White light burns, creating. Imminently destroying
6 word poem on creation.inspired by this web page http://io9.com/lets-write-some-six-word-science-fiction-1678956454
Tuesday, 13 January 2015
Sunday, 19 October 2014
Molded
I see women
once bulbus
with rolls of
unmolded clay
whittled down
by the pressure of thumb
or knife
revealing wire frames
used for movement
and stability.
Their padded walls
of fat
and flesh
shrinking around them,
clinging to these steel frames
that weaken with each tightened inch.
Hip bones
pierce through skin
like shark fins
angling themselves outwards,
Like sails
cutting through air.
they weaken,
crumbling under the wind.
The sails begin to tear.
canvas pulled too tightly over bone
it splits
that wretched sound of
stitches becoming undone.
as they weaken at the seams.
This poem was very much inspired by the works of Sylvia Plath. I took the opportunity to focus on a simple issue such as losing weight and look at it in detail. I imagined the human form as a claymation figure, a wire stick figure used to create stability and movement, padded with clay to form a character. I imagined the clay slowly being worn away and over time the original stick figure becomes visible.
once bulbus
with rolls of
unmolded clay
whittled down
by the pressure of thumb
or knife
revealing wire frames
used for movement
and stability.
Their padded walls
of fat
and flesh
shrinking around them,
clinging to these steel frames
that weaken with each tightened inch.
Hip bones
pierce through skin
like shark fins
angling themselves outwards,
Like sails
cutting through air.
they weaken,
crumbling under the wind.
The sails begin to tear.
canvas pulled too tightly over bone
it splits
that wretched sound of
stitches becoming undone.
as they weaken at the seams.
This poem was very much inspired by the works of Sylvia Plath. I took the opportunity to focus on a simple issue such as losing weight and look at it in detail. I imagined the human form as a claymation figure, a wire stick figure used to create stability and movement, padded with clay to form a character. I imagined the clay slowly being worn away and over time the original stick figure becomes visible.
Monday, 1 September 2014
Stars
What if-
like pin pricks through cloth,
like pin pricks through cloth,
stars act
as windows on walls,
passing visions
passing visions
of heaven,
through black
to earth.
A brief poetic thought about the roles of stars in the solar system. Inspired partly by Sylvia Plath's observational style of poetry and partially by the Les Mis song Stars as performed in the 2012 film rendition.
Sunday, 10 August 2014
Abolition
He was a shadow
and his body moved
across the cobbles
As swift as the night
at the peak of summer
Isolated
in a place where night and day
are defined only by the glimmer of light
that pulls itself through the smog quilted sky
And where strangers pass by
judging each other on the quality of their palms
"Chapped" and "almost white"
but not quite enough
to please these blowzy men
donning flatcaps and unironed shirts
who scoff, at the surface
of an issue
they cannot begin to comprehend
Creating hierachies
of race
to replace the one of class
they fight so poignantly
to abolish
He speaks.
when he can
with a voice balmy as air
though laden with burden
his freedom tainted by history
not yet made historic
A short poem inspired by the channel 4 series The Mill, specifically the character Peter Gardener. The show is set in a Victorian mill, we see the male workers fighting for class equality, forming unions to help them earn a fairer wage, and yet amongst this attempt to create equality, there is an undertone of racism when a man joins the village from a slave plantation, and is immediately ostracised.
In the poem I refer to Peter as a "Shadow", his placement in the village is seen to be temporary and we often see him sat alone, pushed into the darkness by the other workers. Men who work just as hard as Peter turn their backs on him, simply due to the colour of his skin. The show helps to highlight the issues of racism, sexism and class prejudices that were alive at the time.
In the 3rd stanza I talk about the way people judged each other "on the palms of their hands", I use the adjectives "chapped" and "almost white" to describe Peters hands, "chapped" reflecting the damage caused by hard work. I used the phrase "almost white" as a direct reference to a quote from the show (The Mill) when a naive character sees Peters hands and states "they aren't black on the inside".
