My Hands

Though small and delicate, sensitive and fragile, my hands held your's and carried you. Through trials and tribulations, through pain and through happiness, through your strength and weakness. And when you were weak they provided you with strength and support. But you crushed them. You held on so tight you cut off my blood supply and drained the colour from them.
   
     You placed a ring on my finger, so beautiful and special. It left an indent, forever engraved. Even when I removed it, I felt it. Even when you made it lose it's meaning, it clung onto my hand, searching for a new one or desperately trying to bring back the old
   
     I used to hate the way you ran your fingernails underneath mine, until your mother explained the childlike connection; then I stopped asking you to stop; I stopped pulling my hand from yours, as the overwhelming feeling of endearment replaced the irritation.
   
     When you left, I started painting my nails bright colours; colours that clashed with one another; colours which alternated from nail to nail. I tattooed my index finger with a brash, bold statement - it made me feel empowered, somewhat, to do something I wanted to do despite it being impractical.
   
     I wouldn't be honest if I said I no longer missed holding your hand. Although, perhaps it's fairer to say: I miss you holding mine.

I Have a Dream

After taking respite in the comfort of my home and with family, I have managed to get back into the working mind frame and sat and approached the next part of my end of year independent project for university. I decided, as my independent project, to construct a critical essay on the works of Bob Dylan, entitled 'Politics and Poetry'. Needless to say, a lot of background research has been required of me each time I sit and attempt to analyse any of his protest songs.
   
     Today I started to look at 'Only a Pawn in Their Game', a song Dylan wrote about  the assassination of civil rights activist Medgar Evers. I discovered that he performed this song on the 1963 March on Washington, where later Martin Luther King delivered his 'I have a dream' speech. This urged me to sit and watch the speech in it's entirety, which I'd never done before. No matter how many times I hear this it never ceases to send goose pimples all over my body and tears to my eyes. An inspirational man, epically inspirational words.

When Words Won't Do

'C'

 If I wrote you a poem

what would you say?

You’d know how I think,

see things my way

You’ve not changed

just moved onto the next

The same little prat

who initials his texts.

What do you know, really

- about me?

Your psychoanalysis tires

and frustrates me, and your moral highground.

That’s what you do

So fuck you and fuck her too.

The Letter on the Mantelpiece

He used to sit in that chair, every morning
He'd smile at me as I walked in
the room carrying our mugs of coffee
I'd sit opposite him in my dressing gown.
That's how we'd start out day, everyday.

Everyday for thirty five years
he sat in that chair every morning
The chair was empty now and
I sat there
alone.

I looked at his chair and
envisioned his smile, as I
continued to ignore the letter that
sat on the mantelpiece,
alone.

I missed him. His company
and his presence. His smile
and his warmth. His bad
jokes and idle chit-chat.
I missed him.

I finished my coffee and left the room.
Closed the door and locked it
behind me, leaving the letter inside
alone.

My routine had to continue,
my coffee in the morning,
to keep his memory alive,
to carry on...

But now I sat alone.
Just me and the letter
It sat there so smug.
White and formal.

It knew I had to open it,
at some point
and so did I.
I hated it.
It hated me.

I wanted to get rid of it
and it seemed like it wanted to get rid
of the comfort in my denial.
I wanted to get rid of
it!

I walked back to the room
unlocked the door.
I stared at it, it stared back
at me.

It's bold, black print
stamped on the front.
I ripped it apart
and pulled out it's contents.

"We're sorry to hear of your loss"
 It said.
"We can confirm Mr Harvey's account has now been closed.
Yours Sincerely,
Barclay's."

An Oasis of Memories

Today I spent the day with an old friend who, due to not being very well, has been away for a while. As I drove him home we played Oasis through the car stereo and reminisced. It reminds us both of a happier and more simple time in his life. As I drove away I wasn't ready to come home nor end my trip down memory lane, so I decided to go for a drive and make my way through as much of Oasis' back catalogue that my journey would allow.


