Tag: spoken word

  • Improvisational Poetry: “The Cacophony Cease!” – (Poem, Recording, Discussion) – 28/06/20

    Improvisational Poetry: “The Cacophony Cease!” – (Poem, Recording, Discussion) – 28/06/20

    Click image to listen to “The Cacophony Cease!” in browser or on SoundCloud.
    Method discussion below poem.

    "The Cacophony Cease!"
    
    I feel the reverberation
    through my fingertips,
    through my bones,
    into my marrow,
     
    a source of quiet vitality in which I encase
    certain memories,
    certain experiences,
    so potent and noxious
    they should only be for me.
     
    I won’t allow others to see or feel them,
    to experience the anguish,
    the pain,
    the ecstasy,
    that would prove far too much, you see.
     
    Besides, it would be untoward.
    it would be unwise,
    to share everything with everyone
    because there are moments
    in our lives which we must keep private,
    we must remain quiet,
    these need to remain secretive, you see?
     
    And suddenly here appears a character,
    she’s beautiful,
    dressed in lace and organza,
    her dress flowing,
    tulle behind her,
     
    as she twirls and twirls and twirls,
    like the fallen angel that she was,
    
    she is,
    she was,
    she is,
    she WAS!
    
    She is?
     
    Which one is it?
    It shouldn’t really matter.
     
    She’s on show and she knows
    that she needs to put on her bravest face
    that will ever be worn,
    because this dress, this petticoat, this tulle
    is just the theatrical,
    she’s hiding something
    but she twirls and twirls just as she knows how.
     
    The cacophony is growing louder in my head,
    ordering me to be quiet,
    to not dare reveal as much;
    not all needs to be shared.
     
    Because attention is not always as important
    as retaining as a sense of dignity,
    the reputation of oneself,
     
    and while dragging one’s experiences up and out,
    back to life, can be contentious,
    it’s not something which should be realised,
    it may not leave the best impression.
     
    It’s important to understand that where one has been
    is not where one is,
    and is not where one is going,
     
    the future is where we should be flowing.
     
    And that’s what I need to understand, always,
    to look to the future,
    to not always look behind to the past,
    for sitting comfortably in the present and
    aiming toward the future
    is what I want,
    is where I want to be.
     
    These violent noises:
    will the cacophony cease?
    
    © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock (Recording: Words, Music and Artwork)
    https://soundcloud.com/user-894707136/the-cacophony-cease-spoken-word-poetryimprovisation-by-lauren-m-hancock
    My Process of Experimenting with Improvisational Poetry
    
    When it comes to recording my poetry, usually I start with the words first and then record with or without a backing track. But I thought to myself last night, “Why don’t I start with a backing track and then just say whatever I want, on the spot and see what comes out?”
    
    It really was an interesting process. I came up with many different concepts to accompany the chaotic piano key bashing I had recorded many years prior during the height of a bipolar relapse. 
    
    In these improvisations, I spoke of my condition, I spoke of interrupted dreams and nightmares, I spoke of the sense of self, I spoke of creation. Many things. The problem was, there were parts of the recordings I liked, but others which I did not, such as when I would fumble, or when my ideas didn’t flow nicely, or were rather unimaginative. Within the errors though, were some great ideas I could have reused, but I just kept recording on and on without noting down the phrasings which I did feel were successful.
    
    As you might have noticed, as of late, I have been exploring my life by taking steps backward and assessing what has been, what should not have been, and now, what is, and what could be. Letting my words flow through my consciousness like a river or stream allowed me to explore what's on my mind, and what I deem as important at this current time for my work. 
    
    I finally tentatively settled upon one recording and put it up last night just as a draft to review it in the morning. I felt it was good, but not quite strong enough, so I set about writing out the script of my words, then adding and editing and subtracting. There was not much rewording. 
    
    Thus, here is the result of my improvisation efforts from last night and this morning. Please have a listen to “The Cacophony Cease!” I hope you enjoy it.
    
    I enjoyed the creative process myself. 
    

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  • Poem: First and Foremost – Spoken Word and Text – 25/06/20

    Poem: First and Foremost – Spoken Word and Text – 25/06/20

    Jovial and content,
    happy, playful, sweet,
    a way of living has evolved
    from haphazard,
    crazed dreams.
     
    Where I tumbled
    from one scene
    to another,
    trying to find where I belonged,
     
    acceptance, love,
    were what I was seeking,
    the line thrown to reach them
    rigid and taut.
     
    No more slapdash or faux pas moments,
    lacking of personal respect or dignity,
    when trying to be cool,
    outgoing,
    effervescently fun,
     
    doesn’t the truth sometimes prove itself
    so sad, that tale to read?
    The invisible ink in my journal runs,
    of catharsis, I’ve no longer
    any need.
     