I hope I have been able to touch upon the issues highlighted in the show.
and his body moved
across the cobbles
As swift as the night
at the peak of summer
Isolated
in a place where night and day
are defined only by the glimmer of light
that pulls itself through the smog quilted sky
And where strangers pass by
judging each other on the quality of their palms
"Chapped" and "almost white"
but not quite enough
to please these blowzy men
donning flatcaps and unironed shirts
who scoff, at the surface
of an issue
they cannot begin to comprehend
Creating hierachies
of race
to replace the one of class
they fight so poignantly
to abolish
He speaks.
when he can
with a voice balmy as air
though laden with burden
his freedom tainted by history
not yet made historic
A short poem inspired by the channel 4 series The Mill, specifically the character Peter Gardener. The show is set in a Victorian mill, we see the male workers fighting for class equality, forming unions to help them earn a fairer wage, and yet amongst this attempt to create equality, there is an undertone of racism when a man joins the village from a slave plantation, and is immediately ostracised.
In the poem I refer to Peter as a "Shadow", his placement in the village is seen to be temporary and we often see him sat alone, pushed into the darkness by the other workers. Men who work just as hard as Peter turn their backs on him, simply due to the colour of his skin. The show helps to highlight the issues of racism, sexism and class prejudices that were alive at the time.
In the 3rd stanza I talk about the way people judged each other "on the palms of their hands", I use the adjectives "chapped" and "almost white" to describe Peters hands, "chapped" reflecting the damage caused by hard work. I used the phrase "almost white" as a direct reference to a quote from the show (The Mill) when a naive character sees Peters hands and states "they aren't black on the inside".
I hope I have been able to touch upon the issues highlighted in the show.
Thursday, 3 July 2014
Wednesday, 18 June 2014
Gatsby's Fall From Grace
A light of hope burned within Gatsby's heart, a flickering green light that ignited his extravagant and love fueled dreams. It is true that this very green light hovered over his blurred horizon, danced along a hazy border between sky high fantasies and deep sea deaths. That light soon became a beacon for his hopes, but its bright light cast an envious shadow over Gatsby's soul, over the years slowly manipulating his hopeful smile into an expression of desperate longing.
That night their bodies danced with ultimate pari passu, moving as one amongst the crowds of people who's bodies rustled in jeweled sweet wrapper habiliments. The glitz of the party faded slowly faded into the distance and dissipated into the soft brown eyes of Daisy Buchanan. Her sweet honey suckle hair swam through his mind like finger waves, her finger tips dripped in gold pawing gently at his back, her eyes begging him for reassurance.
Two short experimental pieces exploring the characters and themes associated with F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby.
That night their bodies danced with ultimate pari passu, moving as one amongst the crowds of people who's bodies rustled in jeweled sweet wrapper habiliments. The glitz of the party faded slowly faded into the distance and dissipated into the soft brown eyes of Daisy Buchanan. Her sweet honey suckle hair swam through his mind like finger waves, her finger tips dripped in gold pawing gently at his back, her eyes begging him for reassurance.
Two short experimental pieces exploring the characters and themes associated with F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby.
