“Writing
is the
painting of the voice!” - Voltaire -
Cobham Hall Anthology Here are some of our Cobham voices: a collection of original writing produced in 2018 – 2019. We hope you enjoy!
This description’s personification of the sea and sky is depicted as a rival battle between them. The combination of the two forces ultimately manifest themselves into a raging storm, seeking out a victim.
A Stormy Sea Grey clouds plume in the malicious sky like a drop of paint landing in water – darkening as the day ends and covering the hypnotic glare of the moon. The sky’s whispering words provoke the sea awake, making it churn and froth at its edges. The wind picks up, now pushing at the sea to put on a spectacle no one will forget, but for the wrong reasons. Sea obeys Sky subserviently but only in fear of what would happen if it didn’t. Mounds of water form and crash back down again triggering a low guttural moan from one of Sea’s largest inhabitants. Sky, now realizing this disappointing, pointless act, draws closer a victim: for mayhem is no fun if there is no one to see it. And a local fishing boat unknowingly being dragged onward with its so called ‘robust’ frame into the site of chaos. However, upon arrival of these innocent people, Sea stills to admire the simplicity of the human race as they hurry back and forth in excitement to catch a few fish. They were ants in comparison to Sea; hauling in their new catch which seemed to require such enormous effort that it almost made the Sea laugh, almost. Though in that moment, Sea had almost retuned to its normal state, one without Sky, almost. The infamous calm before the storm. Noticing this unscheduled pause, Sky looked on in bewilderment, confused as to why Sea was being disobedient only to watch the puny creatures. Then, like a switch, Sky unleashed its rage with a crack of its electric whip that illuminated the true horror of their surroundings. Water exploded from the surface followed by the leftover electricity sizzling through the water. Sea endured the pain with no retaliation as it was determined not to harm the simple beings. Sea had had enough, after numerous thrashings it launched cascading dunes of water towards its rival, each one just missing Sky, just shy of its freedom. Yet Sea had to give it one final effort, right? A mountain this time desperately clawed upwards at its peak, but wind was there, it pummelled at the tops of the mountain, disintegrating it into thousands of water droplets. Meanwhile, caught up in the crossfire, the fishing boat wasn’t impervious to Sea like Sky was – the final mountain of water shadowed over the awaiting boat…
Evocative words, creating a graphic image of a seaside town as it is released from the “thick and salty smog”. The poem brings the town to life when the sun begins to shine once more.
The Tumbling Rocks The tumbling rocks from above make a humongous crash as they hit the swirling sea below. On the surface, a small canoe boat is swirling and see-sawing around the whirlpool that one was the harbour. The wind had been unleashed from its chains and roared like a lion. The sea gulls are glimpses of white within the black and grey of the violent waves below. The layers of black chiffon clouds obscured the serene rays of the sun. The waves are the rhythmic percussion of a heavy metal band; banging away on a bass drum. The air is a thick and salty smog, beneath the bright white light of the towering safe haven of the lighthouse. At last, the film of cloud was peeled away to reveal a crystal-clear blue sky. The waves were tamed by the mildness of the sea, and their temper was soothed by the light lustre of the sun once more. The stalk, sharp slices of the sun’s rays illuminated the earth beneath, a bumbling, busy seaside town. Young children, queuing up for a glimpse at the ice-cream sundae menu. Adults laugh at their eagerness. Whilst on the inside they feel the exact same ecstatic-ness that their children do. The sun smiles down on their happiness, spreading its glorious light once more. The sun was dearly missed in its absence, the people of the town withdrew back into their houses much like a hermit crab from the beach. The town didn’t feel like home with the clouds shrouding its light. So finally, when the sun was liberated from its jail cell, life could continue to be as it should.
A vivid description of a violent tempest as it, relentlessly, battles the shoreline. The rocks seek the protection of the sea spray as the lighthouse watches, helplessly, at the barrage before it.
On This Coastline On this coastline the rocks tried to prepare for the sudden, violent storms, but they knew it was impossible. This was the worst one yet; without any warning, total darkness approached as clouds thickened and roared like a war cry. The sunlight and warmth were blocked out brutally. The wind rose to attack the still, silent waters to choppy, which transformed into an angry beast. Swish! Swash! The violent waves battered the rocks unforgivingly. Sea spray jumped in to defend the rocks, blinding the hungry eyes of the beast. The waves grew so large that they engulfed the rocks effortlessly. There was no mercy in the wind, no grace in the waves, only wrath and anger. At last, the battle was over. The roaring clouds gradually returned back to normal. The desperate sun let a chink of light disperse through the thick clouds uniting as triumphant beams. The angry beast was put to sleep and the still waters returned. Silently, the rocks rapidly tried to heal themselves. The sky that had been dark and dense was now various shades of grey, it was like a rough woollen blanket of splotchy grey. The lighthouse stood tall on the rocky shore the paint red and white, standing alone. It looked newly painted white against the ominous clouds. The smooth white cylinder rose from the rock, boasted about its glorious light. But after the battle that took place, the lighthouse wasn’t its usual self. He wasn’t beaming brightly, he was silent, traumatized.
