Friday, 10 May 2013

Poetry


Baby Problems 


world see me could 
lack of self-control night-time 
kind of person forever 
great wanted love myself 
unwanted body puff mesh 
physique back in shape 
last four weeks of summer 
chef appointed master 
three-day liquid cleanse detox 
plan myself utilized elements 
grapefruit diets combined eastern 
three weeks lose weight 
learn to love myself again mean 
supposed enter freshman year 
total heifer damaging 
my psyche mention 
received general 
love thank god sack 
style practically lived 
times 
great lengths destroy photo evidence 
life countless hypnotherapy 
psychic erase memories 
weight thinks gained weight 
getting crossed 
fifth house of fame and fortune 
obsessed body people 
doctors nutritionists therapists 
habits throwing words eating disorder 
self-flagellation bullshit 
full truly deprive 
healthy relationship food 
around everyone America fat 
vegetables sparkling water portions 
every single mouth 
purpose enhance beauty 
things budge 
health nuts rave 
ties allow myself led 
one ounce of dark chocolate 
next know shoving 
down throat crying 
strong thin 
charge hiring firing 
becoming culinary authority young age 
changing diet mercurial 
rate chefs household 
highly selective applicant 
interview process complete extensive 
new person hired 
issue list foods 
allow brought home 
eating restaurants something 
stayed home 
real life friends 
meals

by Campbell Calverley



Residence 


To find cool relief 
As writers might 
To the tune of 
Sixteen-bit soundtracks 
Should be something 
Self-denied 
In favour of paper 
On any other night 
Maybe 

Seven years yet 
Wondering what’s next 
No just reason 
To stop 
And wonder why 
Just yet 

Others are the same 
Near six hundred strong 
On chairs, stairs, 
Slumped in pairs 
Waiting for an old Polish woman 
To tell of a great Jewish fire 
Seventy years ago 

Has it really been that long? 

Both virus and vice 
To know others suffered 
For and before you 
(I know 
Because I saw them doing so 
In the movies)

No crampage known by us 
The squatting six hundred 
As to her family of fifteen thousand 
One week of happy ignorance 
After that 
Intermittent death 
And silence 
Frosted fingers 
Disproportionate work 
Punished for everything 
You know the blanks of this story already 
(I know 
Because you saw the movies too) 

Yet you wouldn’t want to even cough 
As you heard it again 
For the first time 

She escaped in a bath once 
Felt like a princess for an evening 
Or a movie star 
Just an evening, though 
Before she nearly drowned herself in fear 
“I am a child of miracles” 

Black smoke chimneys 
Smell of burning bodies everywhere 
But the showers worked 
They were called Schindler’s Women 

Imagine for a moment 
Being reinvented by your masters 
Into a wartime kitsch object 
For the satisfaction of their neighbours 
And back to hell again 
You’ll have something of an idea 
Of how sick I felt 
When the six hundred heard it 
Her first tears of the war were shed then 

Bodies dug holes for bodies 
One saw her 
Fell to his knees 
Testified 

The fire burned itself out 
With her on horseback 
With a Russian soldier 
With flowers 
With second-hand citizens 
With nowhere else to go 
Like nighthawks 

Seven hundred and seventy years 
In a foreign country 
Couldn’t make them equal 
“Your religion is not like ours, 
You killed Jesus.” 

We shuffled off that tortured soul 
With a loud farewell 
After that 
Intermittent silence 
To find cool relief 
Outside, if nowhere else 

Onwards 
Play one night 
Get high the next 
Drink the night after 
Get high again 
No amount of Pink Floyd 
Can make that hangover go away 
On any other night 
Maybe 

But imagine for a moment 
One week of happy ignorance 
Wondering what’s next 
For and before you 
As writers might 
Others are the same 

We have it with the milk of our mothers 

Everything will be alright 
Everything will be just fine 
Take care 
Take care 
Take care

by Campbell Calverley



Sweet House 


At the door are emeralds, they panel every inch. 
You see through a silver eye, as you come in. 
Every door opens in satin. 
A carpet of roses, born within the grass. 
Chocolate honey drapes the windows and they laugh like curtains. 

Each bedroom is tied with pink and blue ribbons. 
She sits reflected in wood and water, dusting her face with powdered sugar. 
Each piece of furniture is brushed with fur, purrs that echo with every stroke. 
This house is her blanket that covers her up and keeps her from the world. 

