Snowberry Time

Dedicated to Ruskin’s bearded hobo: 2010

Hobos and homeless, shadowed hunched balls buried in dirty blue sacks

pause, will they become snowberries?

Easterlies blow minus zero temperatures

across the land; deluged in virginal snowfall

espied, one snowberry. Settled in Ruskin’s door

waxen, white, an imperfect ball

of frozen humanity. It lingers; will it wake?

Evergreen, it waits the belated sirens

the bellowing howl of crisis management

the battered minds of all seeing tired medics.

Alive or dead? Humanity palled.

No ears will hear it; no mouth will it kiss, no words will be spoken.

Infinite replications in winter doorways

no-one sees, no-one acts. Snowberries fall.

White Out Daze

Oozed into miniscule blobs

I hit the event horizon. Everything that can be is;

yet I, I am zilch

no greatness;

the darkness

the space         between         space

is where I exist.                                   Does existence live here?

shadows drift                           left       and                             right

white     haloed heads                                  move

zigzagged light

unbalanced

sound broken                          record grooved

queaseid stomach bites

eyes murdered, light ungallant

Next Term

Next term is poetry term. Lots more poetry. I am practising now. I hope you enjoy.

Trapped

Write a scene where someone is trapped in surroundings with no or little prospect of escape in the near future.

Have I opened my eyes? It feels like they’re open; if they are then its pitch black. Maybe I’m asleep; no definitely awake, that hurt, right through my leg. I can’t move it. Okay so I’m somewhere. Look up, ah, I’m down; the black is bluer up. Can I stand?

‘Oh Fuck!’

‘HELP. HELP. CAN ANYONE HEAR ME?’

I can’t lay here. Is there something to hold? Grit. Cold. Damp.

‘Ouch.’

Near the side, a wall maybe; rough, full of little ledges. I need to get closer. Shit my hands. Push through it. Cold. Hot. Breathe.

Was that someone?

‘HELP. CAN YOU HEAR ME? HELP.’

Where is everyone? Think. How did I get here? Yes, I remember, took the rubbish out, then being here. What else? Slipping, I slipped on something, ice?

‘HELP, HELP.’

Why is my face stiff? Dried. Ahhh. Sore. A cut. Is that why thinking is hard? There was a coal delivery today. I could be warm in front of the roaring fire; imagine that: the flames pinking the coals; Tigger on my lap. Even the cat isn’t around. Bet he’s warm.

‘TIGGER?’

Nope. Got more sense than to be here with me. Was that someone?

‘HELP, HELP. PLEASE HELP ME.’

Okay; what have I got? A wall, a leg, sore hands, a bumped head. Stupid. What have I got to help me? A wall. What use is a wall? I can’t feel anything else.

Is it getting warmer? It feels warmer. A voice, someone there?

‘HELP.’

Police Line Up

Samuel Palmer (1805 – 1881) Self Portrait

The task to write the inner thoughts of the subject on the postcard.

How did I get here, here in the police station? One minute I’m minding my own business watching the St Scholastica’s Day Oath swearing and the next, pow, from no-where, a man carrying lighted candles bashes into me. My jacket, besmirched with candle wax, I’ll never get it clean. Just as I stopped spinning a baker’s boy carrying floured loaves crashes into me, flouring my face in the process. Blinded by the flour, I stumbled into a man while searching for support. With stinging eyes, I held on for dear life, a chain tangled in my fingers. The man pulled away, yelled ‘Thief.’ As he did I heard a rip and fell forward, the chain and associated weight within my hand. Would you believe it; a Bobby was passing by as the man yelled.

Bobbies are wonderful folk as long as you’re on the right side of the law. He blew his whistle, at least I think it was him, it shrilled in my ear and the noise was followed by a sharp pain in my kidneys and stars in my head. Next thing I knew, I was in a Paddy Wagon with knaves, drunks and criminals, I mean me! I tried to be invisible, it didn’t work, they jeered, accused me of being a popinjay. They thought I was crying, that I was scared of them but it was the flour.

The indignity. I was searched. The bobbies made me empty my pockets, they laughed at the miniature of my mother, they made me sit handcuffed to a bench like a common criminal. I listened to the man telling them I tried to steal his watch. Me!

They’ve sent for Father. He will bloviate, tell me I’m stupid, outline the stupidity of walking alone. Of course he’ll buy the old man off with a new jacket and watch. He’ll lecture me on the perils of poverty and threaten to withdraw my allowance. He’ll even talk to Sir Robert about his men’s appalling behaviour towards a gentleman. He’ll expect me to be grateful. He’ll sort everything out and expect me to be grateful. I’ll grovel to his face of course; make out that I’m listening. He won’t threaten me with the Army or Church though, there’s one advantage to being the Eldest Son.

