How to be a Pen
Thursday, 23 December 2010
How to be a Pen
First, a mighty contribution from Luke Dowell.
His walking stick was Ming Dynasty,
one of a kind.
How my grandad came to have it I don't know.
The blue to green metallic glow covered
the hollow iron underneath with gold
Chinese dragon flowing perfectly up the side
which represents power, pride and courage.
Three things that my grandfather
The crack that flowed through the willow
handle reminds me that as a child
of three I used it as a golf club.
The same as that priceless old cane,
I am also now hollow.
Seems the time of year to think of ancestors. This is by Anon.
Even the dead live through my blood.
Pictures of the forgotten,
It sat on top of the oak drawer.
Just behind his past self.
Pictures of the forgotten,
In the centre of the photo he's there.
Thursday, 8 July 2010
Sean Carrott woke up suddenly, with a plan. He was tired of the bullies. He wanted a new life in another school. Eventually, Mum agreed, and they toured the new school. They went round the Technology block, where, amongst others, a kid called John White was sitting. John was also bullied, and spent his breaktimes alone. John was shorter than average, and quite rotund. He had glasses, and always wore his shirt with the top button fastened. He loved soaking up information but the bucketful. Sean was much of the same, except with braces and a noticeable lisp.
The uniform looked smart, and in two days he was settling in. Sean was put in the same classes as John, and they gelled almost immediately. They found out that they liked quite a lot of things and watched the same television shows, like Star Trek. Unfortunately, the bullying largely continued for the pair. Nearly every day, practical jokes were played and countless insults thrown. John was called ‘fatty’ a lot and Sean was apparently ‘orange’ thanks to his surname. As you’d expect, it affected the boys for a while, but after a while, they pulled together, and it didn’t bother them as much any more. The insults became more gradual. After about 3 months, not many of the ‘harder’ kids took any notice anymore. There were still insults, but more sporadic and not as hurtful. Sean had made the move to be happy, and nothing brings happiness more than a friend…
AFC BOURNEMOUTH vs ACCRINGTON STANLEY
Saturday, March 27, 2010
AFC Bournemouth line-up: 1) Shwan Jalal; 23) Lee Bradbury; 16) Rhoys Wiggins; 4) Shaun Cooper; 6) Marvin Bartley; 17) Josh McQuoid; 11) Liam Feeney; 8) Anton Robinson; 14) Danny Hollands; 9) Brett Pitman; 33) Steve Fletcher
Subs: 30) Dan Thomas; 7) Sammy Igoe; 10) Alan Connell; 28) Warren Cummings; 22) Joe Partington
Accrington Stanley line-up: 25) Ian Dunbavin; 26) Tom Lees; 15) Dean Winnard; 5) Darren Kempson; 12) Phil Edwards; 7) John Miles; 14) Jimmy Ryan; 6) Andrew Proctor; 8) Luke Joyce; 9) Billy Kee; 11) Bobby Grant
Subs: 1) Dean Bouzanis; 16) Chris Turner; 17) Sean McConville; 18) John Mullen; 20) Peter Murphy; 24) Gary King; 30) Jamie McCarten
The opening exchanges of the game were a dull, quite boring bit of football which both teams couldn’t string together a few passes. In the 8th minute, Accrington were caught offside. It was to be a frustrating game for the Lancashire team’s strikers. The first chance on goal went to AFC Bournemouth, with a free-kick 20 yards out. Brett Pitman’s low drive hit the wall and Stanley got it cleared eventually.
Long throw-ins were a weapon in both sides’ artillery. Bournemouth took the first one. Danny Hollands launched the ball into the middle of the 18-yard box, and Liam Feeney rose highest to nod the ball into the corner of the Accrington net. The Bournemouth fans were ecstatic, the smidgeon of Accrington fans not so happy. It had taken just 18 minutes for the first goal to emerge.
Bournemouth’s defence played very well as a whole. None more so than Marvin Bartley, who was almost invincible at centre-back. In the 25th minute, he denied the Stanley forwards breaking through by a well-timed sliding tackle. The defence were called into action two minutes later, preventing the forwards getting a meaningful shot in. The eventual shot was skewed and off-target. 29 minutes in, another AFCB free-kick was awarded which led to the first of three Bournemouth corners compared to Stanley’s five.
