So today I found myself with time to kill before I walked to the Strand for my 2pm meeting. I took some time out to rest in St James park and was thinking about art, the beauty of nature and how inspiring a connection with someone can be. It occurred to me that all the great poets have always penned their works through trying to describe how they were feeling, illustrating and stimulating the senses through crafting metaphor, imagery and symbolism. So I decided to explore what was in my black hole of a heart, and how I would feel if she was right there, right then at that exact moment. Bit of an experiment in my hopefully-not-too-feminine side you might say. Inspiration hit hard like a burst of erratic gunfire, and I wrote what came to mind.

And this is what flows through me when I imagine her there within breathing distance. This is what I feel she is to me. Whatever happens I’m going to sound utterly pretentious here, so apologies in advance. Im going to end up feeling like this is a poor rendition of some nonsensical Manic Street Preachers song. Thats not quite what I had in mind, as I was trying to describe a feeling, perhaps the beauty of the things I was imagining.

Im inside the war I would give my life to win, an electricity through my chest and sparkling under my skin; she is the glimmer of light in the shard of a broken mirror, the scent of broken flowers in the spring; a tiny planet of mystery orbiting around my sun, the smile in an empty photograph and freezing cold rain on my face; a lightening strike in the most violent of storms, a tornado of flame that breaks down doors to a passionate crescendo of melody; shes the deadly exotic poison running through my veins, the erotic canvas where I paint the profane; the brightest star in the moonlight, a vine in the rose garden and a palace of colour in my Eden; shes the consideration in my compassion, the meaning in my empathy and the eternal essence of my sympathies; shes the crashing waves of emotion breaking against our shore; shes inside the gentle radiance of my reticence, a changing season of my spirit and a soprano harmony in the chorus of my indignation; a frame for a vignette within the flickering embers of my cigarette; burning with the incandescence of candles in a haunted chapel, the ecstasy in the opium and a blinding flash in the cloak of black; shes the drifting sands in my changing desert of decadence and the swirling threads of smoke rolling off my phoenix; the angel who opened their eyes to fly and their wings so I could sing, the excited rage of my adrenaline; a mesmerising collage of future memories, the agent’s instrument of revelation, the waterfall of my epiphany and the resonating frequency in my symphony. By the way, great boobs.

Yes, Im a romantic fool. But what is language other than a tool to express thought?

Thats probably the nearest Ill get to poetry, as the mere mention of the word makes me think hormone imbalance and melodramatic angst. I share my good friend Andy’s love of the English language and his passion for its meaning and application. Or maybe I just love the sound of my own voice, which is probably more accurate.

Ok, so I probably need to get out more as all this talk of business models and added-value offerings is going to my head and the poet in me is screaming to get out. But when school is over and your eyes glaze over from the heavy drudge of the 9 to 5 working life you need to exercise your mind. So I took mine out for a walk, most appropriately whilst I was in the park. Im a firm believer that the mind and body are intrinsically linked, and in the same way that if you dont exercise or control your diet you get fat, if you dont exercise your mind you get very bored and apathetic.

What immediately struck me when I read this back was that it was similar to one of my favourite passages from The Bards Hamlet, although possibly diametrically opposite in mood and far superior to anything my mind could conjure:

I have of late, but wherefore I know not, lost all my mirth; and indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition, that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promotory; this most excellent canopy the air, look you, this mighty o’rehanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire; why, it appeareth nothing to me but a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, how like an angel in apprehension, how like a God! The beauty of the world, paragon of animals; and yet to me, what is this quintessence of dusk? Man delights not me, no, nor women neither.

Also reminded me of the song You bring My Beat Back by the excellent Mann Friday:

Lost between rhyme this feeling of falling; my measure of moments keeps on stalling; This life is a stage no band to back you; clicking my fingers inside this vacuum; You bring my beat back with one smile though I’m always tied into your tempo, crush the signature of starlight into me; It’s the death of all discussion, the count-in kiss of your percussion you drum your hope into my heart; you bring my beat back. It’s what you hold, your metronome wont leave me alone because all that sound you spread around could make my life just this simple; Swim a little longer if you’re too dry, run a little faster if you can’t fly, laugh a little louder if you’re too shy to sing yourself sleep; How can you sparkle if you don’t shine? What would you play in the concert of life? When would you leave and where would you go If you tuned yourself to the groove inside us all? One more time your pulse in my bed, you wear a white verse of song in my head; You wrap it in rain and golden refrains. All the rhythm of the reasons why you colour in a butterfly; Your chords played in my church, your words when they’re healing all the hurt Your eyes when I realise I’m just not made for corporate gray days; Can’t face the fear of being flat or the solitary sound of a mistimed clap quantize of my dreams and make this seem I’m all on track;You bring my beat back;