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.

SORRY!!!

I know I haven't posted much, but I've been having such a busy time this past week or so, starting at uni and getting sorted out and everything. I'm at Southampton and it's like the most exciting thing thats ever happened to me, but its been so exhausting that its put a bit of a cramp in my poetry creativity. I'll try to write some this weekend, but the subject is so huge that its hard to know how to express it.

Much love funfans,

Hopeful.

Town Hall Pond

Circular like that table which
Long ago crowned the halls of English Kings,
The pond sits dark and still as witches’ philtre,
Filled with weeds and fish and forgotten things
Like water-lilies in the morning light,
Crisp packets and decaying bread,
Murky imps that come out at night
To lasso lily-pads with fish gut threads.
Like the reflection of a father and son
In matching shell-suits reading children’s books,
Passing away the time of day
As the leaves of the plane trees slowly shook.
Like grey-scaled giants that children used to feed,
The loch-ness monster all hungry and alone
With clockwork jaws kept oiled by fish blood,
Who when she’s angry makes water foam.
Like a sorcerer’s red scarf floating amongst the scum,
Fallout from an alien spaceship that crashed into the Town Hall,
A cricket bat from when the world had just begun
And the story of Armageddon retold on a gumball.
The fountain which used to be a urinating boy
Has been replaced with something out of place,
A square fountain bereft of such rude joy
But doubtless more P.C. to save the Council face.
When the wind blows the fountain spray shudders
The quickly its’ time-honoured paths retain
Even when storm-clouds collect in the world-reflecting waters
The sunshine makes diamonds from raindrops again.

Hopeful.

Steadfast

Burn the land, boil the sea,
Sew the fields with salt and weed,
But you can't take my spirit from me.

Slash my eyes so I can't see,
Crush my home and family,
But you can't take my spirit from me.

Grind the dirt into the sky,
Chain my wings so I can't fly,
But you can't take my spirit from me.

Flood the cities, spread disease,
Enslave the people and their dreams,
But you can't take my spirit from me.

Rip out everything I love,
Rain down bullets from above,
But you can't take my spirit from me.

Wear us down with foreign war,
Leave us on a foreign shore,
But you can't take our spirit from us.

I don't need land, don't need sea,
Don't need blue skies to be free,
While it's just my spirit and me.

Hopeful.

So Mote It Be

Well, it's done. Yesterday I sent off my poetry manuscript to Athena Press in the hope that they will like it. I had to queue for LONG at the post office though. I don't know why, maybe it was post office appreciation day. AAAANYWAY lets wait and see what is happening, fingers crossed.

LOVE!!!


Hopeful.

The Mullet News Bulletin

OMG today I am going to send off a poetry collection to Athena Press, and hope against hope that they will accept my poems, i think that one or two could do with some finishing off a little, but I'll have to wait and see what feedback i get. OMG im bare excited.
In other news, the mullet has gone and i#m very excited. im having a wig party for my 18th, a decision i made in the throes of mullet madness, and even thoguh now i have shiny new and nice hair i can't show it off, due to the permanence of a facebook email.
Wish me luck funfans!

Hopeful.

Seriously?

Due to a non-human based error and a hairdresser yawning on the job, I HAVE A MULLET!!! Oh shit. My 18th party is in a week and I have to fix it!!!!! AAAARRGGHHH!!!!

In othe news, did anyone here see the VMAs this year?? Talk about no talent? I could have done better than most of the performers (not naming any names but click the links below to see,) with an elastic band pinging off a bottle of peroxide thats been through the mangle one too many times. I'm not really a fan of popular music though, so I guess I wasn't the target audience.
Oh well I'm off to cry into my mullet.

Keeping it real
Hopeful.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_qRzHZ9t2Y0
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0FThBgKPXNY&feature=related
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PYxKncCCyZQ

Curb Song

What are you waiting for?
Say it!
Ask me - Ask me why I'm sitting here
On this curb in the suburbs.
Truth is I'm loaded
Sugar-coated
Here's proof, did I go
Did I take drugs?
Slug beer straight from the the bottle?
Eight shots and counting?
No -
It's simpler than that.
I'll own this front door is my own
Grown strong never wanting nor asking around
Sit down on the curb, on the ground,
Cry or frown you can't get round the fact,
And here's the thing -
My home is right there but I can't go in.

Hopeful.

