Introduction
A cathartic exercise, journey and mission. A kaleidoscope of personal thoughts,
concerns, views, beliefs and experiences.
Yes, poetry and prose
that shouts, confronts, questions, rouses, informs, pleads,
shares,
inspires, encourages, heartens, empathises, weeps, sighs,
smiles and sees love as being the only answer.
Poetry and prose that takes
no sides
but that of all
who have been wrongly accused or mistreated, and
whatever
that wrong may be.
Poetry
and prose that pulls no punches and strips away the veneer whilst
scratching where it itches; That takes its jacket off,
rolls its
sleeves up and doesn't stop until the job is done; That rhymes with the times
and runs the gamut of emotions and experiences;
That searches the heart, examines the mind and assesses the soul; That
deals with harsh realities and meets people where they are; That
doesn't think to save its own skin; That deals with both sides of the
coin; That tests, proves and sorts while really caring.
Why Do I Pen What I Do?
Well, and in no particular order here, I HATE injustice, unfairness,
Favouritism, corruption, deceit, untruths, falsehood, trickery, meanness,
Cruelty, persecution, violence, racism, prejudice, bias, bigotry,
Snobbery, vanity, disloyalty — whatever else mars humanity.
And such being the path of weakness, cowardice, ignorance, stupidity,
Selfishness; those who’re bullies, messed up, deluded, blinded, or damaged, sadly.
Yes, those who turn this world into a hell, or who make it more miserable,
Given that there’s enough things that spoil life on Earth, and that show all is not well.
And by my keeping silent midst that which harms, injures, spoils, corrupts, or misleads,
I would become complicit in it all, guilty too, despite any good deeds.
And a crisis is a crisis, friend, and a crisis we’ve truly got, and why
My pen must go on writing, and God willing, until that very day I die.
Yes, I HATE oppression, indifference, fighting, killing, criminality,
Treachery, destructiveness, rudeness, greediness, crudity, debauchery.
Such being the path of those who’re tyrants, manipulators, tell-tales, cads, brutes,
False accusers, abusers, despisers of good and right, who one knows by their fruits.
So, I not looking the other way, minding my own indifferent business,
But calling out wrong, wrong that's harming us all, drawing us towards an abyss,
'Cause where there's no hatred of wrong, there's no passion for what's right, nor wish to warn,
Love having got up and gone, and why further down the track, the cost's seen to dawn.
By Lance Landall
This page contains:
1) The conditions for using my poems.
2) Notes regarding my poems and website.
3) And further to (if you're interested).
1) The Conditions For Using My Poems:
Though I'm happy for anyone to use my poems (and to print or publish them), such doesn’t necessarily mean that I'm endorsing how they’re being used, where they’re being used, those who're using them, or even possibly promoting my website.
All my poems are copyrighted and therefore must not be altered in any way, missing anything, and nor are they to be presented in part without my permission — in other words, no verses are to be missing, and every poem that's used must always bear my name. Italicised words must also be respected.
In fact anything at all that's taken to be used (where it's my own work) comes under these very same conditions.
Where something is not my work, I state so.
2) Notes Regarding My Poems And Website:
Note One
Remember that the content of any particular poem may not relate to my life or experience, but having been written as if coming from me, as if it's me. So please don't assume anything. I simply writing from the perspective and experience of someone else, as if I were that very person. Likewise, though it might appear as if so, please don't automatically assume that any particular poem I've penned relates to a member of my family either, or extended family.
Note Two
Many of my poems are old ones that could do with a tidy up, and some might be best replaced. I’ve cut my poetry teeth on these poems, so it's hardly surprising if any are in need of some poetical, grammatical dentistry, and given that I've had no training and that they've often been rushed. If there's a poem you're interested in using, you could let me know and I'll give it a quick tidy up if I think it needs it. I have been trying to upgrade older poems, but it's a slow process.
Note Three
Additions (sometimes in the form of added verses given later thoughts or newfound information), subtractions, tweaks, changes or corrections may occur at any time within the content of a page, article or poem (especially issue related ones), and therefore, revisits from time to time might prove worthwhile.
And as a result of all this, any poem (or article) of mine found outside this website could well be missing those improvements. As far as those poems go that I've tweaked or added later verses to, it won't matter if you've already used them without such enhancements. I've simply made them better.
Note Four
My website is a personal website and therefore is not affiliated with any group, movement, or organization.
Note Five
Due to my very rudimentary computer knowledge, and my website having been created by a somewhat absent fellow being, you may sometimes find directions rather than links.
Note Six
If I have overlooked acknowledging anyone else's work used, please don't hesitate to contact me. Originally, a lot of material I put together (drawn from here and there) was for my very own use and not for public consumption (though people telling me that I should put it out there), and as a result, things can get hazy and lost in time.