This house is as sweet as day and as sour as night. 
It is heaven and you live in life. 

by Michayla Clemens



We Cross Paths Like String 


We cross paths like string, 
The twine curving around and around, 
Following but never touching, 
Touching but never following. 
A mother and her daughter, 
Intertwined from one beginning 
Until the others ends. 
A dog and its master, 
One thread much longer than the other, 
Though knotted since it’s beginning. 
Two lovers, touching so closely, 
Only to be pulled apart by another cord. 
Two friends, each the same colour, 
Yet changing as they stretch. 
This symphony of knots. 
Each piece a different shade, 
Ever changing, 
ever growing, 
ever touching. 
It knows not what it is or where it is going, 
But still it goes, 
Onwards; some slow, some fast, 
Until their cords are frayed, 
Their colour faded, 
No ties left attached.

by Michayla Clemens



Insubstantial Morsel, Immolated Cup. 


Held reverent, clutched tight against your chest, 
much like important books in rainy days, 
Your ever shredding truth hypothesis; 
the ever present symbolism haze. 
This is His flesh, and, this is not a pipe 
His blood, thick on our garments, red and loose: 
I offer you an insubstantial slice 
of wholemeal bread and watered down grape juice. 

This, the triumph of the greatest miracle? 
This fundamental turning point of time 
When Truth stood true both figurative and literal 
Is given, then denied that it be mine? 
I clutch my bible close against the rain 
that erodes; re-affirms; erodes again. 

by Giles Graham



Why So Serious?


Introduction:

I wrote this poem after I went to see the recent film adaptation of Victor Hugo's The Man Who Laughs. It was part of the French Film Festival, and I heard afterwards that the lead character - Gwynplaine - was the inspiration for the Batman franchise's Joker. The smile etched into his face seems to me to be the only real similarity between the two characters, and the connection seems to have marred Gwynplaine's character and story with the horror of the Joker's.

A few people asked me if it was a scary movie, and, it being the far from one, I felt sad for our hero Gwynplaine. 

My poem is about what I think Gwynplaine would be feeling if he were to go to the cinema and see Heath Ledger staring down at him as the Joker. 

This is what they think of me 
He thinks, looking up at his mirrored smile 
A false smile 
His, at least, was real, 
But 
Maybe 
People couldn’t tell the difference? 
His heart, well-meaning 
His face, a psychopath? 
A super villain? 
Pulling his scarf over his mouth, 
He avoids the image of a threatening Christian Bale 
And sinks down 
Into the depths 
Of his chair

A vain attempt to vanish. 

By Freya Haanen



Tired Donuts 


Fall in love with yourself all again. 
Nobody expects you to be perfect; only yourself. 
Stop over-thinking, it sends you in circles. 
Making the tired hungry and angry. 
If you’re poor, raise your glass, everyone deserves a holiday, 
You may want a pity party 
But everyone is busy attending their own 
So together raise your glass 
Celebrate insecurities 
If we have nothing in common 
We at least have our imperfections 
So raise your glass 
Spill some, laugh 
Don’t over-think 
You’re not on stage 
Being natural means being you 
Don’t be afraid to be hated 
It keeps things in perspective 
Everything has its purpose 
Even the one with glare on her face 
Aimed at your improprieties 
You just made eye conduct with the boss’s man 
Oh my God 
Careful not to go red now 
Give them more to talk about 
Don’t over-think 
Just be 

by Ruth Madden



Funerals 


“Ah Palinurus, you were too trustful of the calm sky and the sea. 
So you will lie, a shroudless form on an unknown strand.”

- Ending of Book V, Aenid, Virgil 

The streetlights dawn at dusk
like imitations of the sun.
And the perfect flowers of the 
perfect garden fronts enclose
and curl their eyes within.
And we close.

The twilight tears of night surround
the sombre sights and sullen sounds.
The single hearse goes by, goes by
blackened by the starless sky 

as watchers watch with their dark eyes
not afraid to cry

and we wonder why
the earth is in rotation
but there is no
revolution.

Oh the dive and the descent…
for the waterless, washed out years spent
on nothing, shedding petals like flowers
upon the dirt

are nothing

but straight lines on refill pad. 