This band took the world by storm; it was suddenly cool to be a Manc and adopt that oh so famous Oasis swagger. The long Beatle-esque hairstyle and Lennon glasses propelled back into fashion and it became acceptable or, dare I say it, 'cool' to slur your way through a song slightly off-key. As they released 'Roll With It' into the charts, they battled with Blur for the number one spot; so was born the Oasis vs Blur saga. Blur won the race with 'Country House' and took their place at number one in the UK charts. I was a massive Blur fan at the time, drooling over Damon Albarn and his floppy blonde locks. I remember playing 'The Great Escape' on loop whilst my eldest brother drowned me out (owning a sound system that was epically louder than mine) with 'What's The Story'. Needless to say, it wasn't long before I was converted, recognising Oasis as whole new sound and one I wanted to hear more of.

As we watched the band and Liam's ego get bigger by the minute, many sat back in awe watching in amazement as they grabbed third place in the UK's best selling albums of all time with 'What's The Story' Other Stats include:

• Eight UK number-one singles
• Eight UK number-one albums
• Fifteen NME Awards 
• Nine Q Awards
• Four MTV Europe Music Awards
• Six BRIT Awards; including one in 2007 for outstanding contribution to music and one for the best album of the last 30 years as voted by the BBC Radio 2 listeners 
• Nominated for three Grammy Awards. 
• As of 2009, the band have sold an estimated 70 million records worldwide.
• Listed in the Guinness Book of World Records in 2010 for “Longest Top 10 UK Chart Run By A Group” after an unprecedented run of 22 successive Top 10 hits in the UK. 
• Hold the Guinness World Record for being the "Most Successful Act of the Last Decade" in the UK between the years 1995 and 2005, spending 765 weeks in the Top 75 singles and albums charts.

These stats are nothing short of impressive and, alongside my generation's memories of a great and pertinent decade of music, Oasis certainly left their mark on Britain. 

Beauty

Thinking Too Much

You think you have it all 

figured out,

you think you’re clever.

You think you’re great

you think you’re the good guy

you think you’re strong.

I think you’re too busy

trying to suss others out .

I think you don’t know

Yourself.

I think you’re scared,

you think too much.

Desire

Desire is a knife

slicing reason.

Exposing our weakness, 

it lies on the bread board.

Mirrors our vulnerability

I'm Sorry

It was sunny that day,

but the chill in the air stayed still.

Everything seemed dark, our clothes,

our mood.

The car pulled up, black.

Stopped.

There was no bump starting this hearse.

You stepped out in your suit, black.

I didn’t know what to say.

I couldn’t take time back

Your brother followed,

then your mother too.

I didn’t know what to say

to you. 

We gathered inside, silence,

you began that march.

You held him up.

How did you find the strength? 

I didn’t know what to say.

Tear stained faces gathered outside

I squeezed your hand,

I didn’t know what to say.

And now when I see you

your eyes seem to speak

to me.

I see inside your hard exterior.

“I’m sorry.”

School's Out!

Well, I've finally handed in all my work. Friday felt like it would never arrive but I managed to hand in; a 3,000 critical essay, 500 word critical reflection, a lecture by lecture accounted log book and 125 lines of poetry (of which some I shall post some of poetry over the next few days).

     So, I've broken up for Easter and have a six week break ahead of me. Well, I say 'break' but with six books to read and a proposal for my final project to complete, I shan't be short of things to do! I have decided to construct my final project around the great Bob Dylan. With many poems, lyrics, critical works and films to reference, I'm excited to get started on this personal study.

     I plan to spend the next six weeks catching up with family, reading, writing and badgering my Dad for music and tales of Dyaln. I've really enjoyed this past term. I have finally been converted and opened my mind to more modern and abstract poetry. I have written some of my best poetry to date over the past few months. I am now to read; Shakespear's Romeo & Juliet and Twelfth Night, Alice Walker's, The Colour Purple, Austen's, Emma, Pat Barker's, Regeneration and Lorraine Hansbury's, Raisin in the Sun in preparation for next term's film adaptation module.

