Year Reflections – Poetry

This year has provided an exciting opportunity to be able to share my writing at a official and published capacity. This is the first of my year reflections post, specifically focusing on me thinking about my poetry this year!

Autumn, That Bastard

‘Autumn, That Bastard’ is my first poetry collection that I have publicly shared. This has been a great opportunity to show and have my poetry be read by anyone at anytime. Not all my poetry will be posted like this, but I wanted something that could be read without having to pay because, like my last poem ‘Stagnation’ hints, ‘fuck capitalism.’

Some  notes about the poems:

  • Authenticity – this poem felt like a great introduction to how I feel about stepping into the world of pseudo-published writing. The structure is also different enough from typical poems to generate initial curiosity into the collection.
  • Leviticus – I keep going back to this poem as one of my favourite poems out of this collection. The last line “No questions? No Question.” is something so powerful that I am so happy I produced. 
  • When Winter is expected – Lily’s death is something that I oddly still think about, even though she was a dog. That sentiment of ‘she is more than just a dog’ resonates throughout the poem, as she was an unforgettable part of my life and the least I could do was immortalise her in this poem.
  • Grey House – This poem originally started as a simple song I tried to write in my early learnings of the Saxophone when I was very young. The points of high I capture in the poem (moving to a new apartment) and the points of low (realising it was for the worst) came from me testing the combination of high and low notes.
  • The Apocalypse Cometh – This poem was written way before I even knew who Greta Thunberg was but now that I am aware of so much more regarding climate politics, to the point I think about the state of our world ecologically every day, this poem only strengthens the warnings that our planet is vulnerable.

Check out all the poems here!

Bubbles

Bubbles was a great collection to help support an organisation I very much appreciated. It was interesting centralising six poems over theme that I did not set. This collection, unlike ‘Autumn, That Bastard’, is exclusively available for those who contributed to my fundraising efforts this year as an incentive and thank you in supporting my efforts.

I felt creating a publication for it was very rewarding but also was a big time commitment I did not expect. Dabbling my foot into this design area has given be a better understanding of what I should be doing in future self-publishing endeavours if I choose that route. If I do not end up doing this, it will at least provide a lot of appreciation of how much it must take for an indie author!

Other Poetry Dabbles:

While not posted, I did work on some other poetry not a part of these two collections. These usually were inspired by some worldly event. It let me reflect on how and when I actually start to write poetry – what my drive is and where I am most likely to come up with poetic prose. Not much of this was at home, in fact, a lot of poetry sprung to me when I was on the go or doing something. I found my poetry routine, of sorts, and doing poetry outside these collections reinforced that this art is something I can work on but also isn’t something to be forced.

However, this is a different with my fiction writing where I take a more structured approach, which was very evident in how I prepared for the Write It Fellowship. More about this on my next blog post, reflecting on my other writing endeavours!

Stagnation

Website Version Here

By Christos Floratos

It is that time, again.

To wait for it to all end.

This waiting is a crux –

A crutch and a lux,

Spread thin over the fortnight’s influx.

 

This money system has left me bitter,

A tea that has long overstayed.

Corrupted green that has mixed with the soil,

Auburn turns black to brown, to a prodded boil,

Where the honey at the end would always spoil.

 

I am curious to their appraisals,

That my life is through a proverbial spring.

I may have all the bricks lined on the frontier,

But I confess, it is not yet veneer.

Stagnation has taken my masonry’s finest, oh dear.

 

It is all an arbitrary collection of bricks and stones,

For Autumn and Spring don’t exist.

It is the eternal summers and winters I chase.

For even though those bricks are lined, houses are placed

No residence could save me from ash encase.

 

No, I am most definitely in the fall.

Yet defiantly, death and dying is not what I feel.

I am warmed by the sun’s rays and adore the hearth.

Though daises are no longer pushing a girth,

This uncertainty is what lulls me to the earth.

 

I don’t dread Autumn, for it is going,

But because I know it will arrive again.

White horse with black hooves trampling the ground

And there is discovery in it yet against the sound.

For waiting has christened my crown.

 

Nothingness has become my favourite companion.

It is they, that lonesome path to permanence.

At the end nought could be done to amend

Except for you, reader, who has provided an ear on lend.

