Ian Copestick writes

Nothing Noble

A very great man once said,
"Every life viewed from the inside
is a series of defeats." I can't remember
who it was, maybe Jack Kerouac,

maybe 

Jimi Hendrix. It doesn't really
matter, 

except it's true. Things just

too 

often go wrong, as another great
man 

once said, in his suicide note.

He was right, but his reaction was
wrong.

There's nothing noble about
suicide,

not giving in, and coming out
of the

other side wiser and stronger,
that's the way that greatness lies.

Ian Copestick writes

Hope For The Future

Out walking, on a Saturday night, going
to the shop, and I see something that
really cheers me up. A young guy is
drunk, 

staggering along the road. A car is following 

him, creeping along in second gear, I assume 

it must be his missus. 

She calls him over, and he wobbles to the car.

They scream at each other for a few seconds, 

then he wobbles back to the pavement.

I know it shouldn't make me smile,
but I 

thought that kind of passion,
and behaviour 

hadn't made it down to the younger generation. 

I see myself, 20 years ago, and I have to
admit it gives me hope for the future.

Ian Copestick writes

Training

I was once asked if I thought that
any training was needed to be a poet.
At the time I said " No." But now,
I think that, if anything, you need
to train yourself to recognise those
moments, those special moments
when they arrive. The little epiphanies,
the ones that spark a poem off.
You have to train your eye, at times
they are not easy to notice. Many
times they're not the usual 'poetic' things
like sunsets, or roses. They can be, but
more often, it's more personal, fear, rage,
heartache, hatred. It could be almost
anything. A shaft of sunlight, reflected
off the chrome of a car. It's in the
noticing of such moments. I think that's
where the art is involved, and the
training is needed. If it's in any way
possible to learn such things.

Ian Copestick writes

All You'll Ever Get

When I think about how old I am,
near, 

too near to 50. I look at the people
I admire

and see where they were at my age. 

The terrifying thing is that so many of them 

were dead before they reached my age of 47. 

Robert Johnson, 27, Jack Kerouac, 46, 

Lester Bangs, 33, Kurt Cobain, 27, Hank Williams, 29,

Elvis Presley, 42. The list goes on and
on and on. When I think about my age,
and the life I've lived, I think I should
prepare myself to go at any minute.
Like in " My Way," I've got my regrets,
but I can still sleep at night. I've still got
a lot I want to achieve, but I can live with
that too, I suppose. We've all had certain
opportunities, and limitations, you do
what you can with the hand you're dealt,
and live with the consequences. That's
the best and the worst you can hope for,
and all you'll ever get.

Ian Copestick writes

Senile Ramblings
Someone once said
that April is the
cruellest month,
but not from
where I'm standing.
It's a mind blowingly
beautiful spring
evening. The kind
that makes you feel
alive after a long,
cold, miserable winter.
My big overcoat is
back in the wardrobe,
along with the thick,
heavy sweaters. It's
time for the T-shirts
to come out of
the metaphorical
mothballs. Actually,
I've never seen a
mothball in my
life. I'm not part of
the make do and
mend generation.
We throw things
away and go to
buy another. I feel
slightly ashamed of
this, my parents
tried to teach me to
be better than that.
But, never mind my
senile ramblings, it's
a gorgeous night
that says summer is
on the way, and I for
one am more than
ready for it.

Ian Copestick writes

A First World Problem

Aptly enough, as winter begins,
My life is turning into an
Existential nightmare. The
Sort of story that would have
Been written by Camus on a
Bad day. I smoke too many
Cigarettes and wander around
In a daze. Thinking glum

Thoughts, under grey skies.
Perhaps it's my mid-life crisis,
A couple of years too late. I
Can't even indulge in good, old
Self pity. It's too much of a
Cliché, I can't take it seriously.
It's too much of a first world 

Problem.  

I feel like a character in a 

Really bad book, and it's not even 

One that I've written myself.

 

 Coffee, schism -- Martel Chapman

Ian Copestick writes

Deadly Dull
Another deadly dull
Saturday night, some
may be out getting
good and drunk, but
time moves slowly
here in the suburbs.
There's nothing to
do but perform a
temporary lobotomy
on yourself with T.V.
and stuff yourself
with fatty, junk food
as you are doing it.
Your brain goes
numb, your arteries
clog up with crap and
cholesterol. This is
what passes for
living here and
now. Perhaps I am
going through a
depression of some
kind, it's happened
plenty of times
before. Even reading
and writing seem as
dull and predictable
as reality T.V. The
books are boring,
and I'm no bloody
different. As for
being a writer;
just who the fuck
do I think I am
kidding ?
Myself mainly.

Ian Copestick writes

My Dilemma

Under a mediocre, gibbous moon,
an indigo sky with lilac clouds,
and
orange sodium streetlights I saunter
through the streets of this nothing,
little town. A cigarette in my mouth,
a scrubby, two week growth of
beard
on my face, and confusion in my
forty seven year old mind. Is it better
to struggle and scrape every day,
trying to be pure, to be a poet?
Or should
I massacre my days, get a job in a factory,
try to write in my exhausted spare time
but at least be able to pay my own way
through my life ?
This is my dilemma, and I don't have a
clue. What the hell is the right thing to do?

Ian Copestick writes

Relieved

The melancholy feeling that comes
After a storm. I really thought that the
Hail stones were going to smash through
The car windows. Then came the snow
And the lightning, as always swiftly
Followed by the thunder. I think that it's
The first time that I've ever been really
Scared by the weather, the first time that
I've felt it could really do me harm.
We come in to light cigarettes and laugh
Nervously at just how worried we were.
Well, summer's on its way and the worst
Thing that can happen is your seat covers
Fade, and personally I'll be relieved.

-- John Finney

Ian Copestick writes

Past Lives

Watching a programme on T.V.
About reincarnation and 

People's past lives, one guy claimed to be
The illegitimate son of some ancient King
Who was murdered by the King's real son.
A woman said she'd been a courtesan of
Another ancient King.
It struck me that not a single one of them
Had worked in a factory, or been a serf,
A peasant. They all had such romantic lives.
So the working class mustn't be reincarnated.
Just another thing that goes against us.

Past Lives and Reincarnation -- Ying Wong

Ian Copestick writes

The First Warm Day

It's the first warm day of the year
And my endorphins come out to play
The birds are singing, the sun is here
And suddenly everything seems O.K.
It's strange how your problems can disappear
Just because the sun is shining
It's a  rare treat for us, living here
After we've spent all winter whining
I can't remember the last time I took a stroll
Without a  hat and coat to wear
The sun seeps down into my soul
My consciousness feels aware

The First Warm Day -- Ruth Gilmore Langs