Backseat Song

Johnny's in the backseat
And I'm in the front seat
And we're smoking Lights
'Til the traffic light turns
And we're puffing and discussing
All this governmental fussing
And we're dreaming and scheming
And Johnny starts a-cussing
Now, red light green light
Heroin by candle-light
Drink red wine and
Wrap it up in Bakelite
And all the while we're talking
Well the red man walking
Starts flashing and blinking
'Til I wanna smash his face in,
With Johnny in the backseat
Rolling up his own and then
Me in the front seat
Speaking like a tramp again
Well Johnny's all funny
And floppy and limp
He's laughing and slapping
And tripping I think.
Ten pence tax rate
Gordon Brown big mistake
Hey, I gotta tell you mate
Silence would be really great
One note man says
We're heading for the pinch and so
Always chew your gum before
When rolling up at Tesco
Johnny's jumping out the back
Loading cheap booze in the seat,
And it's banging and crashing
Like this thing they say we're having
Where the money isn't moving
And the houses aren't selling
But I'm telling you they're lying
While their profits get higher
And we're all going to hell
Coz the Daily Mail says so.

Hopeful.

The British Summer

Flip-flops sticking to sweaty feet,
Smoking cigarettes in the heat,
Dashing to hide in shops and malls
As heavy raindrops ponderously fall,
Rivers of dust run in the street.

The beach is more sardine-tin than Arab lands,
Sun cream is so gritty it’s like rubbing in sand,
99 ice-creams that cost £1.20,
It’s clear that this isn’t a “land of plenty,”
Young lovers kick pebbles and hold hands.

Flowers blooming in summer sun
Droop from lack of water, and over-run
With greenfly who silently crawl -
Age or drought will take them all,
And it will all be done.

I love every British season
But summer’s my favourite for obvious reasons
Although it’s not Barbados or St Tropez,
Let’s savour each and every day -
The few that we have in the sun.

Hopeful.

Extremely Happy

I am extremely happy for these reasons;

1. I AM GOING TO SOUTHAMPTON UNIVERSITY!!!!!!!! WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!
I'M SO HAPPY I CAN'T EVEN FEEL MY ARMS!!!
courtesy of Will Ferrell in Semi-Pro. (follow the title link - thats about the funniest line in the trailer, unforch).

2. I have sent off a small sample of poems to Athena Press, and HOPEFULLY they will like it and will therefore say to me "Yes we will publish this book and you can have like 99% royalties and retain all the rights to your poetry and oh here you go, have this cheque for £15,000,000,000 because that's what we pay all our writers." That last part might be wishful thinking on my part, I mean I might only get like £15,000,000 or something, I don't know.

3. My hair looks good today.

4. I have FINALLY organised my birthday party and it's gonna be sooo much fun. I'd say like a medium-sized rave.

Apologies for this non-poetry related post, rhythm-fans, but I just thought I'd share. Blogospheres are after all a sphere of luuuurve and grooviness. Click this link if you don't believe me.
www.dlisted.com

Hopeful.

The Ten Commandments

Don't drink.
- You might harm your liver.
Don't smoke.
- You'll kill your baby.
Don't you dare wear black shoes
When this season's colour is blue.
Don't have sex
- Until your sexteen (then you're deemed old enough to fuck with who you choose.)
Don't drive too fast
Don't make friendship last
Don't be yourself
- When lies are in
Don't skate unless the ice is thin
Don't talk to strangers
Or let them in
Don't eat their food
So you get thin.

Hopeful.

Haiku for Seduction

Spring sun shines softly
He said, "Please come back to mine."
I said, brashly, "Fine."

Hopeful.

The Old Tomten and the Fox

Rust and fleas are
Chainmail links the colour
Of dried blood
As the hungry fox scrapes
Up against the wire of the chicken coop.

Snowflakes that fall are not alone
But lonely they melt
Drowning in the beard of the old Tomten
Whose rheumatic eyes watch through the dark.

Steamy waits the bowl of porridge,
Thick with milk and sugar
Not thin and flaked with rust like the cold sly fox.
Steam condensing on the doorstep tells a story.

Red and white and cream and grey
Stalk the night away in combat
Like snowflakes, never the twain the same,
Tomten guarding, fox advancing.

Silver is gilded the treetop,
The farm house chimney smoke,
The lonley eyelids of the old Tomten
And the chainmail fur of the fox.

Run, attack, it's over, stop!
The chickens are snoring, unaware
The old Tomten raises his hand to strike
A savage warrier with painted cheek
- But the fox will starve tonight.

The old Tomten beats his drum
A call the fox is not afraid of
As he pads through the snow
Leaving trails of pawprints

Delicate as blood drops
To the cold stone doorstep
Where the ol Tomten balances on thin legs,
Smoke curling upwards warms the whiskers of the chainmail fox.

