This is just a quick exercise I took part in in creative writing yesterday.
Everyone was given a poem, we then had to write our own by using just the words that were already in the poem we were given. We were able to mix the words up and use any punctuation we wanted.
I was given Beattie Is Three by Adrian Mitchell, a brilliant poem itself. What I have come up with is very rough, but I enjoyed the exercise and thought I would share what I had written:
Palm of hand to fist,
Endless wish of consolation,
At O.K I ask for her.
Silently bunching at the top,
We take our time.
Three times down,
Palm of hand to fist,
Palm of hand to fist,
Palm of hand to fist.
Silently I wish we were endless.
The sun, it rises slowly as you walk” —The Cave
A lady told me today that my dreams were worth nothing.
But how could that ever be?
I dream of selling hundreds of book,
Of owning a vintage store,
Of waking up every morning happy that I woke,
I dream of being with him,
Or even without him,
I dream of having my life, that I choose,
I dream of winner as Oscar, maybe even two
I dream of silence and of noise,
But most of all I dream of the day that you will not screw your nose up at my dreams. That I can sit across from you and say, ‘I have done with my life what I wanted, what was you done?’ with a confidence that only comes from the morning song of a content bird.
Lady with the big job, and the big pay packet, I ask you this: Have you ever loved?
Enough that you would go to the ends of the earth for that person?
Enough that you would never give up on them?
If you have, then you would understand just what I mean about my dreams.
A very long, unwanted day that ended with a sympathy card.
So talking to my tutor today and Lone Soldier is due to be published in the Totton College magazine.
I saw this magazine when I joined the college and thought some of the work was amazing, to now have something published in there is brillinat!
Recently I gained Runner Up at the Totton College Short Story Competition 2009-2010 for some of my writing.
This is a huge thing for me as I haven’t won anything for my writing since I was very little. This is the material that got me Runner Up,
In the shattered bones and lovers playthings, a soldier walks. He thinks of what it was, what it was to see you open your eyes. To hear you gargle and sigh, to watch you go pink and red when you rolled. You are a soldier’s only thought when he looks out onto the battlefield. He fights for you, to come home. He lives for you amongst the dead.
He is our chosen one to walk without a limp or one eye, to be complete for you. He will march lone, across the hills and the fields until he reaches you, his baby Lou. Maybe you will grow to march beside him, to carry the weight of the flags and the guns and the coffins. Or maybe you will grow old to tell the story of your soldier marching back to you.
He will gather and he will bring the unstained uniforms and the beautiful views. He will shed and drop the bullets and the sorrow. You will hear him, before he is in sight, the clanking of his boots and the drum beat of him. He walks and he plays, you very own one man band all for you. He will sing and make noise so beautiful to your baby ear, a lullaby. So you will fall asleep, watching him come over the hill.
Now you are old and your hair grey, you look out of the window. Through its pane and past seat, your window pictures your father walking over the hill. His golden medals gleaming like cigarette boxes hung on mama’s ribbon. It frames him and plays him out, a British flag, a drum and a look.
A look of release, of breath too. When you were young you did not understand that look he always kept in the days to come. He must have been able to see the house, his home with his good eyes. He walked alone down the hill, drifting and tapping along with the drum. The window blocking out his singing voice, but as you drifts off you understand it was lovely. You let your eyes settle so you could picture him opening the door, unloading his treasures and kissing you on the brow.
Suddenly you’re awoken by a noise. Something sharp and stirring. Open your eyes and focus now, focus. The window hasn’t moved, but where is he? Your soldier? Your father, where did he go? Back to battle? Perhaps he was shot in the back?
Bur he saw you. He watched you as he marched and sung and played. You drifted off to the sound of his image. So now you put on your uniform, your tight jacket meant for when you were a boy and your cap with the red feather. With his medals and flags on the wall, you lay your head on the window seat and wait to see him march down the hill.
It was a short piece of writing I put together at college in half an hour, so I was very surprised when my name was read out!
So then, lets try this out!
First post, not about a lot really, just this is my first blog ever, thought I would give it a go.