This description tells us about the building of a storm as the “sea becomes a jezebel of the ocean” before it succumbs, once more, to the serenity of the sun.
Sea Description The crash of the heavy waves as they pierced the river banks; it began as just a whisper in the air. The day beautiful but gloomy, the sky a cursing shade of indigo, birds losing control of their wings as the wind took control of the showers. Dark clouds move across the sky with anger of discontent. Waves fearless of who would get hurt, who’s disturbed, the sun shone through contradicting its surrounding a place that was once for pleasure gone within a second. She was a jezebel of the ocean sweeping men off their feet, seducing them with her calming motions but pouncing at them with cruelty. A gust of wind followed by a strong shiver. The low fog hiding the banks, ominously. It was only spring but it felt like the bitter on slaught of winter, the cold crept under my clothes and gently into my fingertips, the cold that once felt mild now numbed my fingers. The heavy rain overthrown by the sounds of thunder. Finally, the whispering air arrives, the sun emerges through the remaining clouds revealing its true intentions. Bringing back life to the shore and everything once lost, restored.
This poem describes the cyclical beauty of the seasons and how Winter, despite its harshness, is the most uplifting.
Universal Seasons It is there, There it’s not. Shifting through realities, Marching around the corner. The universe has not forgot The bitter sweetness Of the spring. The loving song of summer, The dappled faith of autumn. But what does winter have to bring? Through the coldness, Toils and tumbles. Though the colour never fades. In the crackling of the fire, All around us, terror crumbles. So when, Spring comes again, Know that after the whole cycle, After all the other seasons, I find winter drives my pen.
A captivating poem that explores the passage of nature through the changing seasons; from majestic “forget-me-nots sapphire blue” in the vibrancy of Spring to the “skeleton of trees” in Winter.
Dandelions Shine Like Sunlight Dandelions shine like sunlight
Fire swallows the world in scarlet,
Roses red like rue.
Crimson and radiant yellow.
Clovers the colour of emerald luck,
A motley crew of crunching bract
Forget-me-nots sapphire blue.
Disguising the earth below.
An epoch of evolution,
The brittle branches like spiders’ legs
Memories thick as mud,
Crackle like fireworks
Infused with petrichor perfume
A lifetime spent in blossom and bloom –
And washed by tears of the flood.
Now memory only hurts.
Mellifluous murmurs of lime green leaves,
A thick cold carpet of lovelessness,
Light’s limerence with the sky,
The colour of age-col ash
Clouds dream as they encircle the world
Hides scars of long-lost dynasties
While thunderstorms rumble by.
Forgotten in a fleeting, flickering flash.
Sunsets of iridescence,
The harsh and merciless spines of frost
Twilight’s ethereal glow.
Flower corpses’ silent pleas.
Breeze spinning around secrets.
“A longing for a long-lost life,”
Stars smile; aurora’s in tow.
Howl the skeleton of the trees.
This poem describes the changing of the seasons and uses dramatic personification to evoke vivid images of Nature – “dancing petals” and “cobwebs change to frozen lace”.
Turning Seasons Turning seasons Bright clean light Dancing petals, breeze through The summer haze Longer days and umbrella drinks… Caramel leaves crumble to the floors Upon the newly softened earth The nights close in The chill creeps into the air Cobwebs change to frozen lace Snowflakes lay neatly on the ground A soft crunch As a foot breaks the icy crust Sunlit days of late spring The tight buds burst As the Lazy winds sway the long grass The badger wakes and stirs the earth.
A beautiful personification of the oak tree as it remains majestic and resolute despite the challenges it faces from the ever-changing seasons including the “raging bitter winds” that “leaves him bare”.
The proud oak The proud oak stands in the midst of it all He watches things pass him by The buds spring from the ground Eager to show theirs beauty The sun beats down and burns all it can reach The raging bitter winds follow suit Nipping at the sun’s heels Turning the emeralds to rubies It takes the proud oak’s leaves And leaves him bare The clouds fall from the sky In a frigid rage Taking all that is left like a thief in the night The world is barren and cold and empty But the proud oak still stands
A sensory poem illustrating the four seasons - from “cherry blossom petals” to “frosted windows”. The poem provides us with poignant reminders of how our lives are impacted by the changing seasons.
