Author name: Hayden Veil

In an earlier incarnation, Hayden Veil enjoyed a successful career in software engineering, writing late-night poetry in pursuit of sanity. On 2 February 2020, the world of Hayden Veil changed: Ghosts became real and with its soul laid bare there was no turning back from the perpetual path of poetry.

Poetry Drafts / / By

Mosquito Net

Sadness never starts at the soles
Of feet that have seen fells and shores
Crossed desert and pine-filled land
Sailed high above the clouds of Man

Sadness never starts with tintinnabulating ears
Nor in the hollow darkness filled with tears
From seeing all of Man’s creations slowly wither
Never to be seen anew in the silent realms of dither

Sadness never starts as a tightening knot
With the church bells knell, or Death’s first knock
On your door as solid as rock
Standing firm — until it is not

Sadness start in stillness
Delving deep into supporting roots
Impenetrable lies cover fading truths
Of lineage and like an invisible mesh for mosquitoes
Keep you out
Of life.

Poetry Drafts / / By

Hunger

Hunger. The wrath of the void
Curled up inside a beacon of hope
For silence.

Sizzling Sirloin steak — medium to rare
I butcher my memories
In favour of voices telling me to move
When the heart only wants
A chair.

Sit.
Sit down. Never move.
Never move again.

The silence in the void
Of penury
After the penny dropped
Sköll yawned silently
Beneath a shrouded moon,
Driven by desire
To see another day, another way
To make the bacon last
And the hunger
— a thing of the past.

Poetry Drafts / / By

As I walk your earth I leave no shadows; no footprints on your dunes of doom. Naked skin white as snow sizzles in coconut oil. Fried frowns and dried lawns randomly left for chary craftsmen. Everyone looks of age, everyone looks away. Your forests leafy and needled; I chew and spiked memories re-emerge as new. Green grass and prickly skin, nettles and old engineless mowing machines. I walk your earth another time, another long way round, barefoot and unoccupied. Ghosts of shadows point the way through the breathing forest towards the end of day.

Poetry Drafts / / By

Once upon a time, in a land far far away a man wore many hats. One hat, then another, never two or more as one head could fit only one solitary cover. Once upon another time, in a land devoid of manners the man tried many hats, one upon the other till the head could not bare another. The neck broke and the art choked, leaving the man without a head, without a proper place to put a hat. Once upon a time, art could survive the loss of a head, the whispers of voices becoming spoken truths of stillness. Once upon a time, far far away, hats ruled our lives – in silence.

Poetry Drafts / / By

One day, just any ordinary day, there were rumours that everything that mattered would cease, every written word fade into the unwritten. And on that particular day no one dared post on Tumblr; no one dared to oppose.

Poetry Drafts / / By

And the silence slowly spread across the land
And the low light found itself in longing pretence
And a feeble foot cursed and cussed
As an unpleasant pain broke the silence of night
– the longing and words of woe
replaced by agony from head to toe

Agony! Agony!! Agony!!!

The pain a disproportionate punishment

Agony!

for a tepid tap of toe
on another foot of cold and chrome

a crushing blow

then a howl like a hurricane at dawn
as the brittle bone broke
or the unnourished nail knew
it no longer had a home.

Silence fell. Lights dimmed.
The lonely shadow hobbled
through
the night’s final embrace
towards a brighter morning
– of pain

Prose Drafts / / By

The robed man looked out over the immaculately striped lawn resting in the moonlight. He closed the heavy curtains and turned slowly towards the woman sitting on the gilded four poster bed.

“Thank God this day is almost over. How are you faring my dear queen, finally this consort nonsense is behind us,” he said.

“We are indeed blessed; the day could not have gone b—” A sudden rumbling from the walk-in wardrobe made them both turn towards the closed door. There was a faint light eminating from the keyhole.

“How peculiar, that door never used to have a keyhole…” the man said and started towards the intense beam of light that now seemed to grow larger and almost embracing the whole bedroom.

“Careful my dear, do call the guards instead of —” The door opened and out through the light stepped a small figure.

“HIIIIIIII! All doors want to have a keyhole, so I did a helping!” The boy spoke and the light seemed to dance around them in a merry waltz. That it was a waltz they were sure of; that the boy Jay was eleven and from outside of the universe there was also no doubting. How they knew they did not know. Some things just are. Especially on days like this.

Poetry Drafts / / By

My publishing project started in 2018, and perhaps aptly set out in a poem…

I have managed to amass tangible evidence of project execution:

Ghosts: Poems in Black and White

Imbalance: Poems for Sitting Down

Bumblebee: Poems for Dark Times

Five years later and with these three poetry collections completed I am now at a crossroads. Where do I go from here?

I am grateful to everyone who has supported me so far by purchasing my books and promoting them on Tumblr and elsewhere. Your continued support is much appreciated 💜

Poetry Drafts / / By

April 1, 2023 – PSA: A Book is Born

I’m unlikely to fool anyone into buying my third poetry collection; publishing it on April 1 is as close as you’ll get to me revealing how I feel about the third instalment of weary words for wanting wanderers.

Bumblebee is a poetry collection for dark times. Poems to help deal with fear of being still, combatting the urge of constantly being on the move, and the consequences of being.

The Thought took flight long ago along an oral path that spanned a lifetime; but as Death came and Distortion followed the Thought morphed into another’s. Then the Thought caught the turning tide; through the ink splattered on papyrus and parchments the Thought found a final resting place at the hand of Man and the pen of the Mighty.

Bumblebee revives that ancient art of handwritten poetry that enabled not just the transfer of thought, like its oral predecessor, but also the highly individualistic expression of the poet with part clarity and part illegibility in the written. To futureproof the legibility each handwritten poem is accompanied by a state-of-the-art AI-generated* version presented in a standardised font.
 
 

 
 
 
(*: well, no, not really from an AI, just the poet typing on a keyboard)

Bumblebee: Poems for Dark Times

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