in memory (an open letter to america)

a rough, teary  response to the events that unfolded in Orlando yesterday but also a plea for justice deserved by countless individuals before this tragedy. it’s by no means perfect but i just wanted to put something out there and it felt wrong to let their lives be nothing more than a statistic on the news. rest in peace to all those let down by a lack of gun regulation and may you finally be safe away from this place.

. . . 

Your people died as rowboats

caught in the eye of a godless storm but I imagine theirs

were the only kaleidoscope lightning bolts present,

cataclysmic green or blue-

anything but the monotone of statistic, excuse.

There is no consolation for

tongues that’ll never taste salt from neither

tear nor ocean once more,

shipwrecked hearts that’ll only ever be remembered as victims,

as scarred, as a record we never wanted to break.

One hate-filled man may pull the trigger but

his country handed him a loaded gun and

asked him not to shoot.

I too feel the cyclical recoil 4,000 miles away,

gratefully safe but still

hear bodies collapse like a skyline

we’ve rebuilt too many times

to be shocked anymore .

Worse things no longer happen at sea but

in the barrel of this land,

where you seem unable to distinguish

ashes from gunpowder as a rule-

both interchangeable with fuel in a

war with humanity we never asked to fight.

This history will repeat itself as long as

you give it the outdated “right”,

while you blame other people for your legislative faults

and despite all this we’ll still ask

how many more innocent knees

have to buckle like a nations failed policies.

As if any of this was “news”.

As if anything will change

and our world will stop choking on the gun residue.

The Foyle Poem- 10:47 pm

Hello,

I hope you are well and having a wonderful 2016.

Something I haven’t really shared with you is I was lucky enough to be commended in the Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award 2015- unless you know me personally in which case… I just need 5 more minutes?

On 8th October 2015, I traveled up to London to an award ceremony in the Southbank Centre where I met a bunch of wonderful poets and received a handful of prizes including a membership to the Poetry Society *squeals*. We stayed in London for the rest of the day to see the National Poetry Day live event which was incredible. I got to see poets such as Patience Agbabi and Imtiaz Dharker perform as well as receive a talk by the amazing installation artist Robert Montgomery. It was an amazing opportunity.

Anyway, I thought I would share the poem I entered with you. I started writing this at 10:47 pm one night (woah crazy) and kept writing (and rewriting) until 3 am while listening to the rain on my window. It is quite stream of conscious-y and in all honesty, I am not a huge fan but oh well 😉

Enjoy.

. . .

There’s nothing comforting

about this storm;

I’ve learnt not to care much

for these warped raindrop

kind of nights when spring breeze

competes with itself to the

point of crescendo.

The howling wind is

a faulty lullaby now,

all creaking gates and no rhythm.

Sunken bones succumb

to the cement of a mattress-

I shift slightly,

cover my ears as if I were an infant

with eyes like cracked windows,

ajar doors,

screeching car alarms.

They will leave nothing about

me a “secret”.

It’s 10:47 pm

and by no means late.

Still an aching sense of absence quakes

profusely inside of my chest;

I can never seem to shake this feeling

that something is missing.

I am too often still awake when

3 am pervades across my room

like familiar perfume,

clinging to my skin.

I wear tiredness like an oversized jumper-

it wasn’t meant for me but

I guess somewhere between

the first few moments in darkness

and midnight thunderstorms,

I’ve convinced myself that

it’s the only thing that fits.

.

19/10/2015

Hello,

Here’s a quick poem I finished today, inspired by Winchester Cathedral and life stuff. Just been doing a lot of self evaluation recently . Not feeling my best at the moment but ya know. Life. Poemy things shall commence now. Have a great week 😊

Enjoy.

. . .

You stand, 

my constant,

the bitter sweet remnants of what it once meant to be a child;

so wildly unafraid of collapse.

How I admire you.

The “ghosts” that groan

throughout the hollow of your 

stomach are simply not

ghosts at all-

just the distant echo 

of ancient kings.

Instead of haunted, 

you are inhabited by

centuries of wisdom.

Show me how to remain so stable.

Sometimes I wish I could replace 

my bone with your stoic rib cage,

all stone and grafted beams.

Like this, 

I imagine I’d be less inclined to

cry in front of you.

Less familiar with the 

sting of tears and shame of 

falling apart in public.

Still, 

all my steps lead back to this.

Teach me how you’ve 

convinced them to love 

cracked knuckles,

weathered eyes,

each scratch you’ve collected on 

aging flesh because nothing

I do seems to work.

How I envy you,

with every facet on display 

for our viewing-

so painfully honest.

unsolicited advice on growing up (that almost certainly will not help)

Hi guys.

I hope you’re well.

I’ve got a rather long poem today about stuff that has just been playing on my mind recently- not really sure how I feel about it but I think I prefer this piece as spoken word, reckon it suits that style more but let me know what you think. Just feels a bit lengthy to me as a standard written poem… Hmm..

