This page is a mix of Creative Writing and Poetry. I wouldn't say I was that great at either but I do do it as a form of self-expression and, as much as I'm uncomfortable with people reading my stuff, I kind of feel a need to put it 'out there'. There are a lot of people in the world who write songs, poetry, stories; people who draw and paint and some of it is very good - brilliant, in fact - much better than some of what passes for art in society today. Sadly, most of it goes unseen or unheard. So this page (this website, in fact) is my little corner where I am seen and am heard, even if it is in only a small way. I suppose deep down we all have a longing to be heard, to hold a flag up and wave it to the world saying 'I do exist!'
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This is a bit of writing I did on the Creative Writing course I've mentioned more about in the poetry section. There was about 10 of us on the course and we all had to write down a first name each on a scrap of paper and then a surname on a separate scrap of paper so all in all we had about 20 names (10 first names and 10 second names). We all then picked a first name and a second name each to come up with an imaginary person's name. From the name we had to create a character and put him/her in some kind of situation which, hopefully, after the end it would leave the reader wanting to find out what happened next and wanting to know more about that character. So, this was my attempt for the name I picked out, a 72 year old widow.
May Riley
Not five minutes ago, May was dozing comfortably in a bedroom armchair, the morning sun shining through the windows where its light lay on her lap and warmed her like a cat curled up and sound asleep. With a sudden start she awoke when the high-pitched smoke alarm in the dining room burst into her consciousness. May knew instantly what was wrong. Before coming upstairs, she had put the chip pan on to make chips to have with her lunch, something of a ritual she did every Friday. She would always make more lunch than she needed in the hope her friend would call in after her morning trip shopping and help alleviate the loneliness of a 72 year old widow of 6 years. They would eat lunch, drink tea, eat biscuits and natter away until mid-afternoon when, at that point, her friend would reluctantly prise herself out of the armchair and leave lest her fussing husband call out a search party to look for her.
May jumped up out of the chair, her chest and head suddenly pounding in panic, and made a groggy way to the top of the stairs where the first smell of smoke reached her nostrils. She was still light headed from sleepiness and in her rush she gave little thought or care to her first few steps down the stairs. Her foot slipped and all became a horrible blur as she fell to the hall below, feeling, rather than hearing, the crack of ribs as she went. She lay in shock for a few moments and then, in a panic, she tried to move. Her efforts availed her little for the pain in her chest was too great and her rasping breath was quick and sharp: she didn’t bother to try shouting for help. So May let go and waited for whatever fate would bring.
While she lay, unbidden, a memory from May’s childhood
surfaced in her mind. Although she could not remember the date (she thinks
she was seven or eight), it was a memory from the Second World War. May
and her mother were ensconced in the dubious safety of a brick air-raid
shelter at the bottom of their garden. After many minutes inside the candle-lit,
windowless shelter, listening to the sirens sound out their doleful warnings,
May realised she didn’t have Queenie, the rag-doll her grandmother
had given her as a baby. The doll was a comfort she felt she could not do
without in the dimness of a chamber where she felt like she was waiting
to die. Outside, the very earth and sky seemed to hold their breaths as
the terror of the enemies coming was as an ill wind across the land.
May rushed out of the door into the morning sun with the full purpose of
retrieving Queenie from the house, the urgent protests of her mother following
behind. In the naivety of childhood she thought little of the danger of
such a venture. She figured that if you loved something, like she loved
Queenie, then it was worth saving and risking your life for. After all,
was that not the reason that her daddy was fighting in another country?
To save the things he loved?
She found Queenie at the bottom of the stairs. In May’s rush to get
out the doll must have slipped from her arms for there she lay, awkward
and twisted, her button eyes open wide, staring at the ceiling as if waiting
for the heavens to come crashing down. May picked her up a mere second before
her furious mother unceremoniously dragged her back to the shelter. They
both survived the raid.
May was starting to cough as the smoke became thicker, which pained her chest all the more. She felt something run into her ear and dull the sounds of the wailing alarm and the crackle of fire; blood, she guessed, though May paid these things little heed. No, she was imagining herself a limp rag-doll, sprawled at the bottom of the stairs, left behind while outside the world moved on. And then, she fancied, a little girl, too full of love for a misshapen doll and too naïve to care for the dangers posed, would rush in and hold her tightly to her breast and be quickly away through the door to the light of a gentle summer’s day beyond. May’s heart grew heavy with a longing she little understood, and as the light of consciousness grew dim in her weak eyes, the idea of being the beloved doll of an innocent was not a bad way to die. Yes, she thought, she would be happy with that.
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I've written quite a lot of poems in the
past but I don't think they're that good. I'll try and dig some of the better
ones out and pluck up the courage to stick them on here. In 2006 I did a
Creative Writing course which covered poetry in one lesson. Our homework
for the week was to write some Haiku. Haiku is a Japanese form of poetry
which is always only ever three lines long and doesn't have to ryhme. The
first line has to be five syllables long, the second line has to seven and
the last has to be five again. Ican't say I liked the sound of it at all.
I was used to the usual form of poetry with it's stanza's and couplet's.
I fell in love with it though. It seemed like some sort of creative puzzle.
Haiku is meant really to be a 'snapshot' of anything that you want to write
about and kind of cuts out superfluous words that don't add anything to
the poem. I did make mine ryhme though.
Here's a few of mine anyway.
Black Cat Crossed my path again Good or bad luck I'm not sure Wet fur in the rain |
Witch Black Cat and Wolf Paw Familiars of the hag Marks upon the door |
Wolf Howling echoes sad Lonely sounds upon the moor Lupine moon witch had |
Moon Silver face bereft How beautiful still you are Roaming wolf knows best |
Silver Quickening starlight Moonbeams lift the forest dark Greet the antlered guest |
Forest Sun fades in the west Silver light, Will-o-the-Wisps Bright fires dance in jest |
Fire Darkness blooms and lifts Burning phoenix nest Forest shadow shifts |
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Evening Star
You are the star who lights up the evening
Shining brightest in the deep blue
How could I stop my chest heaving
When the sun sinks down and I see you?
Secret for you is my love
Hidden from the race of men
For pluck you from the sky above
would they, and stop I wonder when?
And though change the seasons
And in sadness I may wait
Question even reasons
It is reason I have come to hate.
The Goddess of Love will not need
Though I hope see me she will
And her head bend down as a rain-soaked reed
To kiss my lips and drink her fill.
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Happy Birthday
Words of great discomfort
Coughed up in blood and pain
The drums will always sound
And hearts forever ring out
Please don’t think
Thoughts only get in the way
I want to hear that music forever
At least, until the end of time
What is there to say?
When you know you’ve no idea?
I’m lost in the rebuilding
Of all that knowledge tore down
Many happy returns
On this your greatest birthday
Enjoy the gift of the lonely
A child so far from home
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The City of Falling Leaves
In The City of Falling Leaves
I would be happy to make my home
With spires tall and wind in the eaves
Where broken hearts are free to roam
On carpets red, green, yellow and brown
Walk humble feet in the evening hush
From autumnal trees their weave fall down
A dream of grace in the golden dusk
In the Holy Groves where the fires burn bright
I will hold the hands of my hearts desire
And kiss her softly in the rustling starlight
Burning as a pillar of flame and fire
No palace would I need where kings reside
No halls of marble and stone
Only Elysian archways of branch and briar abide
And avenues to call my home
The magic night and the sparks of fireflies
And all in which a child believes
Exiled in my kingdom in faithful eyes
In The City of Falling Leaves
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