Both drink, the Tomten first
Then with urgent and mistrusting sips,
Fox dips his tongue into the steaming cup
Ghosts lie low as the two faces warm together.

The fox drags his full belly through the snow
Away from the farm where the chickens coo
The shadow of a spider cartwheels up the wall
And in the silver moonlight, the old Tomten smiles.

Hopeful.

This poem is a homage to the poem 'Bone Mother' by Holly Black, one of my favourite authors. It is based on an old Swedish children's story, 'The Tomten and the Fox' by Astrid Lindgren. I couldn't find a retelling on the web so I found some info on the Tomten on our old friend Wikipedia.
Bare lovage mates. xx

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tomten
http://www.endicott-studio.com/cofhs/chBoneMother.html

The Puppeteer

The puppeteer works from midnight to noon
Then from noon to night again
Six days he makes the strings dance
Six nights he makes the air boom.
One puppet he carved to look like his own self,
Shiny shoes and a wandering eye
Spiders, snakes and a lizards head
And a smile so sweet it would drop you dead.
This puppet danced the dance of war
And proud to look like the maker's face,
Held all other puppets in his thrall.
Not peace he sought; but with his stiff wooden hands
Tried to hold the strings of other things,
So when he danced, those painted suits danced too,
Thinking they had wings.
This puppet, whose name perhaps was George,
Perhaps lived in a painted heaven
Perhaps slept behind a yellow curtain,
His painted face turned to the strange stars.
He knew that his future looked uncertain
But his painted eyes could shed no tears.
the old puppeteer, now bent and grey with age
No longer had the eyesight nor the belief to take those strings
Yet still the puppets danced.
The danced to the music of the shrapnel symphony,
Waltzed to Woland's whim,
George proclaimed he danced for the puppeteer -
Really he danced for him.
We are all puppets on those long yellow strings
Held in gross and lifeless hands,
Cut the ribbons that cross your wrists
And see the painted smile hide those painted fists
See the tears flow and know that we never more will rest.
We all must dance.

Hopeful.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ijz1CdUj5fg&feature=related

Bondage

In fact, I should really have called this post 'Linkage' becasue it's to shout out a link to another site, but I just wanted to use the word 'bondage.' This may give you some idea of my current humour. Anyway I've added this blog to the blogcatalog where it is possible to check out many other blogs. Take a gander if you will, I'm sure that there's something for everyone's taste.
Hopeful.

Don't Talk to me about Pressure

I don't want to do this
But I do, so much.
No, I think you want me to do this
I think you want me to succeed
And I don't want to disappoint.
Not that there isn't an element of ambition,
I'll grant you it would be nice
To walk up to school in the August heat,
Rip open that brown envelope and see,
Goodness me, what the last thirteen years
Have all been leading up to.
But is it really necessary?
I know I know, it's complicated
It's my future
It's my life
My one chance
But that's the shit, right?
Its mine not yours and if I get (shock horror)
An unperfect grade
Don't fucking suck your teeth and ask so slowly
"What went wrong?" Coz you read in the papers
That exams are getting easier,
Not like when you did them, right?
I'm just one more weopen in your arsenal, right?
One more pip on your shoulder, right?
You don't know what I'm saying, do you?

By Hopeful.


This is for anyone who has ever felt the pressure to succeed taking over every aspest of their lives. Mates, I know how you feel. xx

The Whispers of Civilisation to Literature in the Garden of Eden

Why do the snakes draw close, Nicolai?
They only foretell our doom
Their eyes speak, Nicolai
Of your demise - and mine
As they creep close in the dark.
They are watching,
Drawing close, Nicolai,
It is time to pull forth, dear Homeless friend
Your best conjurors.
Tell them it is time for the Grand Finale
And I shall send my foremost fighters
Wearing grey rust-stained armour suits,
Arm them with swords of city-dark nights
With shields of sleet and snow.
Ignorance shows it's yellow belly in anger
As it sidles up to us in the dark
And do you see, Nicolai,
Those snakes grasping at the throats of freedom?
By the greasy light of the Turkish lantern -
Do you see?
And can you hear, o flatterer of my folly, o friend,
That heavy hissing rising like smoke through the dark
Kissing your ear to tell that forbidden fruits once again
Have risen from that low feral dump where once they festered.
Here come our legions, Nicolai
Across the glacial skies
Sit here on this bench with me, Nicolai
- Shall we lie here and watch the march
Destroy us, and not rise?

Hopeful.

