Why oh why did I decide to write a blog post every day, for thirty days? It was a spur of the moment decision. I hadn’t thought about what I was going to write. Or how much time it would take. I didn’t consider how busy I would be. I just wanted to do something different before my 60th birthday. So I put it out there. Blurted it out on the web. And made myself a prisoner to time for thirty days.
So here I am. On day ten. One third through. Or if you are a glass half full person, two thirds to go. I see a path forming now. Ideas puncture my dreams or enter my thoughts. Some disappear, some hold fast while others dart between the foreground and background of my minds stage.
I am pretty sure that anyone who reads the 30 pieces will get to know me a little bit more. Always assuming that I complete my task. Yesterday’s blog was a long and arduous write. It was a delicate subject and I rewrote parts of it several times.
So today I am going to keeps things simple. For sometimes we need to allow ourselves to recharge. To heal from the scars of living. Something I will touch upon in more detail in a future blog.
In the meantime I leave you with a poem I wrote this week. I am not sure how this happened. I didn’t think that I would have the time or energy to write poetry.
But this is a poetry blog. So I present to you Scarred. Comments and feedback are always welcome. See you tomorrow.
This blog is the tenth in a series of 30 leading up to my sixtieth birthday. Thanks for getting this far. Please consider subscribing to my blog to keep up to date with my posts.
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They say that history teaches us. That we can learn from the mistakes of the past. And yet history repeats itself time and again.
Unfortunately, history is often determined by those who write it, and moreover, those who allow it to be written. The narrative is often controlled by those in power. This means that history is often distorted and left to interpretation.
There are too many occasions in the past where censorship has tilted the balance. Books were banned or burnt, and authors threatened or forced into exile.
Even as I write this I think of how many people will take offense at what I am writing. Although I am not writing to offend. I am merely stating an opinion formed after hours of thought.
Who Was Where When
Narratives are always been related to time. The Middle East is a particularly complex one. Israel points towards the October 7 attack as a cause of its current actions. Before that, both sides had numerous instances when they claimed provocation by the other side.
The history of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict predates the Holocaust. Both sides claim to have a right to the land. These claims reach back in history. Each side pointing at particular periods when the land was theirs.
The issue is further clouded when the Zionist movement and Jews are thought to be one and the same. Zionists are Jews but not all Jews are Zionists. Similarly, in recent years, Hamas claims to fight for Palestinian rights. However, not all Palestinians appreciate Hamas, nor are all of them members of Hamas.
I have read numerous books about the Holocaust. Several years ago I came across a small pamphlet showing photos of those lucky enough to survive. It still appalls me that, any group or nation can be treated that way.
A few years ago I wrote a poem to commemorate Holocaust Remembrance Day. The poem has the title Lost Works of Art and I decided to include it in my book. I wanted to highlight the waste of human life and how such a waste should never be accepted.
At the same time I could see that what started as a reaction to 7 October was becoming more sinister. So I include a footnote to the poem. I wanted to make it clear that I believe Genocide is unacceptable. Regardless of who commits or suffers it.
The current human tragedy is unacceptable. A line has to be drawn in any conflict. When children are displaced, killed or slowly being starved to death. The international community needs to react.
After all, what happened to Jews, Homosexuals and Roma during WWII was a result of the lack of commitment shown by world leaders in the face of Nazi Germany.
The international sense of guilt after the war lead to the creation of the nation of Israel in 1948. Unfortunately, the plight of the Palestinian people was not considered. The ongoing situation is a result of that oversight.
The killing must stop. The persecution of children must stop. It is not a question of taking sides. It is a matter of basic humanity.
I honestly believe it is the only way either side will ever have true peace.
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I first though about publishing a book when I was around 19. I had been writing poems for a few years and one or two had been published in student magazines.
Some of my friends were surprised that I enjoyed writing. They all thought that I spent every second of the day playing sport or engaging in some other form of exercise. They weren’t completely wrong either. Very often I would get lost on the way to class and find myself in the gym.
On those days I did not lose my way I would often write limericks about teachers and students during class. Limericks are meant to be funny but some of them were not amused. Perhaps I got a little too close to the truth.
All the same, in the few quiet moments I had, I found myself penning pieces that were more serious. I often wrote about the environment, the effects of war, the importance of freedom for everyone.