    The party girl,
    while wild and popular,
    only appeals
    in that moment,
    out of context,
    her vivaciousness
    can overwhelm,
     
    I’d rather sit quietly,
    penning a soliloquy,
    read a beautiful sonnet,
    or appreciate a heartfelt song.
    
    Darker tales there are to tell,
    crawling amongst
    soot, filth,
    and grime,
     
    an underlining of
    their facts,
    they are acknowledged,
    here recognised,
    if I were more civilised,
    I’d toast them away
    with you
    with hearty glasses of rich, health-coloured wine.
     
    No real compatibility determined,
    so many met,
    yet my personality,
    heart, looks, or mind,
    did not seem to fit,
     
    finally, I realised
    I needed to be
    happy, accepting,
    and loving to myself,
    first and foremost,
    only me.
     
    With true acceptance
    came an
    overwhelming sense
    of realisation,
     
    an understanding
    of how much I’d
    lost myself in
    the naivety,  
    the flighty dreaming
    of youth,
     
    the one true love
    I first needed was myself,
    and only then
    could l reach out for
    the hand
    of another,
    this is truth,
     
    to have,
    to hold,
    to care,
    to acknowledge as a
    warming, doting other,
    someone who will always be there.
    
    © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. 
    Image by StockSnap from Pixabay

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  • Poem: The Thundering Waves – Spoken Word and Text – 22/06/20

    Poem: The Thundering Waves – Spoken Word and Text – 22/06/20

    The quiet solitude
    as waves roll in,
    their silent crescendos,
    thundering vibrations
    only I can feel within.
     
    The rumbling of
    their presence
    marks tremulous
    tumultuous moments,
    fear impending,
    a sense of doom
    all around.
     
    When did I
    sign up for
    this battlefield?
     
    One in which
    only I
    can sense and
    anticipate,
    but with not a
    shred of volume
    to warn
    as my heavy breaths
    heave and leave.
     
    The desperate notion
    of reaching forth
    for something
    that’s invisible,
    only sensed,
    not heard or
    or even seen.
     
    The waves,
    their raucous fights,
    go frightfully
    in my night
    as I toss and turn
    inherent confusion: –
    impeded sight.
     
    I grasp ahead,
    feeling for safety,
    though the nothingness
    meets me,
    my desire for freedom
    is far too hasty.
     
    I spin and spin,
    vertigo in my head,
    a woman in distress,
    instead of feeling
    calm,
    well-rested,
    blessed.
     
    These thunderous
    waves of consciousness
    roll on and on,
    and on,
    may I please
    escape from them?
     
    Or be hailed by
    heavy reliving of
    a personal, solitary hell.
     
    The vibrations chase me
    in my dreams,
    as yonder, yonder,
    I fervently reach,
     
    Will I live to tell my tales?
    Will the waves crash on opposing shores?
    I can only hope they’ll recede,
    if not,
    I’ll fend them off with
    primal roars.
    
    © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. 
    Image by Dimitris Vetsikas from Pixabay
    Recording: Myself
    
    Sound effects: Source License: 
    Creative Commons - Attribution 4.0 International - CC BY 4.0 
    http://creativecommons.org/licenses/b... 
    ·Music promoted by: https://bit.ly/2qya62l 
    ·Photo/Video: https://bit.ly/3e1RBXV

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  • Poem: Something Dear and Personal – Spoken Word and Text – 19/06/20

    Poem: Something Dear and Personal – Spoken Word and Text – 19/06/20

    “Something Dear and Personal” – Spoken by myself.
    If something
    deeply personal
    is what you
    want to read,
     
    by all means
    settle in,
    grab hot cocoa,
    or steaming cup 
    of tea.
     
    What can I share?
    What will I reveal?
    Grab desperately 
    from my past?
     
    Drag forth
    contentious,
    gossip-worthy,
    or scintillating news?
     
    Will I or won’t I?
    That’s what you need to ask.
     
    Is it really necessary,
    am I required to 
    put on a show?
     
    A song and dance 
    of history
    of what I can recall,
    detailing what you may 
    want or need
    to know?
     
    Why, no. 
    No, no.
     
    There is no need for a show.
     
    But if there were, 
    would
    it be:
     
    Tumultuous,
    bittersweet,
    even provocative?
    My goodness, no!
    Please! 
    I am all subtleties,
    
    watch me as I respectfully curtsy,
    a dainty pirouette and now
    we’re back on topic,
    will I let the revelations
    flow with ease?
     
    Because I can test
    your patience by slowly,
    painstakingly, 
    dragging out
    the rocks and pearls 
    of the past,
     
    but what would be 
    the point?
    It is better to 
    look forward,
     
    the Past’s ship
    has sailed,
    hoorah! 
    To the future
    we are delivered at last.
     