The dates don’t quite tally. Bobbies came into existence in 1829 and the last St Scholastica Day Oath Swearing was in 1824. Palmer never lived in Oxford.

Hamlet

‘To be or not to be; that is the question. What the fuck is that bloody prince on about? He don’t know that he is born!’

‘A silver spoon. That’s what ‘e ‘ad. There he goes again, mooning about his dead dad and his fucking mother.’

‘Claims his uncle the king is that incestuous, that adulterate beast. Married his mother too quick. What he don’t know is what we know.’

‘Yeah. All those months she slept walked from her boodwaar to ‘er husband’s brother’s. My Jennie told me the sheets were always a right mess.’

‘A right so and so she is. Not Jennie, that Gertrude. Knows what side her breads buttered on that’s for sure.’

‘My Jennie, she tol’ me that if you look at ‘Amlet right, well you can tell, he ‘as the look of ‘is uncle like.’

‘You mean?’

‘Yeah, right on. Born the other side of the broom that one. Well it was no surprise to any of the women folk when she married ‘im as quick as the passing of the day. She wan’ed the money and the position of course but she also wan’ed ‘im and to put the real faavver and son togever like.’

‘He has a right oedipal complex. I’ve heard from John who heard it from Geoff who heard it from Jack who heard it from ...’

‘Get on with it, I get the gist.’

‘Any way, that he’s mad as the proverbial and he’s gonna kill his uncle, his real dad.’

‘What the fu ... kill ‘is own dad? What’ll that do to ‘is mum?’

‘Well, John said, he wants to marry his mum!’

Icarus

It had seemed so simple only hours before, sat there in the bar drinking, being cheered on by the Gang. He, a champion diver, winning trophies for his skill, on holiday in this warm island, consuming alcohol as if it were water, found himself being talked into taking a dive off of the local cliffs. People did it every day.

His head still spinning with grandiose ideas, the young athletic David walked from the hire car to the cliff edge. He removed his clothes, moonlight glinting on his sculpted form, and waited, toes curled on the edge, his friends clapping heartbeats building anticipation. He was a god, a supreme being.

The world disintegrated literally beneath his feet. As he stood the Great God decided to bring down this upstart, the cliff edge gave way. The clapping stopped. A scream ascended.

‘Oh fuck,’ a voice proclaimed to the darkness.

‘Help me. I’m stuck. I’ve got caught on something. If feels like an old fence post. Help.’

The Gang carefully peered over the edge they could see their friend hanging onto something.

‘I’m getting help.’ A voice echoed as footsteps pounded away.

The sun rose slowly on the horizon, Apollo taking over from Selene. The birds woke, their morning songs filling the air. The Gang searched for rope, for anything to help their friend.

‘Hang on David. We’re trying to get help.’

A siren sounded, a police car arrived. Help had arrived. A rope was thrown down, an abseiling policeman started to descend. Too Late.

David’s grasp on the concrete beam loosened. The rough unseen grooves scraped their way from his clutches as his being was liberated towards the cool, brisk freedom of the crisp night air below. A pigeon glided past his cold gaze, slowing just long enough to cast a casual glance at its new fellow of the sky. David slipped further into the night’s sky, silence engulfing his final journey his last descent; the soft rippling waves awaited their guest. Time his only companion.

Free writing

A 7 minute exercise in class, responding to random words called out by the teacher.

Ghosts are now called paranormal activity but were once thought of as part and parcel of daily life who would need to clear up unfinished business before they could relocate to heaven or hell. This was demonstrated in the 1990’s film Ghost where the main character – a ghost had to revenge.

It is a normal feeling amongst humans to want to take their revenge on others for the wrong doings done to them. Sometimes this is shown in positive ways. Robin Hood for Mother.

Mothers are supposed to be warm and cuddly. What happens if your’s is not? Mine wasn’t, isn’t. Mine likes to control and does it through manipulation, often working to avoid doing things she fears. I don’t remember being held by my mum as a child, touching, kissing, that is something forced sword.

The shiny sword swung through the air, sharpness glistened in the moonlight, eyes travelling to the practical hilt would see it held by two small hands; arms struggling to hold it aloft. Fear helping.

Mail Call

The task: to write a scene with a shift in status based upon my own life. I was asked to read mine out in class by Helen Mosby my tutor. Her only comment has been incorporated in the story below.

‘A letter for you.’