Despite the many hours I dedicated to sport, I was also involved in student politics. Times were troubled in Malta. Corruption was rife. To get anything done, required speaking to someone who knew someone.
Certain members of the government encouraged violent gangs to target protesters. I know several people who have scars to show from those times. I was one of the lucky ones. They were difficult, if interesting times. And in order to make sense of it all I turned to poetry.
Having attended an international school, my poetry was not limited to events in Malta. I still remember brandishing a sticker supporting the Solidarność movement in Poland. I took an interest in the conflict in the Middle East, which unfortunately is still in the news today.
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It was a poem about the Middle East which called pause on my first efforts to write a book. The poem was several typed pages long. I believed it to be far superior to anything else I had written. Unfortunately, I contrived to lose the poem after taking the sole copy I had, to show to a friend. I did try to rewrite the poem. Several times. But somehow it never felt quite the same. In the end, I decided to take a short break from poetry writing. I only wrote one poem in the next thirty years.
Takes Two and Three and Four
Although I had abandoned poetry for a long time, the urge to write was still there. I attempted to write a comedy where the main character and white ceilings had many encounters. I got to Chapter Two and the story fizzled out.
Then I tried to write a psychological thriller revolving around chat rooms. The problem was technology was changing so much that my story couldn’t keep up with it.
By this time I was writing a weekly basketball column called Take it to the Hole! for the newspaper Times of Malta. It featured a fictional character called Cikku (diminutive for Patrick in Maltese) and poked fun at everyone and anything. During this time, some of my peers encouraged me to write a book about basketball coaching. However, I never seemed to have the time to get it done.
And so it took a return to poetry writing, to eventually get me over the line. Old & UnWise – A Haphazard Collection of Poetry and Thought took over 58 years in the making. A year later and I can honestly say that I am still excited to say that I have a book.
I have promised myself that the next book will not take another 58 years to be completed.
I must admit, I do like being seen. I am not shy. While I write most of my poems to be read, some of them were written with performing in mind. I know I have a lot of work to do on how I perform poetry. However, I do like the opportunity to connect with an audience.
After reading his post I took some time to deliberate over where I want to go with my writing. There is no doubt I want to publish a second book. Having poetry in print means people can take their time to consider the message in the words. To read between the lines. To take notes and consider any emotions the piece elicits.
All the same, I am a big fan of live events too. I like to engage with the audience. Read their eyes. Hold them, captive if I can. Very often performers are accompanied by friends who would not normally buy a poetry book. It is a chance to get a message across to someone who might otherwise not read/hear it.
At most of the open mic events I attend I am often the oldest or one of the oldest attending. It is a great opportunity to hear young poets talk about the issues relevant to them. I really do believe that my generation needs to do a lot more listening to the younger generation. I do feel that mixing with younger poets enabled me to keep an open mind. It certainly has helped me understand some of the issues that are important to my daughter.
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I have always thought that aging brings about a sense of stagnation. The opportunity to mix with poets with different ideas, needs, and backgrounds has been valuable. It has allowed me to continue to adapt my perception of the world we live in. I am definitely getting older, just ask my knees, but I still feel that I am learning and developing. That stagnation has not set in yet.
In the next couple of weeks I will be in London again. This time I will be a featured poet in at least two events. I will be using the chance to share what is important to me. Expose my thoughts, fears and even at my age, my dreams. But at the same time I will be listening to others, engaging in conversations with them and even seek inspiration for new work.
A short except of a piece I performed at an open mic in London held by Poetic Unity.
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I am not adverse to using a machine to make life easier. Washing clothes with a machine certainly saves a lot of time. And in my case probably with a much better result too.
My hero Douglas Adams, had an electric monk as a character in his book Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency. The electric monk would believe in things for you so you could avoid the tedious task of believing in anything yourself. I actually thought this concept was brilliant and brilliantly hilarious too.
So I can understand the sudden rise of Artificial Intelligence or AI now that the computing power is available to make it possible. AI can facilitate a lot of processes at the place of work, albeit at a considerable cost to the natural environment. Something which a lot of people are unaware of.
There will probably also be a social cost when AI will eventually reduce the need for certain jobs. This is something that will have to be tackled too.
However as a creative person one of my main concerns is the use of AI to produce art, whether written, audio or visual.