Perhaps the wait will be indefinite – these words need to be tend.

 

Autumn will be that bastard.

And we will never be through.

We will remain along this cursed line

These cheap words and rhymes, they will be just fine.

These horrible thoughts will be paid through the halt of a lifeline.

© Christos Floratos 2019

Stagnation – Sneak Peek

The concluding poem for the ‘Autumn, That Bastard’ Poetry Collection comes out this Friday!

Stagnation, like the wait/hiatus from the penultimate poem, is meant to capture the feelings of indefinite waiting and down trodden celebrations.

There, We’re Whispers

Website Version Here

By Christos Floratos

In grainy corridors calling distant lights

Where shadows erect pillars of blight,

The wooden walls beg down upon me,

And here I am left quaking at its fee.

 

No, it is not that cold snap,

Nor is it that summer’s shimmer,

The houses left tender – just a whisper.

In howls of the past; here they entrap.

 

Arsonists of hate and weavers of sorrow

They gather like dying moths to flickering toilet lights.

“Isn’t that him?” They whisper and spray,

With their stuttered voice and eyes disarray,

 

Like Satan is on their door step and all they can do

Is whisper and point at him.

The farmer of salvation dug deep in mud yet

No one utters a word to him.

 

Neon lights echo a howling gale through the grey jungle

Flashes flash as Utterers utter

“Tell us more.” They demand then hide,

However, they’ve been blinded by their gaze to the blaring sun.

Yet here I am in this humble abode,

Ants follow and sheep’s tune to anode

For you see,

It all came with one simple mist…

 

Because of those whispers

And those damn spitting lights

It shook me here in this necropolis disintegrating

And all those sheep are going,

And here in the back of the cities I must confess,

 

There, we’re whispers.

And I followed the shame.

 

© Christos Floratos 2019

This is one of those ‘death of the author’ poems I alluded too that would come in this collection. I am so interested in what other people think this poem is about, so shoot me a message on my social medias or leave a comment below!

Other poems of the Autumn, That Bastard collection:

The Penelope Complex – What the Heck am I Rambling about? #6

In ‘The Penelope Complex’ I use the character from Homer’s Odyssey to draw comparisons and reflect on my own fidelity to the craft of writing and my own literary identity.

You can check out the poem here before reading ahead!

As promised in the author’s comments section, I will expand upon the River Nile and Styx reference. Although this comes from Egyptian mythology, I also use Biblical mythology along with the more poignant Greek Mythology to represent the conflux of my personal writing identity. When writing, I often feel I need a period of going down a metaphorical ‘River Styx’ to get me to flourishing and blooming, similar to the bounties of the flood that the Nile produces. Usually though, it is hard to articulate this.

But who am I to suggest such a flow

A stream of vacant words is all I know

The most obvious reference to Penelope is about me standing tall and waiting for sailors. I say I usually wait for the right idea, wait the right prose to hit me, wait until I have free time to end up writing… but, yes you guessed it, that’s a lie. Focus is usually hard that erupts in life and usually I miss chances that I could use to further hone in on my craft. The cave I refer to that other sailors, which are interchangeable with other authors or other ideas for writing I might have, go to is a metaphor isolation that is often paired with the hobby of writing. Similar to that of a grave, which is why I use the rhyming scheme of grave/cave.

I wait, wait, wait. But wait, that’s a lie.

The alliteration of ‘typewriter’s’, ‘tent’ and ‘temporary’ attempts to produce the feeling of short-lived moment, such as the purpose of ‘tent’ and the nostalgia of writing on a ‘typewriter’. Unlike Penelope, I make the remark saying that I am unable to wait, calling back on the Adam reference in the last stanza with the rib. The quickie exorcist is reference to trying to find ways to revive old stories, that have been lost to my own dedication to my craft. Stories, characters and entire worlds I have cast aside to remain loyal to a specific piece of work. Below, I do see grass in terms of fertility of ideas but remaining forward, I will be burdened by not being able to tap into everything I would love to work with.

More ghosts undulate through this hall everyday
Scoured by a quickie exorcist who shall prey.

Thank you for getting down here and getting to know a little bit more of what I am rambling about. If you have any interpretations for yourself, I would so love to hear them in the comments or in my social medias!