Some of the Bournemouth fans felt hard done by from some of referee G. Scott’s decisions. In the 36th minute, Steve Fletcher got pulled back unfairly and the Bournemouth fans were suddenly not so jubilant. There were shouts of ‘Specsavers, Ref!’ and other such comments. However, overall they have nothing much to complain about because a minute later, Hollands hit the deck after a bruising tackle from Accrington’s Phil Edwards, who received a booking for the tackle. Another long throw worried Accrington fans…the resulting shot flew inches over the crossbar. In the 41st minute, Accrington’s Tom Lees received a yellow card for a tackle on Josh McQuoid. There were 2 added minutes played at the climax of the half, and at the break the score was 1-0 to Bournemouth. The 40-or-so Stanley fans weren’t particularly pleased.
Into the second half the teams went, and Stanley dominated the first fifteen minutes of the half. A shot from James Ryan was rifled over in the 50th minute, and they got two corners in two minutes after that.
AFCB were the first team to make a change. In the 57th minute, McQuoid was replaced by Alan Connell. Accrington had yet another corner, and again they failed to hit the target. Stanley hearts were in their mouths when Fletcher was bundled over in the box. Nothing was given by the referee.
Almost following Bournemouth’s lead, Accrington decided it was time for change. All three substitutes came on at once. Chris Turner entered the fray in place of Andrew Proctor, Sean McConville replaced Billy Kee and Bobby Grant was substituted for Gary King. Four minutes later, Hollands received Bournemouth’s only yellow card.
In the 79th minute, the Cherries’ defence lost concentration and gifted the ball to Stanley, and Darren Kempson saw his shot blocked for a corner by Bartley. Bournemouth then proceeded to evacuate to the other half, and a mazy run by Feeney opened up the defence. His shot was diverted onto the crossbar by the ‘keeper, who then fumbled it and Brett Pitman was there to do the honours from two yards. 81 minutes gone, and Bournemouth made their second substitution; Sammy Igoe coming on for Fletcher.
In the 85th minute, Stanley were caught offside again. Marvin Bartley was named Man of The Match after a great performance. Bartley is usually a midfielder, and filled in superbly. There were to be at least four added minutes at the end, which turned into nearly eight. In the third minute of added time, Feeney almost got a brace when ‘keeper Ian Dunbavin dithered and threw the ball straight onto the head of the surprised midfielder’s head. To use up some more time, Feeney was replaced by Warren Cummings after four added minutes. Finally, the referee blew the whistle to signal the end of the game. Bournemouth finished victorious by 2 goals to zero.
Tuesday, 2 March 2010
Rain on the mother,
Give her the secrets of water,
Let her image be reflected in its
Mirror top. Run the silky water,
Down her arm, down to her toes,
Like soft fingers massaging her scalp.
Sooth her hot flesh.
Let her know when it is safe
To cross the Wadi, when it is fine
To wade in the river, when it is time
Sing to the village, to catch a smell of spice,
A sound of children playing, the reply of
Let her love the sparse grass,
The chirp of nearby crickets
And the slow croak of frogs.
Let her cut colours on the horizon: purple, red; bits of orange and blue.
Let her breathe the smoke of fire and dance into the night.
Let her children learn and know
That tomorrow, she’ll be there again
In the rain, in the water,
In the sun, in the water,
In the earth, in the water.
Monday, 22 February 2010
Singing to herself.
She catches a smell
Of the village,
Out of sight,
Taste of heat, dust of a hundred dry days
Light dances on the water
Children run free, singing songs in the wind.
New river in the Wadi.
Sunday, 24 January 2010
Daisies, like splashes of white paint on a green canvas.
The daffodil bulb opens slowly, like a timid baby rabbit
venturing out for the first time.
A rose blossoming like a child learning to walk,
A multi-coloured carpet of wild flowers covering the
Fresh blossom, as delicate as gossamer, and tiny
curled up leaves on saplings, start off the year like a new
born lamb finding it's feet.
