Sunday, September 11, 2022

Reign/Bow



The grey rains as the reign ends.

Above, colours bend -

And a rain of tears begins.

Millions mourn the vacant throne -

Into grief are thrown -

The lowering of our chins.

Rainbows of comforting blooms,

Love from living rooms,

As this saddest Thursday thins.

Reflection disperses shock;

A turn of the clock –

And so new era springs.

We look back with gratitude.

A new attitude,

Together – Long Live the King



Wednesday, October 27, 2021

Reality Show

 I wrote this short story in 2008.  Having been one of the many millions to watch, "Squid Game", I remembered I wrote this story, and went back for another read.  Maybe if they DO do a second series, perhaps this could kind of be an idea.  Oh, I need some sort of fair financial and artistic credit..... right?  lol


Reality Show

 

The dawn air is cool, but the sun’s brightness promises a beautiful, hazy June day.  I leave the window open as the birds’ twittering calms my nerves.  Today is a big day, so I want to savour this. 

 

I can honestly say I have been well looked after in here but I really look forward to getting out.  I realise that the road is not at an end just yet – but I feel positive, confident and strong. 

 

People usually opt for a relaxed, luxurious stay here.  You can have anything you want.  Some prepare themselves to meet their God whilst others fall into a pit of degradation, reacting to every lustful and stupefied impulse (and sometimes leave in a wooden box).  I don’t blame them for wanting an escape, but I chose to prepare my brain and my body to get through this and get back to my ten-year-old daughter.

 

I manage to sleep for a couple of hours until the door opens and an apologetic, smiling producer comes in.  I rise and he invites me to sit with him.  I do so with a wry smile as I remind myself that this comfortable, spacious room, my home for the past twelve months, was always just a purpose-built construction on a soundstage. 

 

As I pretend to listen obediently to today’s schedule, I become aware of the buzz of the hidden cameras – something that I had virtually forgotten about within days of being here.  I know what to expect anyway, the series has been around for over fifty years.  I've watched it all my life.  Still, he prepares me for my interview, focussing on the struggle of losing sixty pounds to get fit, the lack of communication, missing my daughter and the decision to shave off all my hair.   I hope he doesn’t mention the night when I missed physical contact too much and slipped my hand under the duvet…  oh, he does.  I try to laugh it off as normal and self-comforting, but in truth, I am mortified.  After asking if I have any final questions (I don’t) he leaves.   

 

In the distance, I hear the audience being let into the amphitheatre.  Butterflies in my stomach set off my nerves and I wonder if I can go through with this.  Like I have a choice.  It’s kill or be killed, basically.

 

I think back to the night I was called up, a year ago.  I feared for my daughter and immediately thought about seeking out the Resurrectionists.  As we are the only country participating in this now, this underground resistance group could help us across the border.  Frankly, I think they’re fictional, a false hope.  Anyway, you’re watched closely from the moment you’re selected and everyone knows that if anyone assisting an escape attempt faces the death penalty. 

 

When I first saw my room I was pleased to have that amount of space to myself, all sixteen by twelve of it.  The reality of the situation has never been far away, but, not being able to do anything about it, I focussed on developing strength and learning taekwondo to build stamina and prepare for the task ahead. 

 

Hearing my name chanted outside jolts me back to the present.  I gulp.  My mouth is dry.  I glance at my watch but don’t notice the time.  It’s pointless anyway because I don’t know how long is left.  I want to scream in frustration but I can’t, I must to save it for the final round. 

 

I don’t want to meditate because I’ll get pissed off if I’m disturbed, so I pace.  My temperature changes from warm to hot to cold and back again.  At times my breathing is shallow and fast, so I control it by breathing in through my nose and then releasing the air slowly and evenly through my mouth.  It works, but only while I’m doing it.

 

I notice that the door is ajar.  Locking it is pointless.  People never make it further than a few feet before being forced, violently, back into the room and strapped down.  I never tried that.  Oh, I did in my mind, but they don’t have full access to that.  They have more than you would think, but less than they think.

 

Suddenly, I am ushered out of the room and it feels like I’m being ripped from the womb.  I am miked up and shoved in front of blinding lights where I feel an overwhelming sense of displacement.  I hear my voice in calm conversation but don’t feel in control of it.  It’s so surreal it’s comical.  Does everyone go through this?

