TYLER KERSHAW - POEMS

Born in Leeds England Tyler Kershaw is a recent graduate of Film at Leeds Trinity University and one day dreams of pursuing a career in the creative industries. He takes pride in attempting to write deeply personal poetry with unique and vivid imagery. 

Mr and Mrs Rothshaw’s slamming gate
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​"Honey I’m home" is the saying for most couples after a hard day’s work, but not for Mr Rothshaw who leaves his work face on the clothing rack with his coat and hat. No more car salesman grins when he greets his wife of 3 years. He used to call her his little French hen and reveal a wine bottle from behind his back (a necessary part of the mating ritual) but not anymore.
 
She used to get annoyed when he didn’t wipe his shoes on the mat, but now she kinda likes the murky brown waste he trudges around the house, she feels that it makes the house a home.
 
 Without a words greeting and two negative eyes he walks into the kitchen his stomach being the only concern of his right now. He opens the fridge and sees the usual muck they call food. Microwavable Spaghetti worms and an apple for pudding.
 
On his way towards the stairs he again ignores her as she ignores him, their only interaction that day will probably end up being the usual screeching choir of the unfulfilled suburban masses along with a night time round of joint shadow boxing with the flickering TV being the only thing that illuminates the blotched red paint job all over the living room.
 
He goes upstairs being careful not to step on the colony of slugs that have taken residence on his staircase and heads into the tent which is situated in his second-floor fort that he resides in mostly until bed time.
 
Meanwhile Mrs Rothshaw is sat on the sofa being hypnotized by the constant drama shown on this week’s soaps. She seems to feel very passionate about these programmes because she believes that a lot of the characters are imitations of her each wearing a different suit.
 
She reflects on the earlier phone call she had with her brother, where she told him all was well and how she will come and visit him soon, she’ll drag the lazy bastard along with her if she has to.
 
She feels herself getting more and more angry as she thinks about how her lowlife husband who despite his 40 hour a week contract makes less than her only working 20 odd hours a week.
 
What happened? She used to dance in the rain, stay up all night and drive wherever the road took her, now she’s paying most of the mortgage off in this depressing mortuary of a house in a city she shares no love for wishing she could just get in her car and drive straight on until she runs out of gas on some distant country road.
 
Their sleeping arrangements have gotten rather strange as of late. In the beginning they slept soundly on the top floor but as time went on and the mutual hate started to brew they began secreting toxins which made them throw each other down the stairs, this continued every night until they couldn’t stand anymore broken bones so they just moved down to the bottom floor. This worked for a few months until they then started throwing each other into the basement which lead them to the conclusion that they have to move their beds into the pitch black basement so they can sleep soundly without being inconvenienced with having to see each other.
 
That night when they both came down to bed a peculiar thing occurred. As they both got into their beds, they seemed to secrete so much poison that they dissolved into that very bed never to be seen again. In later years, the house has become a tourist attraction as they believe the house is haunted. The presence of the Rothshaw’s can’t be found anywhere in the house but if you go just outside the house you will notice the front gate continuously swaying backwards and forwards crashing into the fence no matter how strong the wind is.

Charity shops are the playground of the middle aged
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​Charity shops are the playground of the middle aged,
 
Glimpses at a generation which through tiny peep holes they did peek,
 
Coats of a forgotten age and grandma’s old cooking book displayed in this archaic museum,
 
The goods come and go new artefacts enter the exhibit doors,
 
A £5 coat for the young and a barrel full of memories for the middle aged,
 
How father used to come home from the factory and hang up his coat the smell of ash still present 30 years later,
 
An old record player sat untouched in the corner with the prints of Elvis Presley’s greatest hits still etched into its fibre,
 
The truth is that one day these charity shops will turn into our playground too,
 
A PlayStation 2 discarded behind a pile of CDs for £3.50 a reminder of simpler times,
 
It’s a museum that is always growing and evolving with the times it will always stay eternal as our ashes scatter unknowingly into the wind.
 
 
 

The greatest mystery of all
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​As I sit here in modest reflection,
I think of the lives that fill my heart with affection,
Scottish neighbours down the road,
Nana and Grandad whose love they bestowed,
Benny, Izzy Lula dogs most faithful,
My feelings for them forever grateful,
 
In the folly of youth I thought them immortal,
Feeling their affection I forgot they were mortal,
So many sunny days and happy nights,
Their aura, their power shining so bright,
This fire they made lit me up like a lantern,
Brush strokes on my life left me with a pattern,
 
In my house I see their pictures,
The memories up there just fading fixtures,
My question to the cosmos the universe at large,
Are their spirits up their or just a mirage,
Do they watch from the heavens under Heimdallr’s eyes?
Or is this comforting thought a torrent of lies,
 
I think I understand this affronting mystery,
There is more that’s left than just plain history,
In my heart they will always remain,
Their existence was always more than a brain,
The power of the soul forever eternal,
The spark the fire forever infernal,
 
Although I weep at the physical loss,
I can’t help but smile they’ve passed across,
On to the boundaries of a new existence,
I will always remember them with all my persistence,
At times it makes me mellow it makes me sad,
But this feeling and force I’ll always be glad,
 

How many movie scripts?
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​How many scripts are discarded in the pursuit of a quick buck?
How many scripts are discarded in the pursuit of a quick buck?
How many scripts are discarded in the pursuit of a quick buck?
If there is a website out there which holds all the forgotten scripts it’s sure to be endless,
Ideas so easily thrown away without a second thought I think it’s important the hero wins,
A plot twist at the end doesn’t make up for a lazy story,
Open your words and final draft and type away you never know yours could be different,
When you write a script, your mental Polaroid is never realized,
Those FX guys know their stuff, but they can’t fix everything,
Even the best programs can’t copy our creativity,
Have you seen that AI which makes those paintings?
Impressive I must admit but it always feels as if somethings missing,
Maybe there is beauty in the mistakes the human error it adds to it,
There’s more of an intrinsic understanding of feeling and what it means to us,
Anyone can draw a field of sunflowers, but no one can make a Van Gogh sunflower field,
Maybe the online painter studios are more reliable, but do we lose something human?
I think part of the fun is spilling the water,
Seeing paint all over your overalls,
Once transferred to the virtual you lose that magic,
We can listen to a billion and one songs on Spotify but its misses something,
I often find myself going back to my vinyl player admiring the spinning disk,
There’s a weird sense of life in the analogue that you don’t feel anywhere else,
The internet and the virtual world are beautiful things I use them every day,
But I do often wonder,
If we get too used to them and too reliant will we lose that human magic?
Will paint on the fingers be replaced by ones and zeroes?
All I know is that a lot of scripts are written and just discarded,
Maybe one of your script AI generators can do a better job.

Phone Line