Seasons Summer, Sun beaming through the trees, Flowers bright as day, Heat flowing through waves, Soft breeze
Spring, Blooming new life, New memories Falling cherry blossom petals, Yellow blanket of daffodils,
Autumn, Crisp breeze, Damp, auburn leaves, Red, amber, yellow, Descending from the trees,
Winter, Euphoric cheers, Frosted Windows, Cozy, warm fires, Illuminated Christmas lights,
Seasons change, Soft breezes, New memories, Red, amber, yellow, Euphoric cheers.
A thought-provoking poem that talks of a Mothers’ promises, love that is desired but still undiscovered and the loneliness of life.
As the Seasons Changed One autumn morning I asked my mother When Shall I give up my love to another? She answered not with words but a smile That said “sweet child it shall be but a while,” As her hands entwined my hair And she held me so very near One new spring day with my mind elsewhere Watching my mother work, oblivious to my stare Thinking, to meet the one and know it’s meant to be With a love written in the stars for all eternity Someone to who you so deeply love You’re on the clouds from heaven above One summer morn as the sun warmed up the day I played with my jumper and helped the thread fray Listening to the women I thought could never lie About a love that she said could never die At that moment my worries weren’t near And the future seemed so wondrously clear Then one winter’s day as the cold pierced soul And in place of my heart; an empty hole Rueful of the days of which I once knew And all the stories I had once thought true I closed my eyes and breathed out a sigh Lonely Through morn and up until I die.
A wonderfully moving poem of a love lost through death and the search for an eternal reunion..
Eternity Visit not my grave when I am gone.
How often do you walk over me?
For I will not be there
Where we used to walk
When my job and work is done.
The fairest flower e’er saw,
I leave to reappear
Has withered to a stalk”
So when you see a smiling face
A stalk has withered and died, sweetheart,
Feel a familiar… hand
The flower will never return
Then you will know of what I speak
And since you lost me, your true love,
And you will understand.
What can you do but yearn?
Cold blows the wind to my true love,
When shall we see again, sweetheart?
And gently drops the rain
When the autumn leaves that fall from the trees, are green and spring again
I’ve never had but one true love, And above green – wood he stands I’ll do as much for my true love, As any young soul may I’ll lie and cry beneath thy earth Waiting for him again. And when 12 months and a day is gone I shall rise and yell “Are you done?” “Ringing the bell” “And will not let me sleep!” Hear the rattle of thy bones Feel the earth in so deep And you will understand “Go fetch me water from the desert, And blood from the heart of a king, Go fetch me milk from a cow That you shall not know.
Is that when we shall see again? I will wait for Eternity, for my true love Only to hear a song by a dove. Visit not my grave when I am gone For I will not be there When my job and work is done I leave to reappear I travel the world, the space and the sky In hope of finding my true love. I travel the land, the sky, and the sea For my one and only I will wait for an eternity I will wait for twelve months and a day So when you see a smiling face Feel a familiar… hand Then you will know of what I speak And you will understand.
A sensitive and impassioned poem about death and the reality that “everything can be lost” “in a single shuddering breath” except Time.
Passage It’s in the way A lamp extinguishes in the blink of an eye Leaving darkness Where there was light It’s in the way The ‘I love yous’ Run like liquid gold Through desperate fingers When the memory of a smile, of a familiar face, Fades like a banner under the unforgiving sun It’s in the way The years and years of life Burn down to bones, to ashes, Leaving rows of glossy photos with furled edges And a closet of clothes never to be worn again. It’s in the way The sun shone when it wasn’t supposed to
When the hospital room fell to silence And the truth settled in lice acrid smog Gone. It’s in the way They rot, decay, And bloom Like fresh cut flowers Against the dark mahogany of the coffin. It’s in the way Everything can be lost In a single shuddering breath, And in a final heartbeat. It’s in the way Time takes and never waits And yet Life goes on
A reflective poem about ageing – written in a way to evoke memories of a time now gone; where the simplicity of life as Black and White has “now faded to grey”.
Fade to Grey I see you now, with a smart tweed blazer Before Mass, scratching at the jumper That hugs you too tightly, straining a fleeting smile For your Ma to seize the moment Whizzing along meandering roads on motorbike, Disappointment pursues, unable for duty In your dream careers you settle down For supporting others in silence. Memories Fade to grey. Forgotten. Ghostly blue eyes. I wonder where they went? A treasured smocking dress still in her hearts drawer Along with your dreams yet to be fulfilled, you emanate A child’s life but contain adult likeness. You now wear a hospital smile for the near tomorrows Where many lives await your aid. I notice in front, The gate to life, to freedom, to future. Riding buses with your da listening to the radio: Fade to Grey One black or white, rambunctious or meek, But now faded to grey where I know you best. Equilibrium.
