26 Apr

Make Music: The Noisy Brain

Supposedly, I have a way with words.
Just as well, considering what I do.
But I have my limitations – there’s only so much I can do with words.
One thing I can’t do is sing, or play an instrument, sadly.
Luckily, there are others who can do this, and produce something quite magical.

What am I talking about?
Well, I signed up to something called The Noisy Brain… and I suggest you do too.
If you love words, if you’re a budding bedroom writer, if you’re at all lyrical, if you love music, then The Noisy Brain is for you.

It’s based around mental health and wellbeing and the idea is that anyone – Joe Public – can submit a poem or some lyrics and they go up on the site, under ‘written submissions’ or ‘bank of writings’.
Musicians can then trawl through these, pick something out and – in collaboration with the writer – turn it into a song.

Musician and writer then go back and forth, refining the track, talking about its meaning, considering ideas for a video, and so on.

It’s the brain child of an adland creative called Stu Mills.

Eventually, it’s hoped that there’ll be enough tracks available to produce an album which will then be promoted.

It’s a great idea for, as I say, bedroom writers, a great idea for musicians, and a great idea in terms of mental health. It’s a real boost – an honour even – when you hear that a musician wants to turn your scribblings into a song.

So far, I’ve had three poems turned into songs.

They include two that I’m going to leave at the end of this post.
Any and all feedback welcome.

Why not submit some writing – give it a go. It’s a fantastic exercise in creativity for creativity’s sake and who knows, your writing could be the next big hit.

Here are two of the poems I submitted:

The Journey

I wander over hills
and vales,
The red kite cries,
The sky grows pale.

I stride with purpose;
Even pace,
Through narrow paths,
past harsh rock face.

I side-step stones
And broken slate,
But stumble
In my confused state.

Up ahead
A stile to climb;
I’ll take it
In my own sweet time.

The other side
The path grows thin,
Spiky heather
Scratches my shins.

Thick brambles swarm
The thinning track;
Soldier on
Or now turn back?

I lumber forwards,
Ignoring crude thorns
Piercing me.

The brambles part,
For grass and fern,
Weighing down
My every turn.

I struggle onwards,
Now knee-deep;
Meet beady eyes
Of hardy sheep.

The drizzle starts,
With biting winds,
A lonely mist
Comes sweeping in.

The red kite cries,
But I can’t see,
The sweeping mist
Envelops me.

This is my journey,
My reason to be;
I hate this bloody analogy.

Small Boat

I sailed away
In a small tin boat;
A heart barely healed,
A soul full of hope.

I watched the waves
Gently lap at the hull;
My eyes were bright,
But my mind was dull.

I saw the fish,
In neat, bright shoals;
They hauled me from
A deep, black hole.

I grabbed the oars
And gave a heave;
I started to think,
Began to believe.

I rowed and rowed,
The bow did plough,
I focussed on
The here and now.

I saw a sand drift
pure, pristine,
It made me smile,
It made me beam.

And just beyond,
A small, white isle,
I made up my mind,
To stop a while.

I reached the shallows,
Hauled my boat;
Found a place
Where I could cope.

I lay upon
The cool, wet sand,
Looked up at palm fronds,
Spread like fans.

I sat right back,
Closed my eyes,
And drifted off,
With a long, deep sigh.

Screenshot 2020-01-31 at 15.05.03

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