prick! (excuse my French)
All of the peppers, that Peter did nick
That Peter Piper,
The nicker of peppers
Pecker of what’s nicked
No trickier nicker
Did ever exist
So Peter Piper nicked the pickled peppers that Peter Piper picked!

Nature is never totally dark. By day we have the sun, by night the moon and stars. Even in the deepest depths of the oceans or the furthest caves, life brings light. Phospherescent fungi and luminous fish all work together to banish the dark from all the corners of the Earth.

In the beginning, God said “let there be light” and so there was, is and always will be.

—-

It was the night before Christmas. I was six years old and I knew this was going to be the best Christmas ever. Who would have guessed that Grandpa would drop by? It would be the first and last time that I ever see him. I still remember it like it was yesterday, because he came dressed as Santa Claus!

Gramps was a pilot, and he delighted me and my brother with tales of his travels around the world, and gifts from amazing sounding places like Switzerland, and Thailand. How could you not believe such amazing stories: the city that never sleeps! Mountains so tall that they touched the clouds! Strange and wonderful people and their even stranger languages! In my mind, I was the luckiest boy in the world… my Grandpa was Santa Claus!

The next morning, just like Santa, he was gone.

At the end of the following year, my parents received news of his passing. Dad was a pragmatic person, and that night, he explained about death. However, I wouldn’t believe it. I couldn’t! Nothing would ever dispel the magic – my Grandpa, like Santa Claus, would live forever…