An evocative, creative and intriguing poem that explores the subject of life and death.
The Crash of The Waves The crash of the waves The step of a man The collapsing of caves The step of a man The whip of the wind The fall of a tree The mind of the sinned The turn of a key The giving of life The taking of death The tears and the sorrow For the ones that have left.
A poem about the emotional journey experienced when a child goes to school – from Nursery through to Secondary school.
When I Moved To‌ When I was in Nursery school, Nothing bothered me. You made fingerprints all day, And had biscuits for tea. Everybody was your friend, And you would dress up all day. You would go outside, have fun, and play! When I moved to primary School everything changed, You would learn to stay at school for lunch, and sit and learn instead of play! You would learn so many things, Like the numbers and the alphabet, And I learned to love it there, Where me and my friends would chat. Then I moved to Secondary school, That was such a scare, All the lessons were so different, And I was now the youngest there, And the big girls looked so daunting, And the buildings even more! But I learned to love it there, Each day more and more. So now when I think about it, Change is not that bad, It happens all the time, And I am glad!
A story about the adventures of Josh and his impulsive decision not to go to school on Monday; if only to avoid the infamous Mr McPooper. As expected, things do not go to plan!
This Was Going To Be A Terrible Day - Josh This was going to be a terrible day, one of those days when it’s best to stay in bed because everything is going to turn out bad. Have you ever gone through a day when it seemed that the world was upside down and everything was just going wrong? Well yeah, this was definitely going to be one of those days. It was already 8:30am. My alarm clock had selfishly decided not to ring and wake me for this series of unfortunate events just waiting to happen. Not only was it 8:30am, a time when nobody should have to be awake, it was a Monday. Moody, mournful, malicious, Monday. Oh no, but it doesn’t stop there. Not only was it 8:30am and a Monday, I had the most disgusting teacher in the whole school for most of my lessons, Mr McCooper (or Mr McPooper as I like to call him!) I get out of bed and don’t even think about making it. After dusting the sleep out of my eyes, I reach down to pick up my uniform from Friday. Yes it had a few creases… ok maybe a few more, and a green stain from Friday’s mushy peas but I mean the school is not a fashion show so who cares! I walk past the bathroom completely ignoring the fact that my morning breath may cause some people nasal damage throughout the day, then slump down the stairs and slowly shuffle myself towards the door; acting as if I wasn’t already half an hour late for school. I’ve only just left and I can already feel the Monday moodiness start to kick in. I’m trying to keep my eyes from shutting by jumping over the cracks in the pavement to give me something to do. My legs start to ache and I would do anything just to turn back around and head home. Wait a moment… what if I were to stay at home all day? Mum’s at work and Dad‘s helping Aunt Linda move into her new house all day; no one would know. I could feel my heart urging me to keep walking to school but on the other hand I could feel my head telling me to make a swift U-turn and go home. I wanted my bed, I wanted the TV and I wanted to go home. Home it is. Maybe this was going to be one of those days where it was best to stay in bed, but for the right reasons. No Maths test, no revolting ravioli and especially no Mr McPooper. Once I’d arrived home, I chucked my school bag on the sofa and switched on the TV. Ahhh, this was the life. EastEnders and a hot water bottle, what else could you ask for! How sorry I felt for all those unlucky kids who had to face such a terrible day unlike me. I must’ve fallen asleep for quite a while because when I’d woken up the sun had lowered and the sky had a tint of darkness to it. All of a sudden I heard the sound of my mum’s car turn up into the driveway and I’m pretty certain I had a slight heart attack. I hopped up out of the sofa, grabbed my school bag and dramatically headed for the back door. After stubbing my left toe on the rubbish bin and having no time to run back to collect my shoe that had fallen off in process of trying not to get caught, I arrived back at the front door. “Oh hello darling”, my mum answered, “you’re never back this early, is everything OK?” I felt bad for lying but there was no way I was actually going to let this day take a turn for the worst. “Yes I’m fine, was just busting for the toilet”, I replied with a slight tremble in my voice. I dashed upstairs with my bag and closed my door behind me quickly. See, wasn’t so bad I thought to myself. I could do with a few more of these days. “Josh!”, My Mum shouts from downstairs. “Why is one of your shoes out in the Garden?” Oh god, please help me what do I say? Without even thinking I reply with “oh, erm it was wear one shoe to school day today.” What was I thinking, ‘Wear one shoe to school day?’ Since when is that even a thing? “Right, okay. How was the Maths test you were telling me about go?” my Mum replied with a hint of suspicion. “Great!” I lie through gritted teeth. All of a sudden the phone from downstairs starts to ring but my Mum answers it. “Yes, this is Mrs Brown, is there a problem?” Then there is a long silence, my Mum puts down the phone with a sense of harshness. “Josh, would you like to explain to me why Mr McCooper is asking me why you were absent today?”