There is the issue that some people are creating art using AI and claiming it as their own. They are frauds
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Moreover, there are a lot of concern among creatives that their work is being used to train AI Models. I am amongst those concerned. Several countries are discussing copyright laws related to this issue. I wonder who will win the battle between big bucks corporations and small fry artists? I am not holding my breath.
But I do have a devious plan. What if artists got together and posted thousands of pieces of nonsensical poems online, pledging to like each other’s work at the same time. Perhaps we could get AI Models to pick up all the gibberish and churn out a lot of codswallop.
My contribution to such a plan would be:
CAPRICORN FLAX Pink syphilis fluorescing gumdrops Flatulence born on roses Hallowed motherboards overthinking bliss Bubblegum sharpened bites apples Mother bronzes baby litter Vulture fondles overheating carburetors Ball bearings vibrate on toasted fingernails Equidistant lies sing Sinatra Ooh-La-La Bitumen suckles sycamore children Outright
Let me know what you think of my anti AI plan. Bots and other machine controlled brains need not reply.
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Most of the time we don’t think about it. Breathing just happens. We don’t consciously breathe. Just as we don’t consciously make our heart beat. We wake and breathe. We work and breathe. We sleep and breathe.
For some of us, though, breathing can become laborious. Our bodies struggle to get enough oxygen and breathing becomes a forceful action.
I know. As a child I suffered from asthma. A condition where the walls of the wind pipe, or trachea, become inflamed. The end result is that the trachea, which connects the lungs to the outside word, becomes narrower. The narrower the passageway, the more pressure is needed to force air through. So inhaling and exhaling require more of an effort. The muscles of the thorax become fatigued and the smallest of physical efforts becomes a chore.
I remember missing quite a lot of school days while at primary school.
Fortunately, as I grew older the asthma attacks became less frequent. I relished this new freedom. I began to look for every opportunity to run, cycle and swim.
As I got stronger I sought every possible chance to push my body farther. I used to challenge myself to stay under water longer with just one breath (for more about this see my post Dipping into Prose). I spent more time on the (bicycle) saddle. I rowed for my University. There wasn’t a challenge I wouldn’t accept.
The importance of breathing and clean air has not been lost on me. Children with asthma suffer much more in polluted cities. Perhaps that is why the first sonnet I ever wrote wasn’t about love or nature. It was a sonnet about the politics of clean air.
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In my book Old & UnWise – A Haphazard Collection of Poetry and Thought there are one or two poems that touch on this subject.
Below you can find an excerpt of the poem The Boy Who Jigsaw Puzzles. It is one of the first poems in which I tackled the subject of asthma.
This blog is the fifth in a series of 30 leading up to my sixtieth birthday. Subscribe to my blog to keep up to date with my posts. And watch out for an important announcement I am going to make about the Electronic version of my book.
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Cities can be lonely places. Especially when the sun goes down and the main hustle and bustle of the day starts to slow down. This poem is about one particularly lonely moment.
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Feel free to give feedback on the poem. You may also share your own take on loneliness in the comments.
This blog is the fourth in a series of 30 leading up to my sixtieth birthday. Subscribe to my blog to keep up to date with my posts.
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I am an immigrant. Born of Maltese parents in West London. I sang “God Save the Queen” but was always aware that I came from a sunny island far away. Only my best friend Gary could properly pronounce my surname.
I have heard many pronunciations of my surname. When Pete Buttigieg announced he would run for the Democratic Party in the 2020 US Presidential elections, it caused a lot of laughter in my family. The US Media were particularly good at finding new ways to mispronounce Buttigieg 🙂
When I was ten my father got homesick and the whole family moved to Malta. I was in a place I should belong. However, I could only say three words in Maltese. Iva (yes), le (no) and inħobbok (I love you). At my first school I was known as l-ingliż (the English one). I felt like an immigrant.
Thirty years later I moved to Belgium with my wife and daughter. A new country, two new languages, a different sense of humour. I became an immigrant again. We are called Expats but it is really just a fancy word for immigrant.
I remember coaching Malta against England. They played “God save the Queen”, I sang l-Innu Malti out loud. I insisted all the players did. I knew both anthems by heart. One I vocalised, the other I might have sang silently, but I didn’t let anyone know.
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It can be a little confusing sometimes. Explaining where my allegiances lie. I care about what goes on in all three countries. I want all three to thrive.
