Wednesday, 18 November 2015


There is much to think about in the poetry of Ash Dean. On the surface it is lyrical but read it for a second time discern what is below the surface. 
Here is a man dedicated to his art. A man who speaks eloquently. Those with ears will hear.
Philosophy informs a lot of my poetry. I think this is the case with most poetry, whether it is acknowledged or not. The human condition, the natural world and how these things co-exist and relate – poetry frames a snapshot of some truth amongst all of this. Truth is always the starting point. To write a poem I need to have something truthful to say and the success of the poem is its ability to communicate this truth to others while retaining its particularity.

I like to immerse myself in all of the arts as I believe they can all gain experience from each other. Poetry is especially transcending. It can combine imagery and melody to tell stories or share ideas. It can be visual, musical and literal in one.

The creative process fascinates me and I often reflect upon it in my monthly blog. As an artist you are constantly dealing with how to capture something almost intangible and make it real. As for finding inspiration, I find the key is to be open-minded, to think deeply and to experience new things. Inspiration doesn’t work on demand for me. I do the aforementioned things and leave it to strike randomly. The trigger experience itself usually becomes the focus of the poem but sometimes the idea is bigger and needs dissecting into a group of poems or, sometimes, worked into a larger narrative in order to realise its potential.

I’m currently working on a conceptual collection, a Bildungsroman running as a linear narrative, which is really stretching my range of style. It is a test to make the collection follow while remaining varied and allowing for the poems to still be effectual individually.

The two poems below are from my Sweden collection. The collection is autobiographical and follows my attempt to settle in the country. When attempting to tap into truth, the best inspiration is a heartfelt experience. What is sometimes difficult is finding the composure to convey it.

Discover all of my poetry for free on my website.

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Du gamla, du fria  

Residing sleek hillside come drink from the pool, 
Cup volumes and feast without a motion, 
Enliven the lichen that bathes in the cool; 
Become aglow you waken all emotion.  

Young sapling foreseeing bid straight for the sky, 
Cheer softly near flora into fragrance, 
Together sweet millions a beau to espy; 
Allied are we enraptured by your cadence.  

Long sunset go teasingly on till the eyes 
Upon you go slumber to your obit; 
Now merge with the living, the sea and the rise, 
Entrench anew and galvanise our bowsprit.  

Quick lope cracking hearth blind or whip summoned might, 
Mute shackles upon a painted spectre, 
Redress fevered cares with the chill of the night,
Entrap my soul, bequeath it as your sceptre.  

A thawing, oh fawning, do death give to life, 
Transition a peril and a splendour, 
In faith and humility heedless to strife; 
A true romance abided by its labour.  

Inside every kingdom a will plays to rule 
And binds the waif spirit to the landscape. 
This vista vibrates throughout each molecule; 
Propel me forth, command me till the last gape. 


Sombre dawn -  
Weighted, packed and clinging 
Is the baggage that remains 
As the near-deserted tunnelbana 
Jolts steadily my leave 
And from Hammarbyhöjden 
To Skärmarbrink junction
I see myself in the glaze of a window.  

To stare at one’s reflection 
With no trace of vanity, 
No abstraction, 
To stare at the self
In one certain moment, 
When nothing is certain and all is absurd, 
To stare at the mask of the mind 
That has nothing left,
Just existence, 
Feeling nothing except the absorption of time 
And the haunting eyes
In which time has stopped.  

Give me defeat for it fuels my progression. 
Humiliate me and harden me for losing. 
I fail because of choice itself 
And not the choices I make.  

There is no prescribed way to impart oneself, 
Only that which tests and destroys 
To rebuild and destroy again. 

What would I be
If I had not chanced
Everything I had become?
In every loss
I gain and reap
More than I lost.

This will always be
My eternal hanging.

Both poems copyright Ash Dean 2011.

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