An informative, descriptive and haunting ballad from the perspective of Anne Bolelyn, this poem deals with her relationship with Henry VIII and her impending, tragic death by execution.
The Ballad of Anne Boleyn ‘I must die this very day, Although I am the queen,’ Said Anne Boleyn, cruel Henry’s Bride ‘I’ll vanish from the scene’ ‘I first met Henry years ago When he and I were young We laughed and loved throughout the day Sweet songs were softly sung. My sleeves were green, his eyes were blue He loved me very well Although he had another wife He fell under my spell. Live, love with lightness while ye may For happy days are short. Kings love you for a single day Then kill for their sport. My story stalls, my fate awaits I didn’t have a son He’ll take my rank, my jewels, my life I’ve lost and he has won. I thought he’d keep me as his Queen For all the rest of days But he has found another love He’s taken by her ways He wanted to see more of Jane Well, now I’m sure he can! She waits for me to meet my death And then she’ll take my man. Live, love with lightness while ye may For happy days are short. Kings love you for a single day Then kill for their sport. I was the favorite of the court Like honey to a bee But now my friends all turn away.
I feel I’m lost at sea’ Proud Henry said, ‘She was a witch And caught me with a spell. Her dancing feet, her wicked ways She’ll not drag me to hell!’ The people say, ‘she aint the Queen She done Queen Katherine wrong With her feisty, flirty, flighty ways She didn’t last for long!’ Live, love with lightness while ye may For happy days are short. Kings love you for a single day Then kill for their sport. ‘Now I’m in a tower room Alone and sad and cold. I wet the grey stones with my tears When once I was so bold. A sharpened sword will slice my neck An axe he will not use. An executioner from France, My life he will abuse. My headless body will be left To rot in dungeon deep Sly, Seymour with her secret smile She’ll soon have cause to weep. Live, love with lightness while ye may For happy days are short. Kings love you for a single day Then kill for their sport. Although I die, I will live on In Henry’s memory. The ‘Headless Queen’, the ‘wicked wife’ I’ll never set him free! I’ll haunt the King for all his life I’ll see my daughter Queen She’ll rule all England and her seas The best we’ve ever seen. But now my end is drawing close My weary path is trod. I’m innocent of all my crimes I give my soul to God.’
An insightful and passionate ballad describing the discrimination between Black people and White people – specifically in relation to slavery.
The Ballad of 400 Years of Slavery 400 years of slavery,
There were no human rights for blacks,
Where whites and blacks weren’t equal.
There was no mind of your own
Slavery was very common,
Where whites were stern, were strict
Who knew why it was legal?
Their true colours now were shown. Equality was a big story,
On that went for years and years, Where only white lives mattered People did not even notice, That black lives were shattered. People were sold it was unfair, That no one really cared Imagine if now you were sold?
Like when Rosa Parks sat down Whites said she should sit at the back Just because she was brown. With the movie 12 years a slave, From true life this was taken Where black people were not free
Equality should be shared.
Reality was mistaken
400 years of slavery,
Each slave belonged to a family,
A battle of the skins.
Where they had no hopes and dreams.
Inequality reigned supreme
People were classed as groups
A black life, never did win
And blacks were just one theme
Where whites were rich and blacks were poor
400 years of slavery,
Whites the upper class
Black people weren’t treated right.
Whilst blacks were dirty like mud.
No matter how bad they were treated,
Now the slavery years have passed.
Black people still put up a fight.
