Poems by Rudi Haig
The Luxury Of.
In the playground running you laugh and joke and play,
"Whose it?" You scream pointing at someone else.
Running and laughing with adrenaline pumping -
Scared yet happy: naive naive.
Jet yellow light seeping through pastel memories
Slow motion - still laughing and running and playing.
The dinner bell rings, you stop then start again
Laughing and running - middle aged man.
At your seventeenth birthday skulking and knowing you cry, you cry.
When the phone rings "Who is it, whose dying?" you die, you die.
Running and screaming with adrenaline pumping -
Frightened and unhappy: adult adult.
Blue bastard light saturating oil realities
Fast forward still screaming and crying and dying.
The end bell rings.You stop but can't start again,
Screaming and crying you die, you die.
Found and Lost.
There is a numbness on my spine
Bearing down with invisible weights,
I am pulled both downwards and up at the same time
Which means I am constantly in different states.
I wish I could be brought together
I wish my different parts could merge
A powerful force with great endeavour
To make the seas rage and cause tides to surge.
Lethargy to swallow my instinct
Apathy to enclose my heart,
I wish I were beautiful and distinct
Something of focus. An important part.
I have lost my centre and tilted off course
In a land of concrete suffocating the source,
Too fragile to carry the weight of burden
Of the only one thing for certain -
I am both found and lost.
Out in the open but no sun shines on my weary mind,
Snow crunches as my feet grip the ground
At home in the cold - mirroring the soul.
Frozen thoughts undigested cause a heartburn,
Chilly, static, finite pictures of a warmth once known,
Walking off this emptiness which has bloated me.
Thinking about things which have come to pass
This October's mourning which should have been summer.
The wise Oak's life had slowed to hibernation.
Is death an end? Keeps numbing my mind
(I want to sleep away this winter),
I come to no conclusions so thoughts start to thaw.
Amongst my ice a mild breeze wraps around me,
A mother tucking me up for bed.
Feelings lost are now found resurrecting the dead.
Biographical sketch: I am a 21 year old British English undergraduate
who has been writing poetry
since childhood. Most of my poetry is introspective and sombre, as a
result of personal tragedies in my
life. I hope you don't find [them]to be too harsh.
Rudi Haig recommends:
The Collected Works of by Edward Thomas
Reason: Edward Thomas' acute observations of nature and a
sense of pathetic fallacy in everyday life are exceptional. This was
a man completely in tune to the melancholy in the world, and the paradoxes
of war and suffering.
Recommendations for writers:
One should find a poetic 'voice' and stick with it. Write from the
heart and the mind. Obviously, others' reactions to your poetry are
a double-edged sword, but stay true to your own ideals.