 

All I can think about is how petite Chelsey Summers is.  Honestly, she looks about six feet tall on television.  She took over presenting the show two years ago from her mother, Kylie Summers.  She not only looks like her but also has that fake ‘best friend’ attitude.  I warm to her anyway – why not?

 

During the ad break I size up the opposition.  Out of the ten of us going into confinement only seven remain.  Two died of drugs overdoses and another took a ‘voluntary exit’ – suicide to you and me.  We’re supposedly monitored around the clock yet this poor bugger found an opportunity to break a mirror and slash his wrists.  You’d think that after half a century there would be safety measures in place, but I guess ratings come first.   Another attempted to starve herself to death, but they saved her and here she is, sickly thin and weak.  At least she’ll be easy to put down.

 

Looking at the others, I’ve got a fairly good chance.  There’s one who took the ‘drink and drugs’ route, a black man who won’t make eye contact (could be a problem), a terrified overweight woman crying quietly (she does make eye contact and I feel bad about how I will be killing her presently), a small, rough looking girl and finally a glamour model type who has kept her shape and, seemingly, her dim positivity.  I’m going to enjoy wiping that smile off her face.

 

Back on air, the new draw takes place.  The fifty people picked by the Random Number Selector last week are here now.  The solemn ceremony of bringing out of the Black Box takes place – the box that has been used for every draw since the show began.  Although it commands reverence, it’s really just a small and insignificant box.  Still, like countless of others before me, I will touch it for good luck as I leave.  Right now, each of the new contestants will handpick a random barcode from it, ten of which are rigged to sound an alarm at the testing machine. 

           

I wonder if, like me a year ago, they will have the shakes and sweaty palms, trying to suppress the panic just beneath the surface.  Some will faint, many will cry in shock or happiness, a couple might piss themselves, others will be numb.  When my barcode went off, between the noise of the alarms and the roar of the crowd I didn’t notice how I got backstage.  It all seems so long ago.

 

When the first alarm goes off, the contestant screams about how he didn’t have long enough to pick out his barcode and accuses the system of being rigged.  I sympathise.  I can’t think of how to control the population beyond war and disease, but there must be more humane ways of trimming down the fifteen billion people on this planet than this.

 

After the draw, the attention turns back to my team.  ‘Team’.  I bet each of us has never felt so alone in our lives.  Chelsey jokes about how the time between shows goes by so quickly; that it doesn’t seem a year since we went in.  Thanks for the sensitivity, Summers.  I was trying to stall the inevitability of what is to come but thanks for trivialising my terror.  When does she get to be a contestant?

 

She prattles on about individual journeys and they show the highlights that the media have picked up on.  My little ‘personal session’ was in there but of course, it was minor news really.

 

Then we are paraded into the arena for the final round.  The crowd explode.  I’ve been in those seats myself a few times.  Getting tickets is hard, but it’s an amazing feeling to be there, cheering on your favourite contestants or jeering the ones you hate.  Even now it’s difficult not to get caught up in the excitement of it. 

 

I always used to think these ‘gladiators’ were proud heroes of this tradition, achieving fame and immortality.  It doesn’t feel like that.  I feel small and utterly helpless.  From my trap I look at the maniacal faces in the crowd, screaming for blood.  My heart pumps to the exact same rhythm as their chanting.  It is hard to miss my own mother and my daughter, proudly shouting my name from the families’ section.

 

The claxon sounds and the traps open.  As I get my bearings, my competitors immediately run toward the starving woman as she collapses silently to the floor in submission.  She curls into the foetus position and is lost amongst the kicking legs. 

 

Black Man is the first to break out of the group as his huge hands clamp around Rough Girl’s throat.  Junkie assists by pulling her head back, cutting off her air supply.  She fights back as best she can but it’s a quick death.

 

Fat Lady has surprising energy and wastes no time in getting hold of Bimbo’s head and biting off her ear.  Junkie is now getting laid into by Black Man.  I need to conserve strength but have to decide who to take out first and how to do it.  Learning taekwondo without another person to practice with was stupid - I can’t remember anything. 