Enjoy.

. . .

To the young girl at the bus stop: 

get used to it.

You will spend a lot of your time 

waiting whether it’s for 

buses or boys or everything to fall into place.

In the end,

none of it will matter so remember

not to measure your worth 

by the weight of your mistakes-

it will take you too long to realise 

that you are greater than the sum of their parts.

Not everything will be okay but

never underestimate your ability 

to crash, burn and then start again.

Allow your heart to become the

wreckage it was destined to be

because it’ll do so without your 

permission anyway.

So learn how to dance through the debris,

breathe amongst the ash,

survive all the fallout.

Master the art of “getting on with it”

because it will often feel like you are 

just a drop in the ocean.

Do not let this stop you from loving 

or being loved;

you are never as insignificant as you feel.

Try to live unapologetically but

never be afraid to say you’re sorry.

You shouldn’t be surprised if the 

words linger in your mouth like 

a first kiss

or tumble from your lips like cheap alcohol-

stay away from cheap alcohol.

But do let yourself be intoxicated on occasion,

whether that’s by a bottle, 

a boy,

a girl

and never regret whatever hangover you’re left with.

Recognise that your parents are trying their best,

they do not know everything-

neither do you.

You are not selfish for walking away

when the ground beneath you starts to crack;

look after yourself as best you can.

Understand that the mirror

won’t always be your best friend.

On the days that you dislike what you see,

I’ll let you know what to do when

I figure it out myself.

29th July 2015

Hello!

I hope you’re all doing well. I’ve got another short poem for you. I don’t really know how I feel about it but I thought is get your opinion! 

Have and good day.

Enjoy.

. . .

The marble skies weighed less that day.

Greys perfectly interlocked like fingers 

and the hands of the clock in the street

tell me it’s time to go home.

I find myself thinking of you

and your hands

and all the plans we are yet to make;

I cannot help but smile

whilst every step takes me 

further away from the smell of rain. 

But for now,

this is enough

until we meet again.

Perspective

Hi guys,

I have a rough, little poem I started writing on Valentines Day when I visited a place that is very special to me. I hadn’t been for a while but it was just a beautiful as I remembered. It was initially meant to be haiku structure but to be honest, I wasn’t really paying attention to the syllable count haha! I finished it at 3 am this morning and kind of just wanted it done. So some stanzas are 5-7-5, others aren’t- oops!! I’ll probably come back and correct that later.
Hope you’re well.

Enjoy.
. . .

The sweet remnants of
winter lingers in the crunch
of leaves beneath boots.

I can’t help but feel
guilt like a skeletal hand pressed to
my spine when I think

of the last time I
visited this place, when hours
were measured in the

time it took for rays
of summer to soak into
soft clouds overhead.

It has been months since.
And yet this haven still holds
as much magic as

I had remembered.
You see, this place is why the
word “perspective” was

invented, when the fog
lifts from the horizon and
there’s a clear view

above the city,
cool breeze whispers a promise
of clarity. But

I cannot pretend
that this place wasn’t even
more special when the

space next to me on
this bench was filled- how
I wish you were here.

Eagerly Awaiting

Hi guys,

I have a quick poem for you that I wrote in my tutor room when seeking some quiet as I’m not very well. This is about a scene that reoccurs in my dreams quite often at the moment and it’s so captivating to envision I thought I’d use it for inspiration.

In other news, This Teen Age was successful in being chosen to be published in an anthology of teen authors (as was Cliff Jumping) along with a series of poetry written by my friends *cheers enthusiastically*. Needless to say, I’m so excited!!

I hope you’re having a good week.

Enjoy.

. . .

The collapsing moon bleeds into a twilight sea,

dismantled stars skim waves as if they were combusting pebbles;

transcended by a flash flood of iridescence.

Stillness shrouds the horizon with an unsettling elegance,

every wave swooping like the subtle curve of a slender neck

as they kiss the shoreline softly, gently, tenderly

enough to leave the sand smoothed over and

comforted by the inevitability of the oceans return.

Eagerly awaiting.

The Beginning: A Love Letter To Autumn

Hello,

A close friend of mine, in an attempt to make me write more often, came up with a really interesting idea for this blog which I’m starting today. In order to experiment with new structures for poetry, he thought it would be fun (and beneficial) to try and write the same poem in different layouts, rhyming schemes etc, posting a new variation of the poem once a week if possible.

This week I was thinking of beginning this series with something in the usual style I write in and we’ll see how it progresses/evolves as the weeks go on! I stepped out this morning into my favourite kind of weather when the air feels icy and clean and the sun is shining through an abundance of wilting leaves. Autumn is my absolutely favourite time of year and I’m so happy it’s starting to make an appearance- so much so I cried walking to school (I know). But I thought I’d use this happy season to be the stimulus for this project, Autumn being the “he” in this love letter.

I hope your week has began well.

Enjoy.

. . .