     Here's to a chocolate, alcohol, family and literature fuelled Easter break!                        

Reverting to Idle Status

I'm reverting to idle status
Ending a call, ring back
Muting

Correcting incorrect entries
You can revert to idle status from anywhere
You can correct incorrect characters
Set the date and set the time
The correct date and time
can be assigned

I'm setting functions for the next call
Accepting a call
Incoming, outgoing
You can revert to idle status from anywhere

City Lights

So, I spent the beginning of my weekend in London. Checked into a lovely hotel and then headed to Oxford street for some good old retail therapy. Once myself (and my debit card) were all maxed out, headed back to the hotel for cocktails at the bar, followed by room service.

     Our tummies full and a bottle of champagne later, we jumped in a cab and headed for the West End. Thriller Live was showing at the Lyric theatre and I could hardly contain my excitement! I'm a huge Michael Jackson fan and after being so privileged as to have seen him live during his History tour, I have always wanted to see him again. Unfortunately this is the closest I'll be able to get to the real thing now. Well, I wasn't disappointed!

     With five different performers playing the part of Michael Jackson throughout the ages, we saw the likes of 'ABC' and 'I Want You Back' to 'Dirty Diana' and a reconstruction of the fantastic 1995 MTV awards performance of 'Dangerous'. The dancing was utterly superb and their voices breathtaking, at moments. Particular members of the cast were able to mimic his moves and his voice so well, it sent chills down my spine. From the distance you could've been in the room with the man himself. By the time they performed 'Man In The Mirror' with images of Martin Luther King, John Lennon and finally The King Of Pop himself, superimposed on a screen behind, I couldn't stop a tear or two rolling down my cheek.

     Buzzing from the performance, being off of our seats, dancing around and singing along to all the classics, we headed into China Town. It was suitably decorated for the Chinese new year, with hundreds of lanterns strung from one side of the street to the other. It was quite beautiful. I spent the taxi ride home memorised at the beauty of the city at night. The houses of Parliament, The London Eye and London Bridge all lit up looking quite spectacular.

     Back in the comfort of our hotel room, we enjoyed a night cap before each taking a bath, putting on our robes and slippers and lounging on our beds in front of the telly.

I went to bed with images of iconic figures, Chinese lanterns and city lights, swirling around my head.

Bound Ideas

This is my final assignment for last term. We were asked to write a short story. I used 'A Beginning', my ideas for an opening to a novel I had written a couple of years ago and incorporated that into another piece I had written in class.





Dear journal,

I felt the sand sinking between my toes, so fine and soft, almost like silk. I swear there is no better feeling. I turned my attention to the sound of the sea lapping up onto the sand. The little toe of my right foot was getting wet. It felt cold, yet refreshing. I looked up. The sun was setting. When had it become dusk? It was beautiful. Orange and pink. It took my breath away. It was as though each of my senses were clicking in one by one and tuning in to what was around them. I had been here for a while, on this beach, so long in fact everyone else had left. I was alone, again. I couldn’t quite figure out whether I was pleased or not, but thought I’d embrace it. I lowered myself onto the sand.

Earlier on the beach had been full of people; daughters hand in hand with their fathers. A loud, yet small, Spanish guy exchanged money for ice-creams; boyfriends and girlfriends lying side by side, fingers touching. It was too hot for any other kind of contact. It had been full of the sound of people playing ball games, children racing to the sea and the murmur of lazy attempts at conversation. The heat was unbearable. It was silent now and, apart from my own slow breathing and the sea, I could not hear a sound.