Note Seven
No blanket endorsement is given to any outside links, books or articles that I've used or mentioned.
And Further To (if you're interested):
When I first began penning poems, I knew nothing about
poetry. In fact, I still don't know much about poetry. And when I first
began penning poems, I hadn't even heard of a rhyming dictionary, and
remained unaware of such until many poems later (a hundred and fifty or
more). When I finally purchased one, what a difference it made, despite
the fact that it's not always needed.
The more poems I pen,
and the more skilled at poetry I become, the more disappointed I can
feel about previously penned poems, hence why I sometimes go back
through them and make improvements when I’ve the time or inclination.
That’s the trouble with artists, they’re a fussy lot. However, given
that I originally knew nothing at all about poetry, I'm sure such is
warranted. It will take a long time for me to go back through all my
poems, so, if you spot something wrong, or that could be improved,
PLEASE let me know.
That my poetry is largely didactic, I
attribute to accident rather than design. That's simply how my
poems began, and that's the way that they've largely remained. And
perhaps it's how they're meant to
be given how they seemed to mysteriously begin one day (out of the blue) when I was around the age of 52 (2002).
For some unknown reason (deeply troubled by certain things), I took a pen, sat down, and tried putting
something together in poetical form, starting with a Christian poem.
Prior to this
occurrence, I had no interest in poetry whatsoever, and to the best of
my knowledge had never done or learnt to do poetry, and even today
after having penned over 2000 poems, still have no real interest in
poetry, no desire to read poetry. Yes, I have immersed myself in such
now, and have formed a deeper appreciation of this art, but it has
simply become an accidental vehicle in a certain sense.
My poems are mostly designed for the serious thinker, and
certainly for the receptive and inquiring mind. I try to pen my poems
as simply and succinctly as I can, but given the serious in-depth
nature of many of the topics, I’m not sure that I’ve truly succeeded.
Due to the sense of urgency that has oft been propelling me (given that
this earth is clearly on borrowed time, the worsening state of society,
the ills within Christendom, and current threats to freedom of
expression, etc), I have not spent as much time on my poems as I
should have, having been more concerned about just getting each poem's
message out to the world, as it were.
As mentioned, I have penned in
excess of 2000 poems. So I guess you can see what I mean now.
When
I pen my poems, I put a comma where I pause, or where I think it's
needed. You may not wish to pause where I do, but if you do pause where
I do, you’ll be reading them like I read them. However, I may not
always get my pauses right.
When I first started my poems, I often
put commas where they shouldn't have been put, and too many at times.
I've been trying to go back over these poems (older ones) in order to
rectify the situation, but it will take me ages.
Sometimes
I've even put a comma before a bracket too, which simply shows my lack
of grammatical understanding, which I must say has improved with time.
I did leave school when I was fifteen, you know, and I do appear to be
a slow learner.
There are some
poems (my alternative ones) where I deliberately put a comma
wherever it rhymns — for example, "Jeremy Jibber." Such poems are
a departure from my usual format though.
My poems are best read slowly, but you can read them any way you wish, of course.
Poetry
can be a difficult thing in the sense that people can interpret a word,
line, or statement, etc, differently to what was intended by the poet.
I try to do my best to minimize such happening, but I don’t know
whether such is totally possible. If you think I could have worded
something better, etc, PLEASE let me know. Otherwise, I may never know.
You may not just be helping me, but also the next person that reads
that same poem or poems, so I’ll thank you in advance.
Ironically
and intriguingly, I'm still not that into poetry, though having
gained a greater appreciation of this art. The truth is, it has simply
become the vehicle for the things that I wish to express. Do I enjoy penning
poetry? I guess I do, certain poems more so than others, and some not
at all. A completed poem can certainly leave me with a sense of
achievement and fulfillment.
So, pluck what you like and leave behind what you mightn't. I thanking you in advance for your graciousness.
IN SUMMARY, MOST OF WHAT'S ON MY WEBSITE ISN'T ENTIRELY WHAT I'VE CHOSEN TO DO, BUT WHAT I'VE FELT COMPELLED AND PROPELLED TO DO.
But regarding poetry in general:
Poetry
Could it be that most people think that poetry is just poetry,
And as a consequence, don’t really take it very seriously,
And yet, enjoy listening to songs, sing along to them happily,
Seemingly not conscious of the fact that they’re enjoying poetry?
Yes, isn’t it odd how many love songs, yet aren’t into poetry,
Or at least not in the sense of getting involved in it consciously.
Yes, they may not pen such, nor generally read such, but what they do
Is repeat the lyrics of a song, or songs, be they old ones or new.
Thus I think it’s fair to say, “Everyone loves a song,” and to be fair,
Songs are attached to music, and music is so wonderful to hear.
But even though that be the case (true), a song is simply poetry,
Which, universally, people enjoy, even if not consciously.