 

Black Man is kicked in the nuts by Junkie and taken down.  Leaping onto his chest, he rains punches down on him whilst he can, because he knows that the moment he stops, Black Man is going to send him to Hell.

 

Meanwhile, Fat Lady has double-poked Bimbo in the eyes and all she can do to retaliate is attempt to elbow her, screaming.  No-one is going to help you, love.

 

I don’t see the point of intervening yet.  These people look busy and are unconcerned with me.  Junkie repeatedly smashes Black Man’s head onto the floor and looks up for a moment.  We make eye contact.  He leaves Black Man without a glance.  Black Man doesn’t realise this because the blood oozing from his ears indicates that he’s past caring now. 

 

As Junkie makes a beeline for me he kicks at Bimbo’s head.  The crowd cheer so loud at the bloodspill that I don’t hear her neck snap, I just see her crumple to the floor.

 

This is it.  Time to fight.  I take stance as the bastard runs at me, his right eye swollen closed and a contorted, dark-blooded mouth erupting an animalesque snarl.  I remind myself that there are no rules, I am defending myself against a wild animal.

 

My pose is useless as his punch to my temple softens the noise of the crowd behind a loud ringing in my head.  As I fall, slow-motion, to the ground, I notice that Fat Lady is stomping on Bimbo’s heavily bloodied face and I manage a chuckle. 

 

I am only down for a second.  I roll over and jump up to my feet, dazed and tasting wet metal in my mouth.  Aah, that must be blood then.

 

Junkie comes at me again but this time I am prepared, and jab at his throat with outstretched fingers.  The resulting burning pain in my hand sings an aria, but it stops him in his tracks.  As he comes back at me, I punch-clap his ears - hard.  I take this opportunity to head-butt him and hear a satisfying crack as my head shatters his nose.  Quickly, I take the heel of my hand to it, sending a shard of bone straight into his brain.  He goes down. 

 

My daughter’s voice calls, like an angel.  As I turn to promise her victory, I don’t notice that Fat Lady is behind me and I take another blow to my head.  There’s that damned ringing again.  I stagger and hit the air behind me with my elbows, but it’s in vain, because she kicks me in the back and I’m down on my stomach.  Before I know it she is kicking my head – just like she did with Bimbo.  I just need to roll over and trip her up. 

 

I turn, but before I can muster strength her foot stamps down on my throat.  As I gasp for air she smiles and the last thing I ever see is her foot coming towards my face.  



Monday, October 04, 2021

Baldechin

 

The sky was hung over 

like a silver silk dress, overlaid with lace

expired and tired

hanging in Miss Havisham’s wardrobe. 

 

Autumn has won –

as it inevitably does. 

 

Like the forgotten dress,

I too had hidden inside a closet all summer like a forgotten season’s fashion. 

Really, I needed the bracing spin pushed down by those delicately embroidered clouds. 

 

I thought of the journey ahead

and how re-immersing myself into the tumble of greys

would fade any colour of optimism that might have set in whilst I’d hibernated. 

 

This is how the silkworm would feel

if it knew its fate when its safe cocoon was

finally

cruelly

robbed. 

 

I looked up to where my sight faded into the cataract above.

 

I fastened the curtains together again, and sat.

 

Perhaps another day.

Goosey

 

Well-loved

Companion

This footlong friend

Its voice long gone

Bitten to hard, crunchy plastic

Within an uneven and battered cloth so often shaken into submission

It’s threadbare

And where

Thread is there

It hangs loose and directionless

Like the stray hairs clung to it, magnetised

It’s never far away

Dead eyes that never saw life still want to find a soul

And, tentatively,

I draw in a long nasal breath

Drawing moments of fresh outdoorsy

Drawing moments of deep dogs breath

Familiar and warm

Goosey

Well-loved

Companion

Wednesday, May 20, 2020

When You Are Old (by WB Yeats)

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

Sunday, May 27, 2018

Seasons of Us

The title really just a working one.  I just found this jotted down in an old notebook.  I'm guessing I wrote it around 1999 going by other details in the book, but, hey, I don't know.  I was probably daydreaming about a particular boyfriend (or unrequited one!) at the time.  I don't think I'm an obvious romantic - in fact, I've always said I'm not, but a conversation this week made me rethink things.  Maybe we all are, really, in our own ways...  Anyway... this clearly needs some work, especially with the scansion, but here it is in its roughness, anyway - such are the imperfect waters of love, eh...?