She looked at the crisp envelope: Jamie Barton, Delivery Administration, Holbrook House. Outside it was full on early December; the office lights ensured only the occasional train could be seen through the windows.

‘It won’t open itself.’

Slowly, the flap was unpeeled, the single sheet of paper pulled out, the black type written words read:

Dear Jamie,

I would like to welcome you to my team where you will hold the post of Admin Manager. You will start on the 17^th of February 1992. You are invited to a Christmas Thank You on the 15^th of December where you will have an opportunity to meet me and your new colleagues.

Please call me to arrange the details.

Regards

Les Brooks

This was the hard evidence which said she had done it. The shaky request to be allowed to apply to the assessment centre; the acceptance; the day of answering written questions in silence; the interview: last week the call to the office where Vernon told her she had passed every stage, the only non substantive applicant to be offered a job. When he had explained that it would be working with project engineers on an exciting project with a five year life; that had worried her; only five years, yet Vernon had worked his magic and convinced her it was a good thing.

‘What does it say?’ Alan, her boss was persistent.

‘I start on the 17^th of February and I need to call Les Brooks.’

‘Call him then.’

Choked fear allowed the phone call; every second frozen until it was time to leave, while words ran silent at brake neck speed: I’ve got it. I’ve got to do it.

Half way to the car, walking between the old Portland stone constructed railway buildings, no-one else around, it hit her: Disbelief and Self Doubt dropped into the gutter: I’ve got it. I can do it. I’ve got it! She stopped, then ran, her fist clenched, her legs bent and pushed into the air as her arm swung into the sky punctuating; ‘Yesssss’. 

Mona Lisa Properties

My name is Mona, you will find the countryside here spectacular and I have just the place for you to stay. You will enjoy the forests and the lakes; both excellent for walking and of course you’ll be able to sail. The people are wonderful, they love visitors and as for the food you’ll never eat better. We have lots of sunshine, no need to worry about the cold or rain and of an evening you can sit in our alehouses conversing with the local population. You’ll never want to leave: you’ll never be able to leave.

Secrete

Cloaked, everything hidden from view; shops and office blocks cloaked in grey black windows and gaudy advertising; streamed cars perambulate the streets slowly, cloaking their owners in a dash of security; politicians wearing dark suits and Cheshire smiles cloak their intentions while the policeman walking the street cloaks what he clocks. Cloaked poverty is hidden in the tall stride of the proud woman as the mother, child in hand, cloaks her morning tears. Everywhere cloaked eyes avoid contact with humanity.

Three Metaphors

My life is an overflowing jug of water.

He is a locked cellar.

She is a froth of champagne bubbles.

Three Cinquains

Bumblebee

buzzes, seeks

chubby, fluffy, dangerous

carefully lining up flowers.

Collector.

Piglet

flits, hides

small, neat, wanting

fearfully seeks a different truth.

Challenger.

Sloth

finds, feeds

slow, careful, indifferent

arrogantly breast pounding nothing.

Dangerous.

Golden Child

A charming shallow boy; Teflon in nature, trouble oozed from his skin leaving no trace. Not overly malicious, yet adept at getting his sister and cousins into trouble. Energetic and bouncing around, he can suddenly become still and invisible. When adults are around he is deemed trustworthy and honourable, while his victims are scolded for being mean about such a nice boy. When authority figures are absent, hair is pulled and wrists twisted if his every whim is not met. That is on a good day. On a bad day, he complains of his victim’s terrible behaviour or sets them up for a fall. He is never blamed for wrong doings, he is never caught. His halo is gilt not golden and tucked neatly into his trousers there is an arrow headed tail. He is the future leader who is blameless when everything goes wrong and the officer who gets his men killed.

Yet unless you are one of his victims, you believe in this gold coloured boy.

Worm casts

She stood on tiptoe; her feet squidging into the wet sand. It was then that I heard the noise: I saw her mouth open, there across the rock pools and timeless grit, while the screech continued to echo off the cliff walls.

‘What’s the problem?’ I shouted as I started to run in that way that only mothers can. The seagull like sounds persisted. Arms pumped feet faster. Without breath I reached her.

‘What’s up?’

Now sobbing, she splurted her reply: ‘That.’

I looked where she pointed; the beach was hillocked with worm casts.

‘Them? They’re only sand. Come on, let’s go. Don’t be silly.’

‘No. Can’t. They might come out.’

She was petrified, superglued to the ground. I looked up, thinking, trying to resolve the issue.

‘Oh shit,’ the words hissed from my mouth. There two metres away, where there had been sand, was now water. The tide was coming in, fast.