Sunday, 25 May 2014
Origami Swans
Eyes wander over grazed, stained arms
skin thin as canvas
stretching over bone
framing a piece of art so frail
its pigment begins to fade,
paint cracks feather over
every detail
as blurring narratives
fade into
sunlit backdrops
Cut fingers
and pin pricked minds
trace over
origami thought
wrapping lace bandages
over nics
and accidental incisions
sewing stories onto
paper
in bespattered paint
The room swarmed with paper swans
as the floor turned to red
skin thin as canvas
stretching over bone
framing a piece of art so frail
its pigment begins to fade,
paint cracks feather over
every detail
as blurring narratives
fade into
sunlit backdrops
Cut fingers
and pin pricked minds
trace over
origami thought
wrapping lace bandages
over nics
and accidental incisions
sewing stories onto
paper
in bespattered paint
The room swarmed with paper swans
as the floor turned to red
Saturday, 17 May 2014
You & I
I
would tell you
everything
if I had
secrets
to share
I'd
unload my
troubles
onto
the shelf of
your shoulders
release worries
onto
aching palms
You'd
feel
the weight
of my worries
as heavy
as they are
fall gently
into your keeping
I
trust
you'd hold
them close
as I
would
yours
would tell you
everything
if I had
secrets
to share
I'd
unload my
troubles
onto
the shelf of
your shoulders
release worries
onto
aching palms
You'd
feel
the weight
of my worries
as heavy
as they are
fall gently
into your keeping
I
trust
you'd hold
them close
as I
would
yours
Saturday, 5 April 2014
Another bottle dry
Shot- like a pin prick through my spine
Bleeding like a barrel full of wine
I pour myself out
Pick up a glass
and drink the whole world out
Tomorrow i'll be nothing but a headache
A hungover reminder of a life that once was
Bleeding like a barrel full of wine
I pour myself out
Pick up a glass
and drink the whole world out
Tomorrow i'll be nothing but a headache
A hungover reminder of a life that once was
Saturday, 22 March 2014
The Leaves Died For You
The leaves died for you.
the September air
that christened your lungs,
that bought you life
and laughter,
did so harshly take their breath
to fill your lungs with air.
Tears fell in the first few months
like rain,sleet and snow,
and the dark winds
that carried their sorrow
did so to protect your home.
The spring that followed
full of lamb,
of daffodils and rain,
bought your first taste of sunshine
and washed the night away.
The summer sun did shine like you,
so young yet just as wise
as the sea that washed over the sands
with tales of the tides
the September air
that christened your lungs,
that bought you life
and laughter,
did so harshly take their breath
to fill your lungs with air.
Tears fell in the first few months
like rain,sleet and snow,
and the dark winds
that carried their sorrow
did so to protect your home.
The spring that followed
full of lamb,
of daffodils and rain,
bought your first taste of sunshine
and washed the night away.
The summer sun did shine like you,
so young yet just as wise
as the sea that washed over the sands
with tales of the tides
Thursday, 12 December 2013
Ecstasy
The addict-
inhaled her into his lungs-
replaced nicotine with flesh and blood-
rolled his body around her like a joint.
His body a mixture of two parts paranoia-
and one part anxiety.
Sweats,
shakes,
rejection,
exhaling her from his lungs-
before taking another drag.
Trembling hands-
as she parts from his lips-
her perfume clings to him like cigarettes-
Like ecstasy she will push him to the edge
This poem was inspired by the relationship between recovering addicts and their partners, I thought about the idea of quitting an addiction for the person you love, essentially replacing the addiction with the person and becoming addicted to them. in this poem the addict replacing drugs and alcohol with his girlfriend. i questioned what would happen when the relationship breaks down, would the person be able to cope with another dose of withdrawal?
inhaled her into his lungs-
replaced nicotine with flesh and blood-
rolled his body around her like a joint.
His body a mixture of two parts paranoia-
and one part anxiety.
Sweats,
shakes,
rejection,
exhaling her from his lungs-
before taking another drag.
Trembling hands-
as she parts from his lips-
her perfume clings to him like cigarettes-
Like ecstasy she will push him to the edge
This poem was inspired by the relationship between recovering addicts and their partners, I thought about the idea of quitting an addiction for the person you love, essentially replacing the addiction with the person and becoming addicted to them. in this poem the addict replacing drugs and alcohol with his girlfriend. i questioned what would happen when the relationship breaks down, would the person be able to cope with another dose of withdrawal?