    Stories of old
    may have their place
    in a certain context, 
    but for me,
    they rule no realm,
     
    in my world,
    they have no
    victorious reign,
    no power can the Past itself proclaim.
     
    Moving forward,
    I’m looking abroad,
    no furtive glances behind.
    
    Will you look at me?
    I’ve advanced myself:
     
    my goodness,
    oh, Lord! 
    No firm facts here delivered,
    lips tightly sealed
    protecting a personal, precious prize.
    
    The past shall remain a closed book,
    it's what I've realised and decided,
    no need to ride those monstrous waves,
    the future, 
    to me, 
    looks perfect.
    
    © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
    
    Image: by myself. 
    Background music: Documentary Background Music by AShamaluevMusic: 
    https://youtu.be/il9HGo4hPjI 
    Creative Commons — Attribution 3.0 Unported— CC BY 3.0 
    https://creativecommons.org/licenses/

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  • Poem: When She Comes Undone – Spoken Word and Text – 18/06/20

    Poem: When She Comes Undone – Spoken Word and Text – 18/06/20

    She’s had enough.
    Life, with its cruel measures, 
    she’s defeated,
    broken,
    dare say surpassed
    feeling rough, 
    
    her thoughts may not terrify,
    but they will reveal
    salted, open wounds.
    
    What is the point
    in detailing mediocre thoughts,
    some things which,
    in the moment,
    seemed thoughtful,
    and loving,
    caring, or clever,
    
    but of these qualities,
    her thoughts are apparently not.
    
    Instead she’s left
    with a soupy rendition
    of a mirroring of
    words that seem to
    fail to impress,
     
    for herself, she cannot bear to even
    re-read them,
    unworthy they are to share.
    
    Just a joke,
    self-doubt overwhelms,
    such a malignant disease
    it is,
    
    she wallows,
    bitter in the circumstances,
    she solemnly nurses her hot cup of tea.
    
    The sponge,
    its creative cells within her,
    that assisted her cushioned absorption
    of her many internal tunes
    is now blackened
    with thick sludge,
    her ideas stagnant,
    left to rot while they remain disused.
    
    Who is she
    to pull herself out
    from this torture,
    this slow drowning in
    grudge, sludge and grime,
    of phrases and turns which
    really aren’t that bold?
    
    Will she return to her true self 
    with time?
    
    She once believed herself
    to be an enigma,
    misterioso, a chameleon,
    alter herself at will,
    
    now she is just herself,
    hollowed and despairing,
    thoughts no longer
    flitting amongst the trees,
    
    rather she’s dragging herself
    by her hands,
    crawling painfully on
    chaffed knees.
    
    She guesses this is what
    living means today,
    on this day,
    at least for her,
    
    salted wounds,
    depression,
    its lingering gloom,
    has long ago set in.    
    
    © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
    Image by Jerzy Górecki from Pixabay 
    Audio: Myself.

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  • [Satirical] Poem: “Smile!” – Audio and Text – 17/06/20

    [Satirical] Poem: “Smile!” – Audio and Text – 17/06/20

    “Smile!” they tell me,
    “Cheer up, it’s not so bad.”
    I smile sardonically,
    retort facetiously,
    wriggle an erect finger
    from my hand.
     
    I hate being told
    what to do,
    why can’t they
    mind their own business?
    
    Did I ask for their opinions
    out of the blue?
    Did they believe their words
    would be cherished?
     
    In the bar,
    I attend to my clothing,
    rearranging my hair,
    my image,
    the crowd jeers, “Princess!”
    Like an indignant bird,
    I fluff out my plumage.
     
    I understand there
    are times
    when we must receive
    instruction,
     
    but when I’m being told
    to smile or
    have cheer
    by complete strangers,
    now that
    is in its own rude stratosphere,
    I need not their intervention.
     
    Why some people think it’s appropriate
    to use “Smile!” as an opening line
    is beyond me,
    cannot they formulate
    a better approach
    in their own time?
     
    A resting b***h face
    I must surely have,
    that pouted or deadly bored expression,
     
    I don’t mean to be
    unapproachable though,
    look further than my far off,
    superficial expressions.
     
    I could be the nicest person
    you’ll ever meet,
    but if you approach,
    instructing me to “Smile!”
    be prepared for a verbose fight.
     
    What if I don’t want to smile?
    But rather ruminate in that instance?
    Understand this, Stranger,
    your instruction does not
    endear yourself to me,
    in fact,
    it is an irritation,
    an offensive, belligerent bother.
     
    © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. 
    Image by PublicDomainPictures from Pixabay
    Music: "Sneaky Snitch" by Kevin MacLeod (incompetech.com)
    Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 3.0
    http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/

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  • Poem: A Womaniser – Spoken Word and Text – 15/06/20

    Poem: A Womaniser – Spoken Word and Text – 15/06/20

    Spoken by Lauren M. Hancock
    The dregs of my coffee
    are far too sweet,
    distasteful,
    what an experience,
    wholly bittersweet.
     
    Here I am reminded of,
    here I am taken back,
    to the years in which
    I fervently chased,
    
    and received nothing in return,
    my efforts proved an utter waste -
    this is sheer fact,
    no sense of it could I make.
    
    I won’t reveal him completely,
    how untoward that would be,
    although one thing I will say is,
    he pulled the wool over my eyes
    as I dreamed.
     
    Dreamed of a love
    so pure,
    of true affection,
    unconditional acceptance,
    reverence,
    devotion,
    I should have tried introspection.
     
    This man revealed himself
    as a cowardly, dastardly boy
    only out to take
    what he could control:
    my heart,
    my essence,
    my eyes.
     
    Those cold winter’s nights
    when we would share
    the same air
    in quiet spaces,
    breath visible in clouds,
    at his beauty I would stare,
     
    those balmy summer nights
    when I would doll myself up
    just for him,
    when modesty was amiss,
    of it I had no care.
     
    His mischievous nature,
    but, betrayal every time,
    ignored the next day,
    subsequent weeks, months,
    still I wanted to make him mine.
     
    How arduously I would
    seek him out
    until finally he was present again,
     
    the nights,
    my longing recognised,
    though, likely to him,
    my desperation, plain to see.
     
    He was like a magnetic force,
    but I never gained anything from him,
    the tired pattern of his
    quick disappearances,
    warranted deep despair within.
     
    And when I finally discovered
    his deception,
    he had a fiancé, or at most, a wife,
     
    my feelings turned,
    furious, seething anger,
    I beseeched,
    begging to be heard,
    I then vowed to destroy this former prize.
     
    But who am I to wreak havoc
    on another person’s life?
    At the time, it felt justified,
    so, revelations to his other,
     
    but she refused to believe
    or even dare recognise,
    my screenshots to her inbox,
    they held no power.
     
    My task was complete,
    but I apologised over and over,
    ironic panic at the idea of never again
    having him in my life,
     
    the guilt was enormous,
    but surely, I’d performed the right thing,
    she needed to know,
    that her man was not so upstanding,
     
    of his misdeeds she surely
    would not have
    learned of these
    from him.
     
    His phone number finally changed
    sometime thereafter,
    was it possible I was not
    his only secretive ‘other’?
     
    His philandering,
    perhaps upon many women
    he’d honed these skills,
    the craft, the art,
    of disrespect, dishonour, 
    and uncommitted thrills.
      
    I grew more careful
    with my heart,
    who would clasp it,
    what I would give,
     
    while he lived,
    swum in adultery,
    and I believe he felt not
    one ounce of sin.
    
    © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. 
    Image by Pexels from Pixabay
    Music: "The Hardest Part", Jeremy Blake
    
    

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  • Poem: Returning to the Strings – Spoken Word and Text – 12/06/20

    Poem: Returning to the Strings – Spoken Word and Text – 12/06/20

    Spoken by Lauren M. Hancock.
    I feel inept,
    my instrument
    has not been touched
    for months.
     
    I blow aside the proverbial dust,
    hold my violin up,
    my fingers grasp it somewhat awkwardly,
    how could I have allowed
    my practice to lapse?
     
    No excuses of being
    too busy,
    but rather lacking
    the motivation
    to allow my fingers
    to become less lazy.
     
    I try to drag the bow
    across the strings,
    skating sounds,
    harsh tones,
    this should not be how
    the heart speaks.
     
    I try an improvisation,
    a fast, hindered passage
    ensues,
     
    no delicacy,
    no tones so loving,
    where are the docile tunes?
     
    I am disappointed in myself,
    if I had kept up the hard work
    there would be less difficulty
    for pleasing notes to be heard –
     
    time to dedicate myself
    to the hard work
    once more.
     
    But the recurring scales now,
    with their tedious requirement,
    because of my returned boredom
    they will be ignored.
     
    Best to explore,
    regain my interest
    in this beautiful wooden structure,
    let it return as a dedicated pastime
    my skills, will they shine bright?
    When will they return?
     
    With time, they will,
    I am sure,
    I will work arduously
    at acquiring and fostering them again.
     
    Soon enough, wonderful melodies
    sing from the strings,
    I sway with the rhythms,
    the emotions,
    the feelings,
     
    though it took time
    to return to a level of skill
    acceptable for my high standards,
    there’s always room for one
    to progress even further.
     
    © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
    Image by Walter Wellborn from Pixabay 
    Music "I Don't Want To Do This Without You", by Midnight Feeler, from YouTube Library.

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