I fell in love with the way he came with the ease of changing seasons,

swept into my life like burnt sienna leaves in a winter gale;

the way that he was the first breath of crisp, autumnal air.

The gentle rise of my chest as I inhale through parted lips,

feel the tiptoe of dancing breeze stroke my throat

as if fragile fingers gently plucking the ivory keys of a piano.

 

Beams of fresh sunlight smiles piercing the somnolent morning,

the crack of golden rays, not dissimilar to delicate curves of his hair,

creating a subtle warmth to melt away the frosty dew settled upon

each emerald blade- illuminated like fairy lights decorating the floor.

He spoke in cotton wool clouds, softly, words subtly advancing

through spaces between his hazelnut eyes and mine.

Growing Pains

Hi all,

It’s been a while- I’m sorry. I’ve been on my summer break and after coming to the end of an important relationship in my life, I’ve felt rather uninspired to write anything. I doubt you guys want to read a series of emotional, ever so slightly bitter, breakup poems.

Anyway, as I approach the final 9 months of my secondary school education *shudders* I have found myself experiencing what can only be described as a minor existential crisis 😉 . I thought I’d try to write you something about that today although I’m rather rusty- I apologize in advance.

I hope you’re well.

Enjoy.

. . .

I have this old photograph on my bedside.

It’s of a young girl with sunshine tresses and

the warmest brown eyes, confined to the aged paper.

Scurrying as fast as her four year old legs can

carry her, pink school bag in hand, mum in tow,

eagerly snapping pictures of her child in an

obnoxiously yellow knit cardigan her aunt made;

the first day of school.

 

Too young to be self conscious,

the world in her four year old grasp.

When Daddy was a knight, slaying apathy,

and Mummy was a queen, installing morals of kindness.

Living in an age of crayons and alphabet,

in the days of princesses and fairy dust-

when her biggest worry was remembering

her forest green book satchel for the day ahead.

 

The spark of passion for writing was lit

by a task she remembers so clearly.

Standing timidly at the front of class almost

eight years ago, reading aloud a story

her warm brown eyes had concentrated on

for what had seemed to her like hours.

Since then, like a wildfire coursing through

her veins, remains a burning love for literature.

 

Junior school comes quickly, the girl is now

seven years old and gone are the years of zip up

pinafore dresses and childish make believe,

The elapse of  four more summers and

primary lessons becomes a series of recollections,

past the excitement of double digit birthdays

and Disney films; the ominous threat of

secondary school looms on the horizon.

 

Horror stories of unremorseful bullies and

relentless homework overwhelm a pre-teenage mind

so bitterly unprepared to be thrown into a

world of exams and unrequited adolescent emotion.

She’s old enough to doubt herself now, can hardly

tell her family her passions out of fear, she would rather

write poetry for strangers behind a screen than people

she loves in case they leave like the last person she wrote for.

 

Longing for a childhood that has become no

more than a photograph in a frame, approaching

sixteen at a dizzying pace, the very notion induces nausea.

Take me back to the years when we were more

concerned with shoes that had flashing lights in the heel

than finding a soul to intertwine with our own.

Transport me to a time when boys were a different

species and when everything was for grown ups.

 

Far too old for obnoxiously yellow knit jumpers,

fairy dust or crayons, the girls with sunshine

tresses and the warmest brown eyes resides within

what feels more like my imagination than memory.

I can feel the distance between my grasp and playground

years being stretched apart like an elastic band,

like the ache of unprepared muscle, tendons not ready to extend ;

This feels like growing pains.

 

 

Kites

Hi guys,

How are you? Hopefully you answered “good”:) . I’ve been listening to a lot of Spoken Word recently (as if I don’t normally…) and have particularly been enjoying Rudy Francisco, who I’ve mentioned before I believe- he is by far my favourite poet. I’ve got a poem for you which is mildly inspired by his use of quite elaborate, but beautiful, metaphors. His style is incredibly clever and I suggest you all check out his stuff if you haven’t already! My favourite of his is linked here.

Enjoy.
. . .

His lips whispered the innocence of spring breeze,
his eyes were windows glazing each sky blue iris.
He smelled like the sweetness of freshly cut grass,
his smile radiated like an liquid amber sunset.
This boy wasn’t just a feature; he was the landscape.

His words pervaded like cotton wool clouds,
cushioned every fall, sponged each tear drop river;
his utterances flowed through my blood stream.
Each “I love you” tightly wrapped around my heart
as if it were bound by the strings of a kite.

His breath rolled over the plains of my skin,
he offered me the sanctuary of his embrace;
his protection became my compass, guiding my ascent.
Security was nestled in the valley of his shoulders,
there was safety to be found within his strong arms.

His fragrant fresh scent submerged my fears in bravery,
as his spring breeze whispers gave me courage to soar.
Every amber sunset smile celebrated my successes;
each soothing sky blue eyes comforted my failures
whilst he carefully clutched my kite string heart.