The temperature was just right. Warm enough, and the breeze… wow! The breeze! It was cool and sent goose pimples up my legs. But not so cold that it sent any kind of chill over my body. I lay back on the sand. It was in my hair, but I didn’t care. Right now I was at peace with myself, my surroundings and most importantly, my mind. I was bursting with emotion. It went straight to my tear ducts. It took all I had to stop that tear -that tear that had been sitting there impatiently for days- from being set free on its journey down my cheek. But my mind felt so empty. I felt like there was nothing to think about anymore, nothing to worry about - nothing to cause that horrible feeling that my heart might jump out of my chest and into my mouth. Is it possible to feel everything yet nothing at all? What’s the use in crying anymore? What’s the use in allowing that all consuming anger to take over?

Hours passed. I eventually peeled myself from the sand and reached for my shoes. It crossed my mind to slip my feet back into them, but I wanted to feel the sand between my toes for the last stretch. I walked back to, what seemed like, nowhere....

“C’mon girls, please don’t make us late again! It’s starting to look bad.” Jane awoke by the sound of her father’s voice. She lay there in the warmth of her bed and heard the church bells start to ring from across the field - they were late. Jane didn’t enjoy church, she always felt it was time that could be better spent, starting a new book or finishing the last.

She was a sensible girl. A girl with a love for literature Whilst her sisters played outside or took to music or art, Jane would be sitting inside with her head in a book or scribbling away in her journal. A journal full of thoughts and ideas for novels.

It was a bitterly cold Sunday morning. She dragged herself from her bed and got dressed. She packed a small bag, (which simply consisted of her journal, a pen, a packet of tissues and her latest novel) combed her long dark hair then lingered in front of her dresser staring at herself in the mirror. Jane was a modest girl and not aware of her subtle beauty. She had pale white skin, pinched pink cheeks that sat on high, defined cheekbones, dark red lips and piercing blue eyes. Unlike her sisters. They all had bright blonde hair and emerald green eyes. They were pretty, but relatively plain.
When at last she pulled herself away from her dresser’s stall, she made her way downstairs into the mayhem that was her sisters rushing around trying to decide what to wear and whether their shoes matched their purses. Jane didn’t ever bother making this kind of fuss. The only thing she considered was how foggy and cold it looked out and therefore chose the warmest of her Sunday dresses she could find. She accompanied it with thick black stockings and wrapped herself in her coat and scarf.

When at last the family left the house, all Jane could think about was when she could get back. How long would the service be today? It seemed to drag and Jane spent most of this time daydreaming and wondering whether she could make the library in time before it shut. She was quickly awoken from her daze by the collection plate being shoved into her hand. She reached inside her pocket, placed a few coins onto the plate and finally was allowed to leave.

Sunday’s often stirred up a mixture of emotions for Jane. Every morning when she heard the church bells, she would immediately think of her grandfather, who had passed away just five years ago. Jane and her grandfather were very close and would sit together for hours, whilst he told her stories of his childhood, how he’d met her grandmother that autumnal afternoon in the park and asked her to help with his crossword. He loved to hear Jane read, which she was always grateful for. She waited eagerly every Sunday for the service to be over, so she could walk across the church grounds to her grandfather’s grave. She would always pick a flower on the walk to the church and place it in her bag for safe keeping until then.

* * * * *

“Beloved husband, wonderful father and loving grandfather.” She placed the flower down and pulled her book from her bag.

“Only two more chapters left now Granddad.” She began to read aloud to him, her fingers stiff from the cold, turning each page delicately.

“He used to be just like you at your age, you know?” A voice interrupted her reading. Her father continued “He loved to read and longed to write.”

“So why didn’t he?”

“He did at his leisure. But he had to work in the factory everyday, like everyone else. It’s no career, Jane. He knew this. When will you? You must find a husband. Someone who will support you, take care of you and look after you when your mother and I are no longer around.”

“Oh, father I will have none of this talk. Please stop. It breaks my heart”

“I know, my dear, but it is only sensible to think of these things. Being a writer will provide no stability - no stable income. Let your husband take care of you and you can write at your leisure, much like your grandfather. I see it only cruel that he encouraged this of you. Simply because he was unable to write, he wished to make up for his shortcomings through you.”