By the light of the parade
We would plan our escape
Sipping homemade lemonade by the river

There were cherry blossoms there
You would place them in my hair
I was your queen and I was fair by the river

Underneath that willow tree
We'd whisper our wildest dreams
This was our favourite place to be - by the river

Giving shelter from the cold
Killing time until we're old -
Oh, these memories of gold, of the river

Sunday, January 05, 2014

ben 1

(just some rough notes)

my dog was a 'latch-key' dog, and would go off out at 7am every morning and come back... at some point.... in his last years, when my dad would say ben was going a bit senile (he seemed different recently), ben went missing (oh, it was horrible!) and we eventually found him at battersea dogs home. when he came home, i just had to take him out on the lead. however long we took, and wherever he wanted to go, it was fine with me. at some point, down a cul-de-sac, i had to sit on a high kerb and rest for a few minutes. there was an alley he seemed to want to go down, but it was getting dark and i didn't want to do that. so, we continued, and he went down the next cul-de-sac, and at about the same place (he was off the lead now), he disappeared into someone's garden and round the back. all the lights were off and he was gone for a while, and i considered just going home. i knocked on the door, and, soon, a little old lady came from around the side of the house and i explained that my dog had gone round the back. she invited me round, and when she saw ben, sniffing around the bottom of a tree, she told me that he had been going round her house for several years, and she'd wondered who he belonged to. she said she'd had a dog and that ben and she had been great friends, but she'd died a few months ago (and was buried under the tree). at some point, we left and walked home, not on the lead, but he walked beside me constantly, and there was a real feeling of communication. so that's where he used to go! i also learned that he used to make regular visits to the old people's home and the butchers - and god knows where else! a few months before he died i took him out at night for a short walk and this drunken young fella walked up to me. i was a little bit worried tbh, esp as ben could hardly walk by now. just as i was about to turn into mrs defensive, he said, "is that ben? oh my god! i've known that dog all my life". i didn't know who the hell he was! (sorry for the very long post there!)

Thursday, May 23, 2013

An Ancient Tale

Sometimes, if I'm overtired, I will spout gobbledegook to myself.  Last night, not long before going to sleep, I decided to translate some of it, and make a poem.  This is what I've got so far.  I don't know whether to continue it or not, I'd like to.  I don't want to make it too obscure though, to the point where it is totally incoherent!  Hopefully, with a bit of thought, it should be translatable.  

I will add more, but I'm not sure where to take it yet.  I will translate it at some point, but why make it too easy.....?!


Um Skœrna ist tärn;
Se vets pa da nët,
Venne se flid, en da dack.
Als kidder be aschäffer
Lest se es ton härd.....

Sunday, April 07, 2013

Too Late

I don't know whether this is finished or not.  I like it just as it is, but it was meant to be the start of something longer.  What do you think?


All the things I never was
And all the lives I never led
Too late to live them when you're gone.
Too late to live them when you're dead.

One Day...

This is unfinished at the moment - something I scribbled down a few months ago, just before nodding off to sleep.


One day,
One of us will be
Alone – a
Single
Limb.

Solo drumstick,
Without its mate.

An empty, breathless bed,

Silence at the table.

Only memories for company.

Stretch out now and reach for warmth. 

Now.


Sunday, February 17, 2013

In Remembrance

These are not my words...  these are some of the quotes (etc) I was looking to choose from to use for a funeral....

"Death stands above me, whispering low
I know not what into my ear:
Of his strange language all I know
Is, there is not a word of fear"
W S Lander

"Say not in grief that she is no more
but say in thankfulnesss that she was.
A death is not the extinguishing of a light,
but the putting out of a lamp
because the dawn has come."
Rabindranath Tagone

"Perhaps they are not stars, but, rather, openings in Heaven, where the love of our lost ones shines down to let us know they are happy."
 (Eskimo legend)

"Grief is the price we pay for love"   
Queen Elizabeth II

"It is not the length of life, but the depth of life..."   
E R Waldo

"We sometimes congratulate ourselves at the moment of waking from a dream; it may be so the moment after death."
Nathaniel Hawthorne

Friday, December 21, 2012

About a Boy Called Paul

This started off as a bit of a joke, off the top of my head...  but I immediately got a lot of imagery with it and wanted to see how it developed into a deceptively simple story.  I imagine "Paul" as a boy of between 8-12yo, in pyjamas and dressing gown (think the boy in, "The Snowman", but a little younger).  