Friday, 11 October 2013
Melt with the wind
We met at first in the Autumn
she had a cold.
her nose pinched as red as a raspberry
her distant Welsh accent
peering from behind
her nasal toned voice
and thick woolen scarf
teal,
her favourite colour,
fortunately,
as it complimented her eyes
in a way that made hem glow-
she glowed,
in a world so desaturated by tragedy,
she radiated colour
and with this gift she bought hope.
Her name at this point
is still unknown
but the urge to call her my own
is stronger than any
formation of syllables
could ever be.
For our first date
she took me somewhere
I had never been before,
the world seemed different
to me on this day,
its sky a richer shade of amber,
its air sweeter
than it had ever tasted before.
My mind more focused
on the temperature of her hands
than the world at our feet.
It is upon reflection
that I now realise,
it was not the season
that had changed
but something within me
the sepia tinted leaves
and apple scented sky
was of her creation
her hands moulded around
the earth,
contorting it to her design.
She stepped back
and watched it bloom
through my eyes
watched the seasons
come and die
and her lips began to curve
as she watched the leaves
shrivel with age
and melt with the wind
she laughed at the sound
of their crumpled corpses
as she danced upon their graves.
Within her heart,
she holds
that childish enthusiasm
for the minor details,
I often watch
as she gazes upon
a glitter of dust,
or rainbow of colour
dancing through the air.
My heart quivers
at the thought of growing old,
her skin melting like snow,
bones crumbling like sugar
her tears will fall like rose petals-
like autumn leaves
we will melt with the wind
Never before have I attempted to write a poem at such length from the point of view of a male protagonist. The idea for this piece sprang from the film Ruby Sparks: a beautiful fulm about a writer who's character comes to life and they embark on a life changing relationship. I explored the moment shared between to characters upon their first meeting and built upon the relationship from their. It was refreshing to create a characters so refreshingly simple for once and these two unnamed characters are ones that I will be working with in the near future.
she had a cold.
her nose pinched as red as a raspberry
her distant Welsh accent
peering from behind
her nasal toned voice
and thick woolen scarf
teal,
her favourite colour,
fortunately,
as it complimented her eyes
in a way that made hem glow-
she glowed,
in a world so desaturated by tragedy,
she radiated colour
and with this gift she bought hope.
Her name at this point
is still unknown
but the urge to call her my own
is stronger than any
formation of syllables
could ever be.
For our first date
she took me somewhere
I had never been before,
the world seemed different
to me on this day,
its sky a richer shade of amber,
its air sweeter
than it had ever tasted before.
My mind more focused
on the temperature of her hands
than the world at our feet.
It is upon reflection
that I now realise,
it was not the season
that had changed
but something within me
the sepia tinted leaves
and apple scented sky
was of her creation
her hands moulded around
the earth,
contorting it to her design.
She stepped back
and watched it bloom
through my eyes
watched the seasons
come and die
and her lips began to curve
as she watched the leaves
shrivel with age
and melt with the wind
she laughed at the sound
of their crumpled corpses
as she danced upon their graves.
Within her heart,
she holds
that childish enthusiasm
for the minor details,
I often watch
as she gazes upon
a glitter of dust,
or rainbow of colour
dancing through the air.
My heart quivers
at the thought of growing old,
her skin melting like snow,
bones crumbling like sugar
her tears will fall like rose petals-
like autumn leaves
we will melt with the wind
Never before have I attempted to write a poem at such length from the point of view of a male protagonist. The idea for this piece sprang from the film Ruby Sparks: a beautiful fulm about a writer who's character comes to life and they embark on a life changing relationship. I explored the moment shared between to characters upon their first meeting and built upon the relationship from their. It was refreshing to create a characters so refreshingly simple for once and these two unnamed characters are ones that I will be working with in the near future.
