Lonely
is
the
sand
that
is
not
touched by the sea
Ian D. Hall 2022
Tag Archives: Ian D. Hall
Everyday I Ask Myself The Same Question.
I’ve been called boring,
I’ve been told I am miserable,
Weird, odd, names of derision,
Not our kind, useless,
Straight up to my face
That I was going to Hell,
That they wished I hadn’t survived
The experience of self-harm,
That I was a disappointment,
That I wasn’t loved,
That she wished she hadn’t turned up
To our wedding,
Three hours after saying I do,
On a train to London as we set off
The Fires No Longer Burn.
The darkness hides the invisibility I wear
as a cloak disguises the cold that is felt
when my courage is stripped bare,
and the clemency I sought remains undealt.
Is it that you see me, but choose to ignore,
declaring to those able juice ridden ears of all my every crime,
faults, corruptions, misdeeds and more
that once friends saw good in me, destroying a rusting shrine.
I am cold out here. My skin has become shallow and worn,
I feel no warmth from the lit fires along
(Don’t) Put That Light Out.
“Put that light out”, would come a voice of thunder
from outside on the street, “Don’t you know
there’s a war on?”
You couldn’t answer back
by saying I know my rights, but I need to see,
how am I supposed to do this, that, and a bit of the other
if my lights aren’t glaring, lighting up the streets…
any way I don’t believe there is danger
up in the skies, I think you are over
reacting, jumped up little Hitler,
that sound above
Free Form Jazz (In My Mind).
It was meant, and taken
with absolute kindness,
an observation handed to the recipient
as one would offer a Raspberry Ripple
ice cream to a sweating man as he
patiently waited for a glass of water
brought by slow camel from the Sahara.
I smiled as my friend spoke down the phone
on his birthday, as he handed me the verbal
compliment with sincerity. I always imagined
that living in your head, old pal,
was like watching four classically trained
Scramble!
The roar from the crowd inside Wembley was one that sent down chills to those of us gathered outside, desperate to part of something that we thought would never happen again; England in a semi-final of a major tournament, the opposition, the old enemy, as my Dad once glorified in shouting at the television whenever an international match came on television, his absurd way of shuffling forward in his chair and then standing erect with his head bowed as God Save The Queen, a man of the old school, good, forthright, obedient.
On 31st August, Ian D. Hall Releases His Debut Novel, The Death Of Poetry.
The Death Of Poetry by Ian D. Hall. Artwork by Cyrano Denn. Published by Beaten Track.
With two poetry books released in 2016, Black Book and Tales From The Adanac House and a third poetry book due for release this October, the reviewer who has written for The Birmingham Mail, The University of Liverpool’s student media and for the last six years been privileged to write about Liverpool’s culture, music and theatre through his website www.liverpoolsoundandvision.com, brings his first novel to the fore.
Oliver Light, The Clockwork Within. Album Review.
Liverpool Sound and Vision Rating * * * *
Time is an illusion, yet it is one that humanity can no longer live without, for the passing of the day means nothing to our minds unless it is filled with notches, hourly, quarterly, each minute carefully allotted set tasks, moments in the sun, the sense that in the end light will follow dark and in between we have to fill the space around us with something, electronic or pulse driven, mechanical or solar, nothing truly represents Time than The Clockwork Within.
Giovanni Cristino, 01. Album Review.
Liverpool Sound and Vision Rating 7.5/10
Memory is something very precious, we are the sum of all that we remember and hold dear, even those moments in which we try our damndest to forget everything, can hold a sparkle of beauty that seems to be an island in a sea of perpetual troubles and yet one we cling to lest the memory fades of when we stood tall, when we stood for something that would hurt us because we saw the other side was wrong. Memory is after all, all we are and all we will be in the eyes of others and memory is amplified by the senses, none perhaps finer than the sense of sound.
Dying On My Feet, Theatre Review. Liverpool Art College, Liverpool.
Liverpool Sound and Vision Rating * * * *
Cast: Joanne Tremarco.
Death, arguably, is not the end; it is a state of being that continues in the hearts of those left behind, long after the last breathe has been drawn. The poets and artists have always been one to draw the subject as a next adventure, perhaps in keeping with Buddhism, the soul moving on from one umbilical cord to the next, the next chapter in a long reading list. It could also be a one shot, possible prize winning article, done and dusted regardless of how many words and the finest of by-lines are used.