You stand among the stars,
Spluttering out a beam that guides me home,
You slowly begin to fade away.
Your flame decreasing, as if it gasps for air;
For centuries you have been cold,
A pulseless entity long gone.
But as I walk along the coast I admire your past light;
And you are no longer a distant or lifeless scar,
That blemishes the sky.
Instead you are the freckles on my skin,
That disappear in the winter.
Family
Stumbling into the night with heavy eyes,
Blood shot and shot up.
Bumming cigarettes by the roadside,
As heeled hookers cat call towards beat up trucks.
With a cap for collecting rusted cents,
And a thin sleeping bag torn at the seams.
The street lights glare down upon my body,
And penance me for littering the pavement.
Buy me a beer and you’ll hear my story,
Of booze, pills, shooting up and losing everything.
It’s not an uncommon tale,
But it is mine to tell.
Professor Jocelyn Bell Burnell: Astronomy & Poetry
On Tuesday I attended a lecture given by Professor Joycelyn Bell Burnell on the connection between astronomy and poetry. She expressed that both science and creative outlets try to explain the ‘unexplainable’ and that we strive for answers whether we attempt to do this through poetry or experiments. She did oversimplify scientific elements such as the electromagnetic spectrum, which I found a little unnecessary. However I was impressed by Burnell’s idea of having the attendees of the lecture read out the poems aloud, as this was engaging. I have often found the scientific and the creative closely linked as I find inspiration from nature and the body. As a fan of Hardy and Wordsworth I was glad that Burnell acknowledged these writers as great poets and amateur astronomers. I found this lecture sometimes too basic but overall entertaining.
The Scarf
Vermilion scarf folded into an isosceles,
Bobbled and of cheap nylon blend.
Confined in squeaking draw,
So it won’t lose its flush.
No photographs or birthday cards,
Just a nicotine stained scrap that I cling onto.
For it is you woven into each strand,
Your defeat stained into its very fibres,
And hidden from me.
Mother’s Wardrobe
It’s louder than a beating heart,
What is in my mother’s wardrobe.
Louder than a battle cry or drum beat,
What is in my mother’s wardrobe.
Underneath the summer dresses and floral shirts catacomb,
It claws at sealed metal casket.
What is in my mother’s wardrobe is alive.
Genre Fiction Workshop: Science-Fiction Opening
Surrounded by centuries old pine trees is Prox. A dull copper building that has already turned algae green from weathering. The structure seems at home amongst the trees other people’s ancestors would have walked by and perhaps they too gently caressed the flaking bark. Prox was built several years ago after many disputes, but here it stands in the clearing where my grandfather was lynched.
Glen was taken from our home in Wisconsin and placed in Prox. He was considered a suitable candidate for their schooling. My brother was twelve years old, athletic and innocent when he was taken, but now I think I would be incapable of recognising him. I hear stories on the local radio station about what past students go on to do. Billy Kendrick from Minneapolis shot his father. Suzie Prince from Utah killed herself. Norma Welch from Arizona drowned her baby sister. I know I should pray to God that it were me in his place but I can’t. It is a place no one wants to be sent to but we all know it’s a duty we have to our country.
Prox is a school where students and criminals live side by side. Where children become the stimuli for sexual offenders.
Genre Fiction Workshop: Two Extremes of Style in the Fairytale Genre
Elaborate Style: Passing ivy woven in between tree branches they clutch onto one another as bitter winds beat down upon them. The azure heavens now overcast with a thick canopy of cobwebs that cling lifelessly to the battered trunks. She reaches into her coats warm fur lined pockets to grasp at damp and crumbling bread. The crust flakes off and burrows under her fingernails.
Simplistic Style: Walking on a pathless route through the forest the wind picks up and gives them chills. She places her hand into her pocket to retrieve a piece of damp bread, then throws it onto the dirt behind her. The further north they trek the denser the forest becomes. It is not until nightfall that they reach a clearing where a yellow glow can be seen. The glow flickers.
University is
Stressful
University can become overwhelming exceedingly quickly; from weeks until a deadline and enjoying evenings with friends to days until a deadline and only a rough plan sketched on a receipt completed.
Scary
University can be really terrifying. First off you have to pay rent, live with strangers, share a kitchen (sometimes bathroom) and manage your own life. This is hard enough without university work on top.
Amazing
University gives you freedom to do as you please and study what you want. You can meet really nice students and make good connections in the industry. Plus all the lecturers have your back, they don’t want you to fail!
Ice Cream in Soho
Among the soiled streets of Soho lies hope,
A small shop crammed between Victorian terraces.
Where pastel gelato is overflowing from plastic tubs,
And the golden cones are stacked high.
Drunken natives and naive tourists gather under the faded canopy,
Until the volatile winds pass them by.
Inhaling the sweet scent of dark chocolate sorbet,
Or perhaps the sweet strawberry ice cream.
Goodnight
Screaming and pushing; the recurring trauma is forced to the forefront while murky waters drift carelessly on by. I know there is a side of me you much prefer, but I dulled that side with sickening shot after shot. Forcing myself into harms way until we end up sitting in sterile silence on plastic chairs. Awaiting for the news we’ve all been expecting. I’m sick, and I have been since long before you. Intoxicated scratches appear on my skin like memories from every place I have ever been and blackened bruises develop.
Clinging onto you that night I felt love. Not a shy or timid love one but a violent and aggressive love that forces itself to be felt. It tore through you like a switch blade and I keep that wound open every time I regress.