What I do know is that each country faces immigration problems. Whether real or overblown, they often shape the politics of each country. What do I think? I was born an immigrant. I am an immigrant. I have felt like an immigrant in the country of my forefathers. I say give the immigrants a chance.
This blog is the third in a series of 30 leading up to my sixtieth birthday. If you pop back everyday expect to see photography, videos and poetry as well as tidbits of information about what makes me tick.
I am a competitive person. There, I said it. I love to win. I dislike losing. I am not fond of performing badly. Probably the greatest fear of self publishing my first book was that it would be a complete and utter failure. That is why any kind of validation is always very, very welcome.
Poetry books are pretty niche. They almost never sell as well as a book of short stories or a novel. So validation is even harder to come by. Every positive comment, every decent review turns into an espresso shot of confidence.
I published Old & UnWise – A Haphazard Collection of Poetry and Thought last year. It was quite the learning experience. However, at no point did I regret taking the plunge. Would I have done some things differently? Absolutely. But finally getting my first book released at the age of (then) fifty-eight was in itself rewarding and exciting.
That does not mean there haven’t been days when my enthusiasm waned. Particularly after the initial rush of orders eventually slowed down. Then there have been the moments when a poem was rejected by a publication. It is going to happen sometimes, but it takes a thick skin not to feel a little deflated.
Fortunately during the past months there also have been moments which gave me a boost. Even something simple like a kind word at an open mic event can really raise the spirits. I have been lucky that there have been such moments.
Perhaps the most significant of these came at a very difficult moment of this year for me. When things seemed a little bleak, and I really needed a boost, readerviews.com announced their annual awards.
I had submitted Old & UnWise in the poetry category and was humbled when I found out that the book had one two awards.
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It was awarded the Veneration Award for the Best Debut Poetry Collection and second place in the overall poetry category.
I started off this piece by stating that I am competitive. Coming from a family with a strong sporting tradition makes it pretty inevitable. Would I have liked two golds? Sure. But I will take a Silver and a Gold any time. No matter the event 🙂.
I have always wondered who calls time on time? I don’t have the answer. I have been gifted close to sixty years and have continuously found new ways to make the most of what time I have.
I will turn sixty in thirty days time. There is a certain symmetry to that line. So in the next thirty days I intend to reminisce over the past and the not so distant past. I will not try to make sense of everything but I will certainly share tidbits of myself. I might even write some new poetry. Some I may even share. Who knows?
We can never really understand life. It works in very strange ways. Each of us is born in different locations, and in different situations. Some of us are luckier than others. Some make our own luck. Some have no luck to speak of and struggle each and every day.
I have had my ups and downs. But I suppose the odds that were stacked against me were not as bad as those faced by others. I will talk in more detail about my childhood in another post.
As it is, I am fascinated about how life can be unpredictable in both good and bad ways. This week has not been any different. Something strange happened. I am happy to say that it was good strange.
I have been looking for new ways to present my poetry. And news ways to stimulate my writing experience. I decided a couple of weeks ago that I would try to find a typewriter. Now being an Anglophile I wanted one with a QWERTY layout. Most of the typewriters in Belgium have an AZERTY set of keys, so I decided I would look for one online, but have been too busy traveling to do so.
Friday I was in France. In a rural area close to Paris. There was a brocante nearby so I decided to check it out. The French, like the Belgians, use an AZERTY keyboard. You can imagine my surprise when I came across a vintage portable typewriter with a QWERTY set of keys. And in my favourite colour, orange, to boot! I snapped it up immediately, and though it needs a good clean, it is in excellent condition.
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Needs a clean but I am very happy with my orange vintage typewriter.
Things continued to get stranger. We returned to Belgium on Friday evening. On arriving home, we started to plan the weekend. My daughter asked me to give her a lift to a town about 40 km from home. Since I did not have much to do I agreed and off we went. After I dropped her off I noticed a thrift store a couple of doors down and decided to pop in. At the bottom of a box full of office item I noticed a yellow box which simply stated ribbon. I opened it and found an unused typewriter ribbon still sealed in its plastic packaging.
When I got home I found it matched the worn out ribbon in my new typewriter perfectly. Now if that isn’t a stroke of luck, I don’t know what is.
I think I will stop here but please check back tomorrow for some equally good news.
Stephen Buttigieg - Words 