Though having said that, poetry can stand alone, and most worthily;
That is, meritorious poetry, not that doodle poetry.
Yes, poetry that’s not only creative, but weighty and lofty,
Poetry that stirs, rouses, even enlightens, and shows empathy.
Sadly so, the lyrics of most songs are trite, driven commercially,
And some poems are oft no better, and poorly penned, lamentably.
Hence why they hardly inspire, nor benefit the cause of poetry
That I very much believe should be taken far more seriously.
Poetry is language at its very best, creatively enthroned,
A literary art form, visionary, driven, and finely honed.
Yes, it's the finest and deepest expression of humanity, that
Stands the test of time, and pleases both commoner and aristocrat.
Poetry is life expressed in written form, a heartfelt outpouring,
Language that can’t be contained, won’t be restricted, a fountain, a spring.
Words that gush forth with vigour, a rhythmic flow, words that live, breathe and sigh,
And for the right to be heard and taken seriously, duly cry.
By Lance Landall
Some extra thoughts regarding poetry:
I don't consider myself as being a great poet, nor even close to being one (best you be the judge), but I would like to think that my poetry is of a certain standard that would meet the fair approval of an examiner's eye, and be received quite well by the public in general. More so my later poetry.
And though not a poetry expert, I do like to think that I can tell good poetry when I see it, and likewise, bad poetry, which brings me to the point of this blurb:
To me, poetry should not only be well done, but it should also make sense. If it doesn't, I'm not interested in it. As mentioned above, I have to admit that I've never really been into poetry anyway, and still aren't, funnily enough. It's just my accidental vehicle. But most people aren't into poetry it seems, hence the need for poetry to be appealing if one wants people to embrace it. And hence why I'm amazed by the awards that I see some people getting for what amounts to disconnected gibberish. In other words, poems that only make sense to the person who wrote them, and to be honest, I have my doubts that even they really understand them sometimes. Such poems seem to be a fashionable thing (an Emperor's new clothes mentality) that is coming from a certain quarter.
So many young people have been put off poetry due to the type of poetry that they were forced to do at school which didn't make sense to them most of the time. And then they were asked, "What do you think the poet is trying to say?" My goodness, if it wasn't obvious in the poem, why bother with it in the first place, unless it has something in it that gets to you for some reason, or has some merrit of some sort. And hence why I've had young people say that they prefer my poetry. It's like it has sparked a renewed interest in some people.
To me, the only poets that should be getting awards for their poetry are those who write good poetry, poetry that actually makes sense, and provides something of value. It amazes me how people who produce abstract paintings get so much money for their effort given that their pictures are largely just ridiculous visual presentations befitting a five year old, perhaps. I don't mind clever designs with striking colours but give me a beautiful painting anyday! Not something that just looks like somebody dropped a can of paint on a canvas, then swished it with a cauliflower and poked at it with a feather duster.
Thus, the following is purely two EXPERIMENTAL poems, poems that I did in order to simply prove the point above, but nevertheless, poetical concoctions that some may relate to given that the first one makes more sense than I intended. It was really meant to mimic what I've been talking about.
Cryptic Confusion
Shadows fill the backdrop, darkness draws its curtain randomly,
Corridors of anxiety meander, fear stalking me.
Conscious seemingly, here but not here, dreaming and yet awake,
Density, dullness, numbness, I'm emotionally opaque.
Footsteps echo from the past, can't grasp, a mental carousel,
Jungles of entanglement, bushy outcrops of waiting ill.
Dusk and dawn merge into one, no sun, haunts me mercilessly,
Condemners, accusers, indifferent abusers — why me?
Can't find the door, and what's more, there's that familiarity,
Seems life's a game, much the same, pretence, unrest, hostility.
Gasping, clawing, figments of reality, flights of fancy,
Illusions, inventions, perceptions, thwarted creativity.
Yes, breezes of nebulous feelings, plaguing insecurity,
I wish I could metamorphose — oh for invisibility.
I'm tired of inevitably, I'm fed up with dependency,
I'm adrift in a foreign land, surrounded by insanity.
By Lance Landall
Okay, lets try that again:
Airy-Fairy
Fragments of expectations drizzle. The cat wanders in. Bob's home.
A rose would be nice. Onions remind me too.
Too late to call, but clouds waffle, tap dripping. What's that there?
Wild but observing. Dishes in the outside sink.
She said it could be. Things, I think. Don’t know, really, must ask,
But the monument’s still there. John’s mate.
Forgot to put the jug on. Painted fence. Sweet moon in mustard dressing.
Maggie dozed off. Shades of winter. Catch a falling star.
I wonder why tomatoes are red? She said she’d be there. Unusual day.
Ah, now that's more like what I've been talking about, and yet, seemingly applauded
these days come those elite poetry circles. And yes, it doesn't even rhyme.