This conversation had become somewhat familiar to Jane and she didn’t agree with anything her father said, but didn’t wish to disagree too much at the risk of causing any disrespect. Her grandfather wanted the best for her, wanted her to be happy and this was the only reason he encouraged her to write. He knew how much she adored it and recognised her talent.
The following Sunday, Jane waited by the gates of the church whilst her parents spoke with the vicar.


* * * * *

“Lovely service, wasn’t it?”

“It was fine. I don’t really care for church.” Jane replied as she turned to sit on the stone wall.

“Do you mind if I join you?”

“If you wish.”

Mr Warwick sat down beside Jane and desperately tried to engage in conversation with her. She could feel her parent’s eyes burning into the back of her head! Mr Warwick struggled and stammered over his words, so much so that she almost felt sorry for him.

“Look, I realise our parents are eager for us to be together, but I have no interest in marrying. Do you?”

“Well, no, but….”

“But what? Then why are you trying so hard?”

“Because it’s what we should do.”

“Says who? Our parents? Society? Aren’t there so many other things you want to do with your life, instead of working day in day out, to provide a life for me and two or more children?”

“You make it sound so awful!”

“I apologise. I’m sure you’re a lovely man and would make a great husband, but I want to live my life. And I don’t want to live it through the eyes and expectations of my parents.”

“What other option do you have?”

His question lingered in her mind. What other option did she have? She had no clear answer, but knew she would have to find one.

Jane didn’t speak a word during the journey home and went straight upstairs to her bedroom as soon as they returned. She sat down at her dresser and began to comb her hair. She looked at herself in the mirror “What am I going to do?” And with that she began to sob.

“Jane. Can I come in?” Her father’s voice from outside her bedroom door silenced her.

“Erm….just a second” cried Jane, as she quickly plucked her handkerchief from her pocket to dry her eyes before going to the door.

“You’ve been crying, dear.”

“No, I haven’t. I’m fine. Honestly.”

“Jane, I know you too well. Please tell me what’s wrong.”

“Father, I don’t know what to do!”

“How do you mean?”

Jane’s father wrapped his arms around her and she slowly began to explain everything. She told him about the conversation she’d had with Mr Warwick that afternoon and how no matter how much she wanted to please her parents, she simply didn’t want to get married yet, if at all. She told him just how important it was for her to write and how she wouldn’t be happy unless she really gave it a shot. Even if she were to fail, at least she would’ve tried. For once, her father just sat and listened.

“Oh Jane, I honestly had no idea how unhappy you were. I just want the best for you. Can you understand that?”

“I can and I do. But please understand that the best thing for me to do is something that is going to make me happy. It’s no use me doing something you feel is best for me, if it will cause me to be so miserable.”

“Oh, your mother is going to be so mad at me…”

Jane’s father went on to tell her how he and her mother had been putting money away for the past five years in preparation for her wedding. He agreed to let her have half of it and suggested she take it and move to London to stay with her uncle. Her uncle worked for a publisher and knew many people within the business. He would be able to introduce her to his colleagues who would be able to read her work, offer her some advice and give her an insight into the world of writing.

“That should be enough for you to live on for about six months. Now, you have to promise me one thing.”

“Oh my god! I don’t know what to say. Of course! Anything, Father! What it is it?”

“If after six months, you still don’t have a job and you’re no further forward with your writing, you will not come and ask me for anymore money. You will return home and rethink this whole writing business. Agreed?”

The following week Jane set off for London. She arrived, suitcase in hand, at her uncle’s house and the feeling of a brand new start. Her life would begin here!

Within a few weeks, Jane was able to find to job as a nanny. She worked for the Cravats, looking after their two children and carrying out household duties. She adored Jack and Hannah and struck a very close bond with them. She enjoyed her job, which surprised her. She hadn’t ever really taken to children and definitely not to housework! In the evenings, Jane attended numerous social events with her uncle. She mingled with many authors and editors and was in her element. The authors told her of the joys of writing. The editors told her the realities of the struggles in getting published.
One evening when talking with a Mr Cranston, he offered to meet her for a cup of coffee and read her work.