Saturday, 28 September 2013
Days Mourning Gown
That far left side, the abandoned road, empty it lies, as passers-by pull in from time to time. The land beside it filled with new born, a gift, as death leaves the land to mourn the harsh months of past, and blesses the soil with fragile youth not yet tainted by the months to come. A casket heart on a silver chain encloses a photograph, the travelers leave their mark on it, with tire marks and dirt. A memory to keep with the heart; worn into the road. The night begins to dress itself in days mourning gown as it contemplates the day gone by and ponders what will come of the next year.
A short story in which I was asked to include a randomly chosen object, setting, season and time of day without specifically naming them. I was given the setting: hard-shoulder of the motorway, time of day: evening, object: locket and season: spring. I hope I was able to actively conveyed these themes through this short prose without leaving my own writing style behind.
A short story in which I was asked to include a randomly chosen object, setting, season and time of day without specifically naming them. I was given the setting: hard-shoulder of the motorway, time of day: evening, object: locket and season: spring. I hope I was able to actively conveyed these themes through this short prose without leaving my own writing style behind.
Friday, 20 September 2013
Just a crumpled piece of card
I wasn’t expecting to be used
I wasn’t expecting to be abused
To be a family portrait pinned to a cork board
Just a small yellow pin pressed against my spine
Each pixle a memory, punctured by pins
My body the remains of a crumpled piece of card
No I wasn’t expecting to be used
To be a balloon filled with helium falling from the sky
The promise of freedom, tied down by a string
Death just a needle prick away
I wasn’t expecting to be abused
To be a Barbie doll wrapped in sweet wrapper dresses
Lips painted bubble gum pink
Straw hair bleached to perfection
Being pulled by whichever child wants to take me off the
shelf
I wasn’t expecting to be abused
That virgin apple, you just had to take a bite
So fresh It melts on your lips
And slides down your throat
I was asking for it they said
But I wasn’t expecting it to be you
That boy with the butterscotch lips who didn’t hear the word
no
I wasn’t expecting it to be you
Spoken word poem inspired by the work of Jeanne Verlee, I am hoping to set up a youtube channel soon so that I can post audio clips of the spoken word series read aloud, as on paper they do not convey the emotion I targeted. The brief was to write a poem focusing around an issue, I chose rape. There is a poem by Neil Hilborn and Renee Schminkey entitled One Colour, which deals with the issue of rape, they describe how society preaches that there is one kind of rape, one type of girl walking down that one part of town who gets targeted, not the truth that it is far more complex than that, I really advise you take a look at the links I have posted, they are amazing poets and such inspirational poems.
My poem, in my opinion is a bit too repetitive but I wanted to try and work on something longer than my usual posts, which are often only two or three stanzas long.
Saturday, 24 August 2013
Fragile Touches
Fragile touches
Grazing over sun-kissed skin
Lips stumbling over
Hushed lullabies and simple songs
Silent whispers pass
From one mouth to another
Exchanging stories from
Days come and gone
Fragile
I feel the warmth
A fresh vulnerability
Untainted
Unspoken
I have been so scared to post this poem, I finished it weeks ago after over a month of worrying about it. It's not my best poem by far, but it is one that I am proud of.
Also just a note to say thank you to all of my readers, who continue to read my posts, I sincerely appreciate all of your support.
Sunday, 11 August 2013
Lets trade our swords for roses and surrender into each others arms, sending lust-filled battle cries into the night.
A quick poetic thought based around the idea of lovers being on opposing teams. I've been hooked on the BBC series The White Queen recently (more specifically the relationship between Anne Neville and Richard iii). The Tudor period is one that has always fascinated me and the divide between the Lancastrian side and York side is such a strong divide that if two people on opposing sides they would have to put their feelings aside.
A quick poetic thought based around the idea of lovers being on opposing teams. I've been hooked on the BBC series The White Queen recently (more specifically the relationship between Anne Neville and Richard iii). The Tudor period is one that has always fascinated me and the divide between the Lancastrian side and York side is such a strong divide that if two people on opposing sides they would have to put their feelings aside.
