February 8th, 2021. COLLECTED

– – –

"Collection" by Harrie Costello
-for you
 A post card sent from far away, 
 A letter given just to say,
 Crystal figures in grand display cases, 
 Paintings hung of unseen places,
 Books that contain favourite paragraphs,
 A loved ones ancient telegraphs,
 Handmade dolls sit by side on a shelf,
 And car boot sale china to add to the kitchen delf,
 Photographs and figurines,
 Vinyl records to DVD’s
 Furniture pieces like ugly lamps, 
 And nothing says “Holiday!” like souvenir stamps,
 Baby’s first shoes for the next ones feet, 
 The first cut lock of hair and a box of small teeth,
 A box of cassette tapes of the years as we grow old,
 As to never forget any stories to be told,
 Notes that say sorry with writing that’s not so neat,
 Birthday cards from family, to whom you no longer speak,
 Primary school projects and old pairs of glasses,
 Behavior reports from secondary school classes,
 The loveliest bit of it all, to me 
 Is the idea of collecting all those memories, 
 Of a time that’s come, that’s been and gone,
 The cycle of change and how all will always carry on,
 Of swimming in the sea or taking a chance,
 And first heartbreak in a teenage romance, 
 Of life and where it all goes wrong,
 And how easily it’s fixed with lines from a song,
 Of moments of sheer, unrelenting joy 
 Like the birth of a bouncing baby boy,
 Or falling in love and finding a girl,
 Who you never knew would change your view of the world, 
 Or the moments where what looked like tragedy, 
 Were windows to what we came to be,
 To look back and see that each day was filled,
 With something at least, be it goodness or guilt,
 Love in life, is the greatest gift you’ll get, 
 Someone’s time, thought and effort, you’ll never forget,
 A collection of words, be it written or said, 
 Will always live inside the others head,
 A wistful thought
 To a dream come true 
 I want to see it, 
 And collect it all,
 With you. 

– – –

“Dying Slowly” by Vian Borchert (2021)

– – –

"mortality" by Connor Orrico
 we collect stories
 and create ourselves
 until we forget
 and are forgotten
 and it is okay:
 it must be okay;
 we can be okay --
 [                 ] 

– – –

"Building a Dragon (or what the hell are we doing here?) 
by M.A.A.
 Gather around, help finish the puzzle
           every piece gone rogue
 now, it’s a merciless road
 hunting these jigging parts
           puts us through some saws 
 and so it goes -
 one piece from below, one from the top, 
 many through vertical realities
 from the long stream of memory.
 There was a ragtag bunch of Anglos
 faces like trolls’, cheeks like mold
 with idiocy enough to see God
 and thus observant of race, somehow
 convocation at a triad's temple
 ritual at the crazy man's burrow
 we were received at the sender
 towards their nasty furrow
 onwards to trolls' lair
 with great lack of care.
 For each piece something must be given
 for there is a bit of tease to each clue
 perhaps like a knight holding a lancer
 ushering to chase courtesy
 or a mistaught necromancer
 bringing warmth to a cold body
           each clue is a bounty 
 one piece from below, one from the top, 
 many through vertical realities
 from the long stream of memory
           what will it depict -
 is it fortune? is it luck?
           is it us face down in the ditch?
 is it fate measuring how much we suck?
 One piece from below, one from the top, 
 many through vertical realities
 from the long stream of memory
           as we bring the pieces together
 it starts to breath fire (surely it's still sanitary?)
 but we are hunters, we do not gather
           we go on to fight the dragon
 "I mean, I don't know about this
           too many a man, too many a monkey,
 and to be fair, not enough either for a party"
 whatever, mid-20s 
 is the time to fight the beast
 self-pity only sneaks in
 after the lack of unpromised feast
 And there on the bench we watched,
 as the the jungle of towers 
 swayed with the wind and fought
 as the waves were flushing capitalism
 the city merely collateral damage
 subject to one last awkward stab
 system knocking out the hostage
 in panic, in chaos, as a final jab,
           but there on the bench
 the vision blurred, minute by minute,
 the harbinger came to ruin the night of cans
 so he walked across the Pacific without hesitation
 cursing revolt with soaked Kabbala in his hands
 idiot cousin of Blake's B-grade incarnation
 it confused the vision and my well-oiled mind
 one called him a Satanist (perhaps more than twice) 
 but he was merely a leech
               "one more time..."
           and he threatened to leave 
 to conduct occult with money in his eyes
 he disappeared into the night (to eat kids)
           (seriously though, eat shit)
 One more time: 
 one piece from below, one from the top, 
 many through vertical realities
 from the long stream of memory
           no adventures without insecurity
 this is the road we trod;
 in a journey blinded by fascination
 the dragon committed tax fraud
 and suddenly it had our attention,
 yet one thing is certain: the knighthood chose us
 - but to what end are we given such luck?
 we, who are here to fu-
           ...oh, it's a salamander...
                 ...I don't like it.
 throw it away
“What the hell are we doing here?” by M.A.A. ft. Conal Gilliland

– – –

"Collected Memory" by Vian Borchert
 All the collected poems
 I had for you
 vanished away
 into thin air
 the day you walked away
 and shut the door!
 Away into the horizon
 you walked until you became a dot
 and disappeared
 off the edge of the earth
 to a place not to be seen.
 With every drop of tear
 that came from my eyes for every collected memory 
 that faded away with every passing year...
 I know you are gone
 and your return will never come. 

– – –

“Nantucket” by Jacob Van Buiten

– – –

"Céide Fields" by M. Kearly
 We must have left our words in the car that day,
 Realising that we would not need them
 As we abandoned our thoughts
 And stepped into someone else’s shadow.
 Known by man for thousands of years,
 Hundreds of miles from home,
 But here in these fields, 
 Something familiar took my hand,
 I wondered if we were being guided then.
 The noise of the world led us into this silent space
 And the peace welcomed us, as if we were long awaited.
 You and I looked at each other, smiling,
 Surrounded by rocks and peat - 
 Yet we knew it was more than that,
 It was ours.
 Although land turns to bog and we learn to move on,
 We had accepted in those fields that Time does not forget,
 Neither footprint, song or bone,
 We will not be forgotten either. 

– – –

"Collected Poems" by S.J. Saighead
 Each poem, each line,
 Each thought, each rhyme,
 From first pen stroke
 Till time of death,
 No words left lone,
 No room to regret.

– – –

Next exhibition theme: HEART

Deadline: Midnight, February 21th

Submit at: artisticdifferencesproject@gmail.com

More information under ‘Submissions’ tab

Published by artisticdifferencescurator

My name is Seán and I am the creator and curator of the Artistic Differences Project. I started this project during the lockdown in Ireland due to COVID-19 in March 2020 as a way to get my friends and I creating during a troubling time. From there the project as gone from strength to strength and now we publish a new exhibition every two weeks.

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