Trees picking up leaves like they are objects in an end-
Spring itself is a newborn lamb, frolicking playfully into view,
Inspiring, rolling down grassy banks, ending up in fields of gold.
The comma in a sentence, a pause in the year.
Kristian writing (up). Amelia writing (down).
We, us locals, sit
On individual stools, one apart.
Each time the door opens, we turn
Resigned, we retreat—just another local.
I shuffle on the cushion and lock my legs.
I cup my pint and unstuck my elbows from the bar top.
I let the condensation from the glass
Mask my sweaty palms.
The stale air heavies my nose
And muffles the synth and drum of
Amateur post-punk; the sound track of
Casiotone for the helplessly alone.
Beat, off sync with my rhythm:
An increasing thudding
Of palpable fluttering –
The churning of concrete,
Prisoner to my naval. Perhaps the drink?
The door—I snap to face it. Expectant.
Just another local and back to the
Barman, “same again, please”.
Stranded on my stool, surrounded
By the fresh smell of stale ale,
The drone of casiotone, clashing with
I could make for the door, end it all.
Forget this place and take control.
I could text you and say, “another night?”
Let you down and cut the palpitations.
But I’d lose that drive,
That off-beat pulse,
Organic to its very nervous cell, its control.
I’d lose the part of me that waits for you.
On this solitary stool, I endure the surrounding decay,
The sticky side and dodgy drink
Because, right now, I live and feel
The blood that churns in me.
So, it’s worth the sinking feeling
Each time I hear the door and return to the
Barman, “same again, please”.
Across it are peaks and troughs
Of illuminated pink sheets, beckoning me beneath them
And amidst the swirling mass, is you
Underneath, hazy darkness.
Hot breath against my face.
Your fingertips pressing the fibres of my clothes
Against my skin.
We transform into a world were flight
Is possible –
I soar effortlessly against gold and blue
Freedom caressing my face. And you.
Caressing my face.
I crash back. Come up for some air.
And there’s a you shaped space
The only word to describe it is
Even two gentle hums from each far corner,
Those furry contented breaths
Replacing your delicate presence cannot console me.
No longer freedom tenderly lingering about my face
But cold air crashing around my ears
Icy exhalation replacing yours.
I stuff a pillow into my aching arms
Glacial against my skin
I dream of you, of heat,
Your metallic scent lingers
Where your lips met my neck
Your shirt brushed my hand
Your eyes burnt into mine
And stretching out empty fingers
I trace the outline of your face
On my pillow.
Across it are peaks and troughs
Of lacklustre pink sheets
Stretching for miles before me
And within the eternity
Tuesday, 5 January 2010
- Striking First Line
- Cliches (Kill Them!)
- Cut Unnecessary Words
- Striking Resolution
- Form/ Structure
Our Writer's Group really got down to business. We discussed a work entitled 'Love Poem to Fear' by Catherine Pierce. A few simple steps later...
A Love Poem To Recession-Kat Quill
Carbon Monoxide clouds billow
around me. The cold evening
air enhancing the sweet
concoction of nicotine and
Coppers rattle on the table top
Measly change from a
magnificent meal. Waitresses
my sole companion while my
Monday, 4 January 2010
Writer's Group receiving inspiration from Jacob Sam La Rose 15th December
Here's the second poem written during Jacob's Writer's Group workshop and inspired by Catherine Pierce's 'Love Poem To Hate'.
Mid-summer nights, above the cove,
In which, hours before, was sand,
I watch you embrace the rock.
You respire in a low rumble,
Snoring softly in lento,
Along with my heartbeat.
Salty air makes me, look thirstily down,
Into many people’s watery grave,
Oh, how you can sweet talk us.
As the horizon leaks into orange,
You draw yourself away from the cove,
Leaving your sandy chamber.
'Lento' is slower than adagio, its a music speed, and 'respire' I thought instead of breathing because, I'm personifying the sea it sort of makes it more human if I use respire, so it sounds living.