Thursday, 4 July 2013
Floral Decay
A room full of floral decay
That bittersweet smell of mixed perfumes
Lingers, and the waft of stale summer air
Waltzes down the aisle
That awkward time stuck between
A blistering summers day
And the ice frosted night
A note to congratulate the bride
And the groom
That couple that wont even last the night
Divorces are expensive I think
As the pen hits the paper
As part of a task I was given a random: object, setting and time of day. I got: a wedding in a church, a letter and the afternoon. I really don't know how this managed to take such a depressing (yet comical) turn as I was planning on something rather romantic.
That bittersweet smell of mixed perfumes
Lingers, and the waft of stale summer air
Waltzes down the aisle
That awkward time stuck between
A blistering summers day
And the ice frosted night
A note to congratulate the bride
And the groom
That couple that wont even last the night
Divorces are expensive I think
As the pen hits the paper
As part of a task I was given a random: object, setting and time of day. I got: a wedding in a church, a letter and the afternoon. I really don't know how this managed to take such a depressing (yet comical) turn as I was planning on something rather romantic.
Wednesday, 3 July 2013
Blackened Frost
Sea of flowers , bursting with petals
stained a solemn yellow tint
through years of death and decay
A demure hurricane wanders through
With blackened frost
A selcouth sight of the night
Thrusting back the whitened sky of yesterday
That threatens tomorrow nights dreams.
In this poem I took inspiration from the extraordinary poet Emily Dickinson who in many poems reinvented words, for example the adjective white was used in the quote "Dare you see a soul at the white heat?" as a colour of love and danger, in the same poem the colour red is also described as "fire's common tint". It is perhaps Dickinson's reinvention of popular word connotations that makes her work so interesting, it causes the reader to re-think what words mean to them.
I explored the meanings of the following words, not changing their meaning but the connotations that go with them.
Flowers: natures gravestone
Yellow: A sour colour of mourning and age
Black: a friendly warm colour of hope and prosperity
White: A colour of danger and mourning
Hurricane: A welcome gust of wind and drizzle
Frost: A friendly feeling of presence (similar to the feeling of being hugged)
stained a solemn yellow tint
through years of death and decay
A demure hurricane wanders through
With blackened frost
A selcouth sight of the night
Thrusting back the whitened sky of yesterday
That threatens tomorrow nights dreams.
In this poem I took inspiration from the extraordinary poet Emily Dickinson who in many poems reinvented words, for example the adjective white was used in the quote "Dare you see a soul at the white heat?" as a colour of love and danger, in the same poem the colour red is also described as "fire's common tint". It is perhaps Dickinson's reinvention of popular word connotations that makes her work so interesting, it causes the reader to re-think what words mean to them.
I explored the meanings of the following words, not changing their meaning but the connotations that go with them.
Flowers: natures gravestone
Yellow: A sour colour of mourning and age
Black: a friendly warm colour of hope and prosperity
White: A colour of danger and mourning
Hurricane: A welcome gust of wind and drizzle
Frost: A friendly feeling of presence (similar to the feeling of being hugged)
Monday, 1 July 2013
On The Mantelshelf
The glistening ornaments shone in the misty sunlight, crystals, glasses of green and red- diamonds, the children giggled, wide eyes gazing into the empty cottage. Through fear the wind may catch the door, they creaked it open slowly and before shutting the latch behind them. Like boys in a candy store the girls marveled at the decorative creations, glazed eyed and open mouthed.Millie, being only 16 and still violently naive, stretched out a hand, leaning towards an old oak music box, before having it violently snatched away by Lou. "Do you want to wake her?" she hissed silently before resting the box back in its place.
Picking a random paragraph in a book of childrens stories I put pen to paper and chose to continue the story with just one more paragraph. Knowing nothing about the story (after having read only one paragraph) i chose to focus on the naive nature of the two girls and their child like facination with the ornaments on Miss Parsons mantelshelf.
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