Not my Place

It is not my place to say
You silver-tongued snake charmers
Whether war is right or wrong,
Good or bad,
Off or on.
Whether I should or shouldn't be
Pro or con.
Should I be vegan? Gorgeous? Skinny?
You've lost weight, well done.
What books to read, what skin to wear
This season's latest look
A magazine or a nice fat book
What colour to paint my stairs.
That's got carbs! Don't you dare!
It is not up to me to choose
Which hair products to use.
What need have I to live my own life?
When I've got fashion to decide.

Hopeful.

Croydon on a Sunday evening

The coffee shops are slowly emptying
Under skies as grey as the water with which
Tired shopgirls mop their laminate floors.
As the light fades and the cool breeze draws in,
The lichen-covered weathervane on top of the Ship
Swings north to point to darker times.
The lego skyline is gradually lost in the gloom.
There is no darkness like that which
Gathers in shop doorways
And pools around street corners,
Making every alley a gaping mouth,
Ever pedestrian a wierd, looming demon.
The lonely and plaintive refrains of inebriated wanderers
Curl through the air like cigarette smoke
Preceeding the slow march of night's parade
Down the expectant streets;
And though you cannot hear them,
The spiders are coming out to play.

Hopeful.

Croydon on a Sunday morning

The sky is cloudy - it's always either
Overcast or boiling -
In Croydon.
The old closk strikes ten as shopgirls
Open blinds and pull up iron safety-grids
Yawning in the watery sunlight
Comparing shoes and hair.
Outside the Ship of Fools they're sluicing
Last night's sodden sagas off the pavement,
Relieved to find nothing more than the gutters broken.
Street sellers stamp their feet and sip burnt coffee
Calling candyfloss! Penny sweets! merry-go-round!
Seagulls begging on Blackpool beach
Could not imagine such a sound.
Grizzled buskers strike up wailing classics
Hardened tones which seep deep into the consciousness of the scene
It peels the red-faced drunks off the
Disreputable sidewalks and into seedy taverns
Where for a while they might forget that
Real Life stinks of London and cheap cigarettes.
The girl in a hot pink coat, skinny jeans and boots
Strides along, fluting on her phone
Her french manicure fakes click-clicking
Against those Gucci knock-off sunglasses,
the famed Croydon facelift is clear under layers of powder.
I want to shout out how much she
Effortlessly epitomises Croydon
In all it's forced phantasmagorical hard glamour.
But in Croydon, you don't talk to strangers.
Last winter's old street precher is dead
His familiar face scorned coffee-shops
Relying on the warmth of the Lord instead
They come and go.
But this one - something special,
Maybe there was a spark of something divine in his smile
Though his teeth had long since turned black.
When he died we mourned like we did
The day that Snow White first discovered crack.

From behind my shop till I can see the world
In all it's glory.
The first few shoppers eagerly clacking along in cork heels,
Cahsing away lost city-grey pigeons,
The salesmen in their cheap suits
Blow blue smoke rings
Snatching surrepticious puffs of their Forbidden Fruit,
Picking at the back door's peeling paint
Inhaling urgently.
The monolithic grey-suited security guards
Usher along the one old man who,
Resplendent in his surgical sandals,
Refuses to leave the perfume shop
Or the lacquered Sunday girl behind the counter.
Croydon on a Sunday morning is dangerous, urbane
It will continue to be so for as long as the spiders
Scuttle back into the woodwork
To hide from the rising sun.

Hopeful.

Secret Identity

I don't have a secret identity
There's no way to escape
I can't fly over a floodlit city
Safe in my superhero cape
Because the problems just won't go away
Though I worry 'til I am spent
I don't ahve the power to save the day
With my superhero strength.

Superhero, numb the pain
Soar down and save the day
I get bogged down in the mundane
My wings are clipped so I can't fly.

There's no one else that I can be
I don't have a little black mask
I am my own dark nemesis
When the punches come too hard.
There's no catchphrase that I can chant
To make things go alright
I've tried to fly but I know I can't
As I fall into the night.

Hopeful.

Lines written after hearing the Last Post Ceremony at the Menin Gate, Ypres

I can't see, but that doesn't matter to me
Because here in this marble microcosm, we
Are joined as one.
One memory growing and branching
Holding these Lost Boys in our mind
The Last Post staggers on, overarching
The crowd, one song for all mankind.
Pale buds of the dead have seeded the walls
I read them looking for one I know
So many names that have ceased to appall
By some forlorn lines, brave poppies show.
The old Boys totter on by, backs bowed by age
Their blue coats pressed and well-maintained
Still marching after all these years
Though their medals may be sour blood-stained.
At Paschendaele or old Tyne Cot
They lie, bone on bone, untouched by sun or rain
In the morning and when the sun goes down
They live again.

Hopeful.