“Mr Cranston, I cannot thank you enough. This is extremely kind of you.”

“Not at all, dear.”

Mr Cranston sat there in silence as he read Jane’s work.

* * * * *

“... Hours passed. I eventually peeled myself from the sand and reached for my shoes. It crossed my mind to slip my feet back into them, but I wanted to feel the sand between my toes for the last stretch. I walked back to, what seemed like, nowhere....”.

Jane closed her great grandmother’s journal. The lights blinked back on.

“Oh, look! The electric seems to be working again. Do you want to check the tv?”

“No, we want to hear the rest of the story!”

“Maybe some other time. You should really be getting to bed now. I didn’t realise how late it was.”

“Well, at least tell us if her novel was published in the end.”

“Like I say, some other time. Now off to bed. Don’t forget to brush your teeth!”

Jane blew out the candles, turned off the lights and followed her children up the stairs to bed.

The Harsh Reality of Daylight

When I woke up everything was different. I felt different, my room somehow looked different. Everything had changed. I didn’t like change. It always made me feel uneasy. He’d gone, taken all his stuff and gone. I wasn’t sure whether this was permanent this time or just another fight that had gone terribly wrong and gotten extremely out of hand. Ouch! My head throbbed. I had the taste of stale, red wine in the pack of my pallet. I looked to the left of me and to see the empty wine bottles and glasses on my bedside table. His glass was stood tall almost perfect, only with a slight red ring around the very bottom. My glass, standing next to his, was cracked. Lipstick marks stained the brim and it was still half full.

Alcohol had become something of a mask for me. A mask for my emotions, as in whenever I started to feel any, I drank them away. This had become a frequent occurrence when arguing with him – which had also become a frequent occurrence. It’s not that I enjoyed it as such, but couldn’t ignore the adrenaline that pumped through my blood when I raised my voice or the feeling of my heart racing when I got a reaction from him. Passion! That’s what it was. We had passion, chemistry. At least that was what I told myself and how I justified and explained the arguments.

I eventually tore my head from my pillow and attempted to place my feet on the unstable ground beneath me. I reached for my phone to dial his number, but thought better of it. Was there any point? What was there to say? What can I say? I was tired of this. Tired of this dead weight I had been carrying around. Anxiety constantly festered in the pit of my stomach, waiting to erupt, causing my heart to leap into my mouth. Before I even knew what I was doing, the phone was ringing in my ear whilst I waited to hear his voice on the other end. “Hello?” Silence. “Are you there?” “Yes, I’m here” He replied, exasperatedly.

Branded By You

He prances around, his hair in a mess
With tight, skinny jeans and a little black vest
His eyes shaded black, matching his clothes and hair
Whilst he says what he thinks, doesn’t matter who’s there

His beautiful use of language and impressive vocab
I watch him in awe, who cares if he’s a cad
His sparkling wit and boy-like charm
His pale structured face and skinny white arms
A cockney accent beside articulate slur
This man simply baffles me, sends my head in a whirl

His past on show for all to see
Letting everyone know him, you and me
A vulnerability awkward and shy
Some wouldn’t believe he’s arrogant, that guy

But all I see behind that big nest of hair
Is someone that’s got himself here, from there

A New Beginning

So, I haven't posted for a very long time. I have since started university and am studying English. Critical practice and creative writing. It's interesting to look back on the way I wrote before beginning my course. Granted I still don't claim to be fantastic with grammar, but I can notice an improvement in my writing since I last posted. This is great to see!

I thought if I made myself continue my blog during my course, it may encourage me to write for pleasure alongside class, assessment and tutorial tasks. I also intend to upload some of the writing I have done in class also.

I hope you enjoy reading my work as much as I enjoy writing it!