Hayley has an ominous dread of the day ahead. Just when things don’t seem to be turning out quite as bad as she imagined, she meets Josh …
Hayley This was going to be a terrible day, one of those days when it’s best to stay in bed because everything is going to turn out bad! This is what was going through Hayley’s head as she stirred and reached to turn off the alarm that was piercing the still and quiet of the early morning. As Hayley grasped for the duvet and wriggles out from beneath it. She scurried into the warmth of the bathroom and hopped into the shower. Hayley got herself dressed and ran down the stairs to have a breakfast bar before she left for school. “Mum! I’m going to be late, we need to leave NOW!” Hayley yelled down the hall. As the car turned the bend at the end of the road, Hayley groaned “I’ve left my PE bag in the hall.” Her mum reversed back up the roads and she sprinted inside to grab her bag. As she turned to shut the door behind her, she smelled a breeze of the fresh sea air whisked up by a strong wind. She jumped back in the car and before she knew it, she was at the dreaded place ‘they’ called school. Lesson 1: Maths. Hayley settled at the back of the class in her regular seat. “I hope you all prepared and have revised thoroughly for today as this will determine part of your half term grade.” Hayley, dumbfounded by this, gasped with shock: she had completely forgotten about the test. Immediately her stomach had started to churn and her palms grew sweaty, as Mr Blakley handed out the test papers her eyes started swimming with tears; however she looked down at the first question: expand and simplify this equation. At this Hayley sighed with relief I can do this she said to herself. She completed question 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 and 6 without any trouble, but as she flipped the page and stared down at the first question the churning sensation was back. She felt like her stomach had sunk all the way down to her feet. She worked through the test skipping most of the questions only doing the odd few. She sat there in silence as the rest of the class scribbled frantically. The next 30 minutes that passed felt like years. Hayley made it through to lunch without any more surprise of exams. As she walked into the dining hall to take a seat with her all-time best friend Emma she let out a long sigh. “What’s wrong?” Emma enquired. “I’m just having a really bad day!” she replied. “It’s ok don’t worry about it, how did you find the Maths test, personally I think I nailed it!” “Please don’t even go there” Hayley said as she let out a sarcastic laugh. “Ok, let’s change the subject, how’s Josh?” “He’s great, just great, he and you obviously are the only things keeping me sane right now.... I just love him so much” Hayley added. Lunch was a haze of fun and laughter and Hayley thought to herself that it might not be that bad of a day, one bad test couldn’t make it that horrible. As she thought this she saw the figure of someone that could actually make her feel ok. “Josh!” Hayley shouted down the corridor. She ran down the corridor at top speed, and embraced him in a tight hug, but it felt tense, distant; she broke away from him. “What’s wrong? Are you ok?” asked Hayley. “We need to talk!” he said. Hayley’s heart skipped a beat; her palms instantly became sweaty, nothing good ever follows, ‘we need to talk.’ ‘Oh god please no’ Hayley thought desperately. “I think we… umm, should go on a break?” said Josh hesitantly. Hayley was shocked, she didn’t even say a word. She just ran back up the corridor towards the girl’s bathroom. She barely reached the bathroom before she burst into tears. She wrenched the door open to a cubicle and stood there, tears running down her face, her heart was thumping hard against her chest and she could feel the blood pumping in her ears. Hayley slowly opened the cubicle door, she let out a gasp of sorrow, her eyes were red and bloody and her face tear stained. Hailey sobbed “I should have just stayed in bed!”
A reflective and intuitive poem about change, loss and saying Goodbye.
Changing Spaces‌.. Moving Sadness I was going, leaving every memory behind Lonely, It was all on my mind Although I have moved many times. My house My home, It all had to go But it’s hard, you know? Just like in winter when you say goodbye to the snow The way it glistens The way it glows crisp and clean Our house now gleamed with empty boxes and empty dreams As I look around, I see the floor bare like public grounds. I know we are moving but it is horrible to see My house full of brown boxes that box in me My room stripped to the bare bones. Will it always be like this?
A poem about discovery, growing up and the challenges of realising who you are and the journey you are on.
Saint and Sinner I’m a saint, and I’m a sinner I’m a loser and a winner Without faith and a believer I am the truth and the deceiver I’m a hero and I am the villain I’m a myth and I am a legend Without strength and still contender I am real, yet pretender I’m a poet and a soldier I am young and growing older Without hope, but I’m a dreamer I’m the cure, and I’m the fever I am lost with a direction I am failure with perfection Without grace, but I am tired
Of walking life like it’s a wire The perfect line is hard to say The journey’s long And though I’m broken I’ve tried to fix myself through fixing But I need more than this glue To piece these parts together Of what makes me, me And you, you I’ll go back to the flower bed I’ll go back to the garden I’ll plant seeds that were never sown Because now I see the difference between you and me The seed that you planted grew into a tree.
A symbolic and moving poem about a person who takes on many paradoxical forms. Ironically, she can change anything about herself but her name.
Her Name She is as infinite as two parallel lines She whispers with her ghostly voice in your ear Her eyes are a deep blue or are they a deep grey? Her thoughts are sweet but might be filled with dismay Her hair is blond but can be brown She moves with time but is never found Change is her name and that’s the only thing that stays the same Her movement is swift and unexpected She never lies but is barely respected She wouldn’t cry but her victims might But through those tears she still sees delight She feels you up with uncontrollable emotions And give undivided attention She passes but lives with her scars And hides your pain behind a mask Change is her name and that’s the only thing that stays the same
The heart-breaking poem tells the harrowing events of the Christchurch Mosque shootings. It reacts with anguish and perplexity, leading the reader to share in its disappointment of humanity’s capability to commit such brutal acts.
