Episode V (26/9/13)

One last poem for tonight before I head to bed. This is…a Star Wars fan’s love poem? A bit sappy and dorky, I know, but it’s raw and true and personal, plus I’m a total sucker for a) Star Wars and b) romance, so it seemed natural. Forever annoyed that ‘V’, as in the Roman numeral, is read as ‘five’ and not ‘vee’. This was one of those pieces that just flowed free, so I haven’t done any real editing to it – maybe one day I’ll update it properly. It’s kind of short, but I think it works better that way, because it’s the only thing I’m sure about but it’s also the thing that I have no guts to say.

It’s my favourite part.
To say that
And for you to say it back.

“I love you.”
“I know.”

But you won’t.

I hope when you play the tape back and you
Settle down for the night
When you skip to the good part, the best part
Where it’s goodbye
When she says I love you
And he says he knows
I hope you think of me
Just think of me
But you won’t.

I hope someday you’ll rewatch Episode V
And think of me
But you won’t.

No Clowns at Piccadilly (09/05/2013)

The phrase ‘no clowns at Piccadilly’ has been swimming in my head for a number of years now, and I tried to work it into a song. That didn’t work, seeing as I have no talent for writing music. I adapted the verses into a poem instead. The title stems from my childhood assumption that ‘Piccadilly Circus’ was actually a circus. Not a circle, as ‘circus’ means. When I found out the real meaning, I was bitterly disappointed. Today, I connect this discovery with a loss of childhood innocence, and often wish I could go back to the times when I really thought there was a circus instead of a circle.

There was a pretty path marked out for me,
Flowers and green grass and bumblebees.
So beautiful that I almost cried,
And that was the day that God sighed.

I know I was meant to take the dirty route
But mother made this one so good
I couldn’t refuse to take her hand
And follow her to my promised land

I think I left it all behind
And that day a part of my heart died.
There are no monsters under my bed
The demons are all in my head
And now I know all the ghosts I’ve ever seen
And I learnt that there are no clowns at Piccadilly.

Inspiration: Anne Hathaway

One of my favourite poets is Carol Ann Duffy, and I especially love her collection ‘The World’s Wife’ – my English teachers had the best taste when picking texts to study! But here I thought I’d share my absolute favourite of the collection – a poem called ‘Anne Hathaway’, which is about Shakespeare and his wife, and the possible reason why he left her the ‘second best bed’ in his will. It’s possibly the most romantic of all the poems in the collection and it really hits me where I live, especially since I adore Shakespeare.

Anne Hathaway
by Carol Ann Duffy from The World’s Wife

‘Item I gyve unto my wife my second best bed …’
(from Shakespeare’s will)

The bed we loved in was a spinning world
of forests, castles, torchlight, clifftops, seas
where we would dive for pearls. My lover’s words
were shooting stars which fell to earth as kisses
on these lips; my body now a softer rhyme
to his, now echo, assonance; his touch
a verb dancing in the centre of a noun.
Some nights, I dreamed he’d written me, the bed
a page beneath his writer’s hands. Romance
and drama played by touch, by scent, by taste.
In the other bed, the best, our guests dozed on,
dribbling their prose. My living laughing love –
I hold him in the casket of my widow’s head
as he held me upon that next best bed.

The Ghost of Me (?/?/13)

Another Creative Writing meeting product. This was a quickie that I may adapt into something longer (and better) one day.

I am the ghost of me.
I am you
You are me
I see how it was
And ever shall be
I can’t speak
Only watch
As you
Make those mistakes again
Fast forward, rewind, change angle, zoom in
But can’t touch, never touch.
Can’t make you, me
See me.
He’ll break your heart! That’s not the right way! Turn left! Don’t do that!
You didn’t hear. You never do.
Because you are me and I am you.
I know how it ends
I lived it once like you
You are the living past of me
And I am the ghost of you.

The First Dragonslayer (?/?/13)

This is a first draft of Dragonslayer, which I posted earlier. I ultimately scrapped this, but it has some lines in it that I like and couldn’t work into Dragonslayer.

It wasn’t me.
I wish I could break you the way you broke me. Snap you clean in half like a twig.
Like a dreamer’s heart.
You always wanted to play the hero
Slay the dragon
Get the girl
But what they don’t tell you is that in those tales
The knight is hammered
The dragon’s his best friend
And the princess only let him fight for her.
That hunk of meat in my chest rattles against my ribs like prison bars when my eyes catch you
Because I can’t rid myself
Of the thought of you
The taste of you
The scent of you
And I’m OK, but I’m not alright.
Dragon’s slain.
Battle’s done.
You’re done.
It was a flash-in-the-pan of a fight, and I don’t mean the dragon’s fight.
I wish you’d care.
But you won’t. You won’t even try.

Creative Writing Response to an Image (30/11/2011)

Sadly I have lost the original image that I was given for this piece, but it was very simple – a medieval painting of a group of men sitting around a table with various books and manuscripts in front of them. They looked to be discussing something.
This piece was written as part of my application to Royal Holloway University for a Creative Writing degree – they must have liked it, because I was offered a place, though I ultimately decided not to go there.

“This book, it is complete and utter tripe,”
Said the first, a well-learnéd man of wealth.
“Guidelines on how to live a moral life.
My mind is already in perfect health.”

“You misunderstand the author’s intent,”
His companion, the second rich man, said.
“He means that with our possessions we must be content.
For we only have them so long before we are dead.”

”You’re both wrong,” The third, a scientist, broke
“He shows us that objects have no value
To the living or the dead, any mortal folk
To him, not even him, or me, or you.”

“May I suggest,” said the fourth, so slowly,
“That it symbolises God’s Kingdom come?”
“You may not,” the fifth, the merchant, told him.
“Your claim is irrelevant, you are wrong.”

Then the servant, who had come to assist,
Looked at the page with a sudden idea.
“Excuse me.” He held up the manuscript
“But does it not show the recipe for beer?”

Headphones (8/11/12)

This was actually an assignment from my first year of English at university, that involved writing a poem in the Anglo-Saxon format. It’s short and simple but was actually very difficult to write, especially as unlike the original writers of Anglo-Saxon poetry, I’m using Modern English!

Put my headphones on once more     my head is so full
Of new noises     and voices are yelling
The song is bursting with bars     and burning with phrases
I’m tripping over trills     and I was tricked by riffs
My mind is spinning    it’s spilling the words
They move to my mouth     and dismount from my tongue.

Dragonslayer (?/?/13)

This poem is fairly recent, having been written at a Creative Writing meeting at university in the last few months. As it was handwritten, I have no date attached to it.

Her face was streaked with tears
She wondered if he’d come at all
He’d heard her sob from far away
That desperate, lonely call.

“Dragons,” she’d said, her dark eyes wide
He promised to stop by
And cast those monsters far away
So she’d no longer cry.

To her delight he came in haste
And struck that dragon down
She gave him secrets as reward
“I’ll keep them safe,” he vowed.

She took a chance, she took a shot
And kissed him in delight
He held her arms and kissed her back
The damsel and the knight.

“The dragon’s dead,” he said to her
“Now will you come away?”
She gave him her heart, and gave him her tears
For luck and love she prayed.

He treated her well, she loved him so
He was good and sweet and kind
But a dark spot in his heart lurked
That she did not expect to find

He snapped her treasures clean in two
Her heart, her love, her tears
For the dragonslayer, her saviour dear
Was the real danger she had feared.

She cast him out, she sat alone
How could it now be so?
He’d slain the dragon, freed her, yet
He’d torn her heart in two.