The Ballad of the Glen

They who dance while washing up,
They whose hands are never still,
They who never say no to a cup of tea -
It goes against my will,
But the solemn Jeff Buckley fan down the hall,
Oh to be the size and shape of she,
Needs the most help of all
Even when dressed as a Christmas tree.

Hours pass slowly as freight trains in the night
At the nurses' station when the children cry,
but when trailing home on tired feet
Early in the morning, there to greet
Is a warm-hearted Westerner with a smile.

They who play hockey,
They who smash cups,
They who argue but soon make up,
They who shoot pheasants,
They who drive cars,
Or get into punch ups outside student bars,
They who are laughing,
They who are sad,
All inhabit the world
And make it less mad.

But what of the houseplant at the end of the hall?
Always so quiet, grows best in the cool
And damp of the harbour.
Well, plants don't grow much at all
Unless they have sunlight and laughter
And learn how to play pool.


So, what do you do when all about you things are falling down? What do you do when you think that the most important moment of your life is going to be marred by other people's dramas? What do you do when two people you care about seem intent on tearing each other apart, and putting their fists through toilet windows in January? The answer, for me, is to write. Writing does not solve any problems, but ma
This poem is for all the people I have met so far, I can only write about a few of you, but I've tried so hard to immortalise what we have made for ourselves here at university which is, clearly to me at least, no less than the first step of many towards a new life. A life which may be dimmer than before, at least on paper, but which will maybe set alight our minds. Well, in some people's case, I think it'll be more like the glow from a cigarette butt, but it's a start!

Hopeful.

Southmpton In The New Moon

Firstly, I would like to say Happy New Year to everyone, I hope that 2009 is loads better than 2008 was for you all.
Secondly, I would like to apologise for being a boring git for so long and not posting anything. My creative wires have been cut by the advent of a lot of revision and househunting for next year.

But there are a few things I've come up with. I think that what was missing was the sense of time that I had back home, that I'm missing here. The sense of time to do things, to think things through and chase your own tail just for the fun of it. I can't do that here. I can't step back from things and assess them, can't take a day off, smoke a cigarette and watch the clouds, because I'm embroiled in my new life, totally. I love it though. I love being part of things. But its not good for poetry.
Actually, I've never attempted to seriously write a poem while smashed. I'll have to take a look into that. I hear there are some benefits to drinking Snakebite for five hours straight. LOL. And don't worry, I actually am laughing out loud as I think of this. I must look like a loon.
So as the title of this post is Southampton In The New Moon, ther must be a poem of the same title coming up, yes? Of course. Recently I longed for isolation, so at five minutes to midnight I left my room and wandered down along roads I'd never been down before. I can't remember which route I took, but in Southampton all roads lead to the sea, so I ended up outside of Southampton docks. I couldn't go down to the seafront because of the grumpy guard in the security booth, so I sat down in front of the Guildhall and wrote this. It may be of questionable quality seeing as it was nearly three o'clock in the morning when I penned it, but see what you think.

Some people like to dangle their feet over the precipice,
Some people are scared of the noises construction sites make
When there's no-one there.
Some people can have fun without saying a word,
Some people can watch the flight of silk gulls for hours in the sky.

Some people tuck their hands into their pockets and watch the world,
Some people are content to turn up their collar and let the rain do its' worst,
Some people like to smoke menthol cigarettes in the moondark.
Some people are happy to sit on the steps of the Guildhall all night,
And watch the city sleep.

Not me of course, I'm completely normal.


Hopeful.

Premature Reminisces

Rush of colours and swirl of days,
Lonely view from the small window pane,
Leftover stirfry smells haunt the kitchen
- At least the spiders haven't found me yet.
These are the things I will remember;
- Half a dozen eggs cracked on the floor
- The smell of the toilet the morning after
-The wine we drank to detract from the cooking
-The times we've talked for 45 minutes
- And the times we didn't talk at all.
-The endless games of pool and the boredom that comes with them
-The build up of scum in the terrible drainage system
-Days down the pub, long waits for the bus
-Taxis and scraped knees and snakebite please.
These are the things I will remember.

Hopeful.

Armistice Day

It's Armistice Day today and so I thought I'd post a few poems from some of my fave war poets. When I went to the treches in northern France and Belgium, and saw the Menin Gate ceremony on my 17th birthday last year I wrote 'lines written after hearing the last post ceremony at the menin gate' which I think was one of the first poems I posted here. Anyway, here are some more famous examples.


Dulce et Decorum Est by Wilfred Owen: http://www.warpoetry.co.uk/owen1.html
Futility by Wilfred Owen: http://users.fulladsl.be/spb1667/cultural/owen/futility.html
In Flanders Fields by John McRae: http://www.greatwar.co.uk/poems/inflanders.htm
Spring Offensive by Wilfred Owen: http://classiclit.about.com/library/bl-etexts/wowen/bl-wowen-spring.htm
Anthem for Doomed Youth by Wilfred Owen: http://www.warpoetry.co.uk/owen2.html
Peace by Rupert Brooke: http://www.warpoetry.co.uk/brooke3.html

The title link is to a recording of what is probably one of the most powerful anti-war songs ever written - The Green Fields of France by Eric Bogle, although the recording has been done by the Dropkick Murphys.
Can you believe that here in England there are only four surviving ww1 vets? can you imagine the loneliness? I can't.
And I haven't got any poems either, I'm still busy with uni, exams and whatnot, lots of midterms which I'm not too happy with. Oh well, it could be worse, and I can't really complain about having exams on a day dedicated to men and women who died for our country.

RIP everyone, hope you have found peace out there, wherever you are.

I remain,
Hopeful.

Cigarettes

I must give up,
And that is the short and blunt of it.
- But I have seen many beautiful things
Through the curls of smoke
- I have seen many new moons.
By their light and the cigarettes' glow,
The stars pale and hope pales.
I have a dangerous addiction to the moon
- To the madness.

I have seen love falter.
I have seen the rose lose faith and wither,
Stone churches crumble and reveal
A bud not yet a rose.
Still the smoke obscures the world
- I cannot see its' folly,
But by the glow of the cigarettes
Beauty is revealed,
A world-view in a shard of glass
Fit through the eye of a needle
- Or a cigarette butt.

Hopeful.

First Month at University

So new, so the same
Down the Cube play the game
Body rested, mind in pain
- But hey, that's how we roll.
Again.

Sitting smoking in the cold
Friday night soon gets old
Pint not chilled, food not sold
- but hey, that's how we roll.
Again.

Miss the bus, bang your head
Against a brick wall, feeling dead
From overwork, can't stay in bed
- But hey, that's how we roll.
Again.

New faces, new friends
To kill loneliness, and in the end
It's not a bad way to spend a year
- Because this is how we roll.
Again.

Hopeful.

Post-Modernism Really Sucks

Chasing clouds areound the sky
Teacup swirls, world passes by
Locked into headphones isolation-wired
This clay baked hard and damn near fired.

As Owen said, "Was it for this?"
That we pushed and kicked inside the womb
Deep in earth's bone, clay entombed
Longed for sunlight, words and trees.

But birthing proved a slippery slope
Greased palms shoved downwards,
Not helped by mother's cries
And out came - what?

What do you make from fresh-turned clay?
Endless ambition and a summers' day
Are enough to break the womb away
Like a crucible can mould gold to any shape -

And what possibilities, what capacity for joy!
What slices of gold we seemed to enjoy!
So with hopes and dreams we poured the next crucible -
Left it to set and patiently waited -
Polished with love and patiently waited -
And what came out was

Teacups and clouds.
Wow. We've had that one before -
So change the record, love.

Hopeful.