People Like Us: The New Zealand Mosque attacks I sat quietly in the mosque Danger was approaching, What would help me with this task, Would my religious coaching? 49 people dead. People like us. Hopelessly I'm staring up (No one knows what happening) At the bare wall statues That now with bombs are blackening 49 people dead. People like us. What caused such devastation? My family all dead Who wants to kill our children What lies have they been fed? 49 people dead. People like us. While screaming “come and help us” I look up at our Gods I need another reason To try and sway the odds 49 people dead. People like us Should we have pity on them? Although they did us wrong Is life a very precious gift, Or is it just a song?
This diary entry follows the alluring life of an artist in the Elizabethan era. He leads us through the humming streets of London, introduces us to his noble companions and reflects on the unfortunate future of his forbidden love.
Diary Entry as a Renaissance Man: George Ainsworth 3.9.1612 Today, I slipped out of my residence and hastily met with my mistress, my muse. The journey to the other end of town was arduous. Her ends consist of squalor and disease but she manages to be fresh and orderly unlike her unkempt tenants with begrimed hands that reach out to provoke me. I passed by little grubby boys who splashed around in the fetid puddles spoiling their simple clothes. These simple people with their basic food and small homes stumble to the next day on meagre earnings. Oh how it saddens me, so I give to charity. After our encounter, I trekked through the streets of London, greeting courtiers, nodding at merchants, complimenting artisans, distasteful prostitutes, dodging beggars and aware of cutpurses. As I reached the court, I met the noblemen and royals dressed in fine clothing trimmed with ermine fur, silk and velvet that dazzles the eye. Bright colours, large ruffles on their wrists and collars. I, along with other great artists, have attracted the Elizabethan court. We believe that this court is the centre stage of the renaissance cultural movement. In the gardens of Hampton Court, the artists converse about the age of exploration and the effect it has on our brush strokes. We battle with our duty to flatter potential patrons in our art for financial support versus our deepest feelings and beliefs. There are rumours that the Queen wants one of us to create a stylised imagery that portrays her wealth, power and supposed elegance. Anyone would be immensely grateful to receive various commissions from the Crown. I want the money, I need the money. A limner, Nicholas Hillard came by my residence this evening and we discussed the next instalments of miniature paintings. He tells me that he needs a muse and I instantly think of my mistress. Pondering on the thought, I ordered ivory card and vellum which could only be handled by an expert like Hillard. I wish to see her again, I may love her but I cannot marry her. Our circumstances do not allow it. I continued to entertain Hillard and then later Richard Syre. Syre riled me up this evening as we debated the issue of humanists. We argued what is good and what is evil? I said that life is a test or preparation for another, better life after death. He argued that God moves in mysterious ways, but I don’t believe that is a substantial explanation! He tried to compare himself to Erasmus‌ pathetic! I wonder why I even invite him to my home. A bottle of the finest Italian wine was the highlight of my evening along with rich soups of various colours sprinkled with aromatic herbs like sage and thyme. I’ll definitely sleep well tonight. Once again I find myself writing the same thing at the end of each entry, Virginia will continue to consume my thoughts and I love her. She inspires my art that I have to hide in a society that does not accept the likes of her looks and status. I am conflicted.
A heinous crime has been committed by two men. The King was murdered, and it has caused a stir amongst the people. They converse in dramatic Shakespearean manner as they condemn the suspects and are left puzzled by their motives.
The Night Roars Louder: Shakespeare Murder Conversation The first man spoke, lowering his head so others could not hear. He started, “Hath you heard of the passing of King Duncan?” The second man looked around before saying, “Indeed. Tis strange how his sons dispersed from Scotland so abruptly.” “You believe them as guilty?” The first man replied instantaneously. “Without a shadow of a doubt, they were scared and ran from their consciences.” “They should know that guilt knows not of fatigue,” the third man piped up, his voice, eager to be heard, “if not God, remorse will lead them to their graves, and from there, the devil will inflict the most unsanctified punishment on their souls.” The group of men hummed in agreement. “Not for ending the life of their father but ending the life of our king!” “Fleeing from Scotland will not make them free but render their souls heavier from the weight of blood,” the man in the corner scoffed. “If Malcom and Donaldbain assume that their minds will restore sanity, they are more than fools.” The night grew dark and the men scurried into their homes before the storm commenced. Two servants were having a conversation in the kitchen basement. They were both young. “The night roars louder than before, the gaudy leaves have now transformed black and wilted.” The second maid continued, “I heard from a guard that the crows were swarmed in the skies and destroyed the harvest. The Earth seemed disrupted and turbulence wreaked havoc above us mortals”. “Why did Donaldbain and Malcom have such an immoral scheme? Why must their reprehensible actions affect the innocent?”