Oxford Aftermath v 2

I missed the big event; for me there was no hymn sung from Magadalen Tower twenty thousand people failed to surround me as the choral boys provided seven minutes of heaven on earth, the Morris Men consisted of one man off for his breakfast, bells jingling as he crossed Beaumont Rd. What I did see was the aftermath. Oxford was oddly silent in a normal noise kind of way. It hang heavily in the air despite the mass of people walking down Cornmarket St. Sainsburys in Magdalen St was deserted of its usual student shoppers.

I ambled through the mass of roads when from behind me a cultured voice ‘This girl will hide me as I undo my flies.’ I looked around and there behind me a modern blond Apollo; steady on his feet, an infectious grin across his face. I couldn’t help but smile back; walking with him another god, this one dark haired and avoiding eye contact.

‘Like this?’ I asked spreading my arms wide.

Apollo’s companion walked ahead studiously heading for somewhere.

‘Thank you’ Apollo beamed as he redressed himself, tucking his white shirt into his very well fitting jeans. ‘Whe’re you heading?’ There was a slight slur in his voice.

‘I thought I’d have a late breakfast.’

‘You’re not having breakfast here are you?’ We were now outside Cafe Rouge.

‘Why not?’

‘They just want to take your money, souless.’

‘Where would you suggest?’

‘Broadway, Fulham. The’re two one’s better than the other. You should go to the best one.’

‘I think it’s a bit far for me to go for breakfast this morning.’ The smile stretched across my face. ‘Are you at college here?’

‘No visiting, I live in Fulham; used to be a student at Brookes, in the Business School.’

‘I’m at Ruskin, taking English. I’m a writer.’

‘Yes.’ He paused, shook his head, ‘Where’s Ruskin?’

Laughing I answered him ‘Here in Oxford, has close ties with Brookes.’

We walked on a few more steps; Apollo stopped ‘I’m Bertie Tweeble. What’s yours?’

‘Do you want my real name or a made up one?’ His face creased, the smile dropping, I smiled at Bertie, ‘Karen Freeman.’ Bertie extended his hand and took mine; a cool firm handshake.  

 ‘That’s my friend Charlie.’ Charlie was six paces ahead of us.

We turned the corner into Walton St. Charlie entered a phone box.

‘There should be a ‘Lamb and Flag’ ’round here.

‘There’s a ‘Jude the Obscure’ and ‘Jericho Tavern’.’

‘Whe’re they?’

‘You can see them from here.’

‘Can I sing you a song? It’s not rude or anything.’ He pulled out his silver Blackberry.

I nodded as he dialled a number on his phone.

‘I’m supposed to be meeting a girl.’ He leaned close, his warm breath on my ear ‘dippidy do dah dippidy day, my oh my what a wonderful day I brought the last round, he brought the last, now its your turn to go to the bar. Hello? ... Where are you? ...Opposite the Post Office? ...Where’s that? ...I’d like to meet you in person not just have a voice conversation. ...Near ‘Brown’s’? ...Okay.’

‘Must go’ he looked sheepish and took my hand, pulling me towards him. He bent his head and planted his lips on mine. ‘Bye angel Karen.’

As he turned away, Charlie joined him, I heard Bertie say ‘she could have been fun.’

Lunacy v 3

Los Gringo’s han robada la luna

Die Amerikaner haben den Mond gestolhen

Mwenzi wetu umeibiwa na Americani

Gli americani hanno rubato la Luna

De Amerikanen hebben de maan gestolen

Amerikanerne har stjålet månen

Os americanos têm roubado a lua

Think, look, listen.

Father Christmas is Coca Cola Santa

American English dominates the screen

eastern bloc communism has collapsed

capitalism rules supreme

Earth is running a temperature of 38C

honey is endangered, there are fewer bees.

Think, look, listen.

The sky is filled with sulphur oxide, CO²,

the sea is filled with crap,

deny loudly that the icebergs are melting;

this human virus draws the planet’s sap.

Please tell, will the Earth live, will the Earth die?

extinct Eastern Elks graze dead grasses and sigh.

Think, look, listen.

Representative of every nation

greed drives mankind’s behaviour,

planet raped and pillaged, forests burnt, scoured land!

look around, there is no single saviour.

The cure, a cure, requires all humanity to change

Forget blame, stop before we are all deranged.

Los Gringo’s han robada la luna

Die Amerikaner haben den Mond gestolhen

Mwenzi wetu umeibiwa na Americani

Gli americani hanno rubato la Luna

De Amerikanen hebben de maan gestolen

Amerikanerne har stjålet månen

Os americanos têm roubado a lua