Courier of the soul- A poem

Performing is delivering a gift

From writer to reader, composer to listener

You decide the path and perhaps the packaging

But you leave the gift at the front door

Ready to be discovered, unwrapped and cherished.

The package was in your care

Responsible for its preservation

You may enjoy the recipients reaction

But you are not the gift itself

You yourself aren’t the pleasure you provide

Music is the gift and you are

Giver, lover, traveler and believer

Hattie Butterworth

The Performance Mind

Hope you’re enjoying my crazy little poems- I write them as an attempt to iron out the anxieties and thoughts in my head and hope they may provide a different perspective for other artists/ musicians.

I’m aware how many people suffer from performance anxiety or stage fright and how often the remedies we are given don’t work. The picture attached caught my attention when at the Tate Britain on Saturday. I feel the different sections represent the different minds you can adopt when anxious and how everything seems disconnected and alien.

    

Trying not to care is the beginning of the end
Be aware that you do care, but that caring will make you spend

Every thought and feeling and mood on caring alone

The energy and love for the art withered and cold to the bone.

Perhaps caring wasn’t worth it-Those who give no shits

Often give the best performance And avoid all panic and fits. 

But why do those who love suffer for their art the most?

Performing is running naked, like confronting a ghost

Every part of you is on show, every ounce of what you love

And you pray the music will be there, that your preparation is enough

But nothing’s ever good enough for those who suffer from art

Things I ignored in practice suddenly tear up my heart

I worry I wasn’t true to myself and that the music wasn’t divine

I ask for reassurance from the audience, for any little sign

That I proved myself to them even if it wasn’t how my dreams play

And they tell me it was fabulous, that my playing made their day 

And sometimes they see through me and tell me it was tense

And I’ll cry and try once again to relax and make it less dense. 

When will I be able to state that playing in my room

Is just the same as a recital, an audition, my heart would go boom

But when you get up to perform you’re always torn away 

Of what calm what joy and what love you experienced yesterday

The energy is no longer focused on the love and the sound

But now on proving yourself to yourself and trying to the world

It’s only when other people watch that I dissolve to this state

Because I know they could love me too, but I’m surrounded by this hate

A hatred for exposing myself incase it goes tits up

But a hatred for not trying, even though trusting brings me luck.

Be truthful on what you love and hate and explore exactly why

The petty judgments from other people make you cry and sigh

So stop trying to stay true to your music, your art, your love

Stop caring about not caring, it’ll be easy and pleasantly pure as a dove.

  

The Artists

Yet another poem to help the days flow by and keep myself motivated on arty things! 

  



The artists learnt to love before they could draw. 

The drawing came easy, loving was the chore

Judged, destroyed, rejected, criticised

It would seem the love had gone from inside
The artists learnt to listen before they could play

The playing came easy but the listening would say

‘That was horrific- play it again’ so again they would try

But trying didn’t work so the artists would cry
The artists learnt to live before they could act

The acting was easy but the living slapped back

When most people live they don’t have to ‘do’

But the doing was the acting, so their living was too
The artists learnt to feel before they could write

The writing came easy but the feeling was… Shite 

They wrote what they felt but when feelings all were gone

They’d write someone else’s to prove nothing was wrong 
The artists learnt to smile before they could dance

The dancing came easy but the smiling was pants

A smile always expected from each pretty face

Until the smiles weren’t natural, but in a darker place
Before the art, learnt to love, listen, live, feel and smile

These things came first, their art took a while

So if their art be absent, or taken once more

True artists have all learnt how to be sure

That the love for their art will never die 

However deep it goes, it will return to fly high

But should the loving, listening, living, feeling and smiling hide

The artists will find what they learnt  first, what made the art, on the inside

Why poetry is the music in words and my obsession with half rhyme

Am I embarrassing you? I’m in Paris with you.

I don’t know why the sounds of half rhyme excite me so much. My favourite poems appear to be those that follow no set pattern and adopt a more imperfect tone and rhyme scheme. Perhaps it’s the predictability of perfect rhyme that loses my attention- I like this abstract idea of manipulating words. It’s a similar idea to the expressionist and modern composers. The idea that no rules need be followed, but through the half rhyme the poetic quirkiness is not lost!