It's set in a different reality, and that's the point.  It's about perception.  It's about the world and how we see it, and what we don't see, our expectations, and what we make of it all.  

Paul is invisible to the world, despite all the questions raised about how he lives (compared to our shared reality).  We pick up that he observant and imaginative.  In my mind it's the people in the mall he sees crawling, and he compares them to insects, and it's also about him noticing and being interested in an arguably insignificant, lower species.  I like things to be ambiguous at times, but sometimes I leave things too wide open.  Whatever works for you, is fine.  

Paul is happy in a simple and honest life, people-watching and writing his observations, before reporting back to his alter-ego on the wall.  He seems lonely to the onlooker, but he doesn't show any frustration directly - although there is a clue to some unhappiness with what he's seeing.  Maybe he's happier in his little world, eh?   

The, "big old world" line might seem a bit throwaway, but it's my way of putting a judgmental voice in there; it's not Paul who says he's lonely, or feeling invisible, or vulnerable (or whatever the reader's interpretation is)but the voice of the piece.  Everyone has an opinion.  We look at everything (or we don't) and make a judgment about what we're seeing (or not seeing).  We don't actually get Paul's point of view, and only the reader knows their own personal point of view (although there must be a shared view, obviously), and we also get the view of the 'voice' of the piece.  Basically, the idea is to question reality, our own perception, our shared perceptions, what we choose to interpret and what we choose to believe.  Or else you could look at it as a simple, odd, little story.

When I read this to the eponymous(?) Paul.... he liked it (esp when I explained the imagery), but thought the interpretation was too convoluated (to the point of pretentiousness, although he denied that!) to find.  So, I'm wondering how you, the reader, interprets it.  Please be kind.... honest, but kind...!





His name is Paul and he lives in a Hall.

There’s a painted picture of his friend on the wall.

He waits by the phone but there’s never a call.

He doesn’t mind much, cos he’s having a ball.

Every single day he goes to visit the mall.

He buys some candy from the candyman’s stall.

He thinks about stealing but hasn’t the gall.

And he knows that pride comes before a fall.

He’s not too short but he’s not too tall.

This big old world makes him feel so small.

No-one sees him but he sees all.

He’s fascinated by things that crawl.

His friend likes to read all the things he’s scrawled.

He  thinks the human race needs an overhaul.

He likes his friend and his name is Paul.

His name is Paul and he lives in a Hall.

Saturday, December 15, 2012

Fallen Petals

Written in response to the shootings at Sandy Hook Elementary School on 14 December 2012 and dedicated to all those involved.  I wrote the first stanza in an accidental haiku, after hearing that several hours later those poor babies were still at the "crime scene", but I had more to say.  Whilst I was writing, the news channel I had on were re-showing President Obama's response.  His bible quote, "heal the broken-hearted and bind up their wounds" summed up, for me, how, regardless of religion, anyone would feel - although, one imagines, these heartfelt sentiments are of little help to the families and community now forever crippled with grief.

Fallen petals from the bud
Unallowed to bloom
Lie cold in a cold, still room.

The alphabet stops at Y...
Empty arms and eyes tear-filled...
Horror unconscionable...

Oh, “heal the broken-hearted
And bind up their wounds.”
And let their comfort come soon.

No love enough to fill hearts
Left darkened, shattered, froze.
My helpless symbol – a rose.

 

Saturday, December 08, 2012

Spotted, On the Street of the Stars (Elstree)



Poor old Trevor Howard;
On a cold, grey street
His cold, grey face
Smiles through pigeon-shit.
Whilst a few steps away,
Cliff Richard’s grin beams,
Clear and untarnished.
The birds have no taste, it seems.