So, I’m sorry, to all of you, to all 
you self-inscribed Gods 
who desecrate our only chalice , 
(the one carrying the spring water 
we will pour over our burns) 
I hear the trickle of the white water 
which rides on the wave upon the pebbles, 
trickle into me 
and all is soothed cold cool 
blue; to calm the sun-burnt skin 
that shrouds our somnolent souls 

today we fly, 

we fly - 

to give up the burden of this 

stilted air

cheerio, cheerio
adios, adios
make haste while the rain falls
while the rain falls

by Jonte Marshall



Improvisation (II) 


Behind the mist of dusk 
a flower died in the colour 
of rays of rising sun 
silently arrives anthesis
in the solitude of
our abandoned war field
there are no whispers of redemption 
here; the dead trees' shadows 
shroud only mud, no 
motion to reunion; the 
wasps outnumber bees, here 
we go again, when these 
dark crimson petals enclose, curl 
from moonless nights, 

we cocoon within. 

Nervously emerging from a chrysalis
with chrysanthemum wings of doves
flying towards burgeoning horizons
fluttering erudition on solar winds
lost among deranged proximities
bounded by blackened skies
escaping realisation
subterranean rainbows flicker in prismatic identities
diverging depleting
diminishing deconstruction into distinctive dominions
waning light that merges into surroundings
(bound together by the unfortunicity of birth)
[aren't all?]
falling since conception
“all things are a part
all things are apart”
Loud
crimson daylight
excess is the prerogative of the crystalline
...
time
distances
people
such a petty quality

One feels more distance
by degrees
the closer the surroundings.
(and when I say dancing, I mean jumping through galaxies)
[oh good, I am better at the latter]
(it's like tumbling,)
[was all there ever was]

[A can? Or a cylindrical box of tin?]
[but I digress.]
(My my my
don't touch the apple pie)
[if you do I will cry
antelope bones down a chalkboard.]
(what?)
[Screaming “sirens, sirens
sleeping alarm bells
show me madness,
I am cluttered”]
There are no gods
only pillars of marshmallow
transforming, caressing
endlessly 

by Oliver Dearnley, Jonte Marshall, and Milly Peng



Hangi Was The First Boy Born In Space


Hangi was the first boy born in space.

they said it couldn't be done;
you can't raise a child without gravity.
                          Hangi's parents said
that child never know which way is up,
and taught Hangi that he should always sleep
with his face towards the moon.

                                                                     Hangi
learned about planets, Hangi slept with stars.
when he was eight they took him back to earth in a shuttle
to introduce him to things like trees and tides.
Hangi asked why the planet was dead, and preferred to sleep indoors
because he was afraid of floating away.
they found him tied to the bed with a dressing-gown cord
and had to explain
                                                                              that the earth held onto her own. Hangi
didn't believe them. Hangi slept with the light on,
pretending the moon was calling him home,

Hangi was the first boy born in space.
when his parents died they brought him back to earth, fifteen and floating,
to see what this had done to his bones. Hangi was tethered to his bed
with tubes in his arms and straps on his wrists
                                                                           and the earth held onto him with curious fingers.
Hangi found the light of the moon was dimmer from a distance.
Hangi dreamed that the earth spun faster and faster
                                                                        and flung everyone off.

by Sarah Reese



This Poem Makes Me Sad 


Sitting by the Rhein, 
I saw you. 
Looking at me expectantly 
from the water. 

I had nothing to give you 
but a salty dim sum. 
You raced the others to 
catch the pieces. 
And won, 
despite your stumped foot. 

I promised to come back, 
with some food for you 
another time. 

But I never did. 

By Nina Reid



Dead Poets 


These dead poets had hearts that sung so greatly, 
With fire to fuel the immense pain daily, 
But their icy minds froze those thoughts of genius, 
And blocked was forever these dead poets. 

How many times have they tried, oh how many, 
Some with paper and pen, some with ribbons. 
But in vain, did they try just for sanity. 
These crushed papers, spilled ink and worn ribbons. 

With life, they moved on, some had given up. 
To look on with a new light in their life. 
But those that kept trying to write, 
Found naught a satisfaction worth keeping. 

As age crept upon the hour of dying, 
So help us god, the poets are crying. 
For one last flood of literary flow, 
To leave them in peace from the writer's woe. 

by Lynette Ying 

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