Creator / imaginer: Dabbler in art, literature and sound.
Something feels awry
Within me lately.
My soul feels transparent,
Thin and faded.
As if,
I’m a ghost,
Moving languidly,
Invisible.
As if,
I am operating
Outside of the world.
A spectral spectator.
As if,
I’m looking into
The bright homes of strangers,
Peering in on their lives.
At the warmth
Behind their windows.
The movement.
The laughter.
The ordinary things
I cannot reach.
As if,
I float down their street,
Hopelessly.
Lost in the dark.
I have embarked on a second volume of Nocturna Club tales. Volume One ended with The Twelfth Night: The Nocturna Club Annual Dinner Dance, and, truthfully, I had fallen in love with the characters and happenings of this strange little world. I simply didn’t want it to end.
Nocturna Volume II already features two new poems: The Mermaid’s Tale and The Brigade de Cuisine. I’ve become much more immersed in the world and increasingly comfortable fleshing out its characters and situations. I’m learning a great deal as I go, too. The Brigade tale, in particular, led me down the fascinating rabbit hole of Edwardian French kitchen staff, procedures, and some wonderfully strange dishes.
My world-building master list now tracks every location, oddity, creature and character, along with their connections, appearances, and story references. With the named character count now sitting at 52, maintaining those connections to Volume One has become vital. I’ve started adding deeper links between characters, including Prudence Pike, the Poissonnier (seafood chef) and cousin of the performing Pike Twins; Selena Marlowe, Captain Abercrombie Marlowe’s maritime folklorist daughter; and young Percival “Pip” Rook, the kitchen plongeur (dishwasher and porter) and nephew of club attendant Gideon Rook.
Writing in this world really lifts my spirits, and I hope readers enjoy exploring it with me.
So lace those corsets, button up those waistcoats, and come and imagine with me.
Onwards!
The preparations for the
Annual Nocturna Founders Dinner
Had been hectic.
Fortunately,
The final course
Of a memorable
And chaotic evening
Had now been delivered.
Allowing the club’s
Head Chef to make his way
Out to the canal dock,
Pull up a wooden crate,
Stoke his
Churchwarden pipe,
Close his eyes,
And enjoy
A well-earned
Moment of solitude
And reflect on the day’s events.
An old wooden dock
At the rear of Nocturna
Provides access
To the narrow city canal.
Used by occasional delivery barges,
And small wooden
Personal craft.
Often frequented by
An ornate wooden
Steam Launch
Owned by
Captain Abercrombie Marlowe.
Stepping from her
Polished timber deck today,
Is the Captain’s daughter,
Selena Marlowe.
As Selena stepped ashore,
Her dark hair
Still carried the scent
Of river water.
Ms Marlowe is a renowned
Nautical folklorist,
And is visiting with her father
This evening to meet with Artemis Fogg,
Cartographer,
Folklore enthusiast,
And, according to the Captain,
A scallywag.
Right now,
I feel empty
Of creative thoughts.
Perhaps I’m tired.
Distracted.
Stressed.
But there feels
Like a heavy wall
Soft.
And absorbing.
Is swallowing
Any and all
Creative thought.
It is a strange time.
A void
That cannot be filled.
Or perhaps
It is something else.
A clearing
Of the decks.
A quiet preparation
For something
I cannot yet see.
It feels
Like I’m falling asleep,
But I’m wide awake.
Perhaps I will sleep soon,
And somewhere
Beyond consciousness,
Wonders will reveal
Themselves.
Perhaps
There is simply
No time
To commit
To creating.
And that,
Frustratingly,
May be alright.
Perhaps I must
Let the silence
Have its way.
Let the wall remain.
Let the thoughts
Disappear.
And trust
That when they return,
They will know
Why they left.
Who is this gentleman
that stands
Before me
in the mirror?
I no longer
Recognise him,
As I once did,
But I care for him.
I try to dress him well,
Vest, shirt, pants, tie,
Velvet coat, tidy shoes.
I try to care for him,
Expensive spectacles,
Antique poetry books,
Clean waxed moustache,
Neatly trimmed chin beard.
I keep him well groomed
Pleasant colognes,
Parfums, skin products,
Scented body washes,
So that he may
Feign confidence.
All of that love
That I show him,
All that effort I perform
Is so that he can feel ok.
And yet,
He remains
An ungrateful wretch.
Objectively disagreeable,
A fat, lazy, ugly,
Anxiety ridden,
Depressive,
Who hates himself,
And cannot bear
To be around people.
However,
I still comfort him,
I wipe away the tears
Nobody sees,
I quiet the echoes
That nobody hears.
I calm the torment,
That fills him,
While he punishes
Himself,
For the actions
Of others,
Who still
Haunt him.
Unfamiliar lands.
Unwelcome sounds.
An unwanted location.
Awful music.
Overload
Is a matter of course.
Why
Do I feel this way?
How
Is this fun?
How do they
Find pleasure
In this?
When can I
Go back in time?
Let me go back.
Let me leave
This place.
These people.
These faces.
None of them
Care for me.
A feeling
Reciprocated.
The Discussion was excitable,
Whispers that grew,
Too loud were hushed.
Nocturna’s cartographers,
Archivists,
And manuscript enthusiasts
Were alive with activity.
“Where did it come from?”
Arthur Coldbottom
Whispered.
“The journal was concealed
Within the false bottom
Of an old tea chest,
Along with the maps
And other artefacts.”
“The last journey
Of Hermon Von Cramp.”
I do not feel as though,
I am made for this time.
Some parts
Still fit.
Others
Refuse
To recognise me.
I get lost in detail now,
I find myself frustrated
Easily,
When simple things
That what worked yesterday
Inexplicably,
No longer do today.
I understand.
It happens.
It is part of ageing.
That knowledge
Offers
Very little comfort.
It hurts
To bid farewell
To a mind
That once
Felt fierce.
What is this smell upon me?
Some foul,
Invisible
Stench,
That my soul emits?
Why am I invisible?
Yet my thoughts
Remain demanding,
And my temper,
Grows impatient.
Hyde
No longer
Requires
An introduction.
My masks are
Fast becoming
Ineffective.
I can feel
My kindness
Dimming within.
How long
Will I let you push me,
Until I push back?
Like an injured dog
Snapping at its master.
How long
Before
My silence
Learns
To bite?
I no longer fear
Becoming Hyde.
I fear
Forgetting
That I wasn’t
Him already.