The burden of human emotion is elegantly crafted. This poem makes us wonder if tangible feelings would help us comprehend the complexity of our emotions.
What Would A Feeling Feel Like? If sadness was a thing that you could hold in your hands, I wonder what it would feel like. Like somethings not right a feeling you can't fight Sadness. Like water falling through your hands Slowly falling on the land Below you, You’re Trying to grasp but Begging to let go Just so you can feel Something, anything A feeling to explore Yet never before have I felt something not based of sadness. And it hurts. I hurt. From the continuing pain From the train, Of my thoughts Heading in one direction. And my skills of deflection are far, So far From perfection. So, I wait, and I read, and I dream, And my thoughts they scream But I Wait Till my sadness evolves And new feelings are involved And I begin to wonder... What would happiness feel like If you held it In your hand? Could you hold it? Would it grow, Impossible to contain relieving tension Beyond comprehension, Happiness A feeling In your hand.
The indulgent Renaissance man dines with the affluent, discusses philosophy with the intellectual and is never tired of arguing about politics and religion. This diary entry catapults us into a thrilling era.
Diary of a Renaissance Man I have been invited to dine with Lord Ralph and his other dignified guests this evening; dining is always a flamboyant occasion with each guest wearing their most fashionable garments and jewels. I suspect the men will be wearing colourful tights or stockings with a shirt and doublet, which will be tight fitting, with a hat as it is a more formal occasion. It is easy to tell which class people are from due to the fabrics: velvet, satin and cotton for those on the high end of the social ladder. Trade and exploration have stimulated an exchange of different articles of diet, some of which are rare and expensive, and some of which I hope to have tonight. Many of these extravagancies I have seen during my years of travel or “finishing school” as many call it, to Italy to get a working knowledge of the political economy. Italy is so unpopular now due to fear of religious perversion, as hatred of Roman Catholicism grows in England. It has sadly lost its prestige as the promised land of English travellers. It was the humanists - in their new willingness to question the authority of the Pope and to examine the newly translated Bible and re-interpret it - that paved the way for the break of the Roman Catholic Church made by King Henry VIII. In the development of humanism, the anxiety to achieve the perfection of man and the absorbing passion for beauty of form and expression has been distorted. The scope of the influence of humanism includes not only the education of the young but also the guidance of adults via philosophical poetry and strategic rhetoric. Humanism calls for the comprehensive reform of culture, the transfiguration of what humanists termed “the passive” and ignorant society of the “dark” ages into a new order that would reflect and encourage the grandest human potentialities. Many believe that humanism has an evangelical dimension. Talk of politics and religion is so dominant due to the note of growing nationalism, as well as the clash of individualism and politics only too often sways religion. It is my belief that there should be more talk about the growing sense of social expansiveness and the curiosity, the unquenchable thirst for knowledge which are driving forces in education and pursuit of scientific trends. Why not delve into conversation over Aristotle’s physical theory of the universe that positions many crystalline spheres, centred on the earth and nests one within another? Each sphere contains a specific substance or body and communicates motions to its neighbours. The theory continues with ideas that the earth is surrounded by spheres of water, air, and fire; seven spheres for the sun, the moon, and the five planets; Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn; and one sphere for the fixed stars. The primum movens, the ultimate spirit or intelligence, activates the primum mobile, which in turn sets the outer sphere in motion, and so on through the inner spheres. Christian philosophers claim that the primum movens is God, the centre of our universe. I must stop this entry now and get ready, if I don’t, I will never stop talking of the glorious discoveries and theories of our ever changing world.
An aspiring dancer’s burning passion gets the best of her as she devises a wicked plan to get her a spot on the dance team. But it has its consequences.
Ambition Got the Best of Me Cold sweat trickles down my hot face. I crack my raw knuckles one by one. My heart is pounding in my ears so loud I have to squeeze my eyes closed to try and shut it out. I shift in my seat nervously and try not to look at the door. She’s in there, Mum, right now and I can’t hear what they’re saying. It’s killing me. I rack my brain to try and come up with some sort of excuse to tell her but I can’t, it’s useless. What I did was wrong and that’s that, I wish I could just go back, then I wouldn’t have to deal with all those hard stares in the corridor and the whispering. I don’t think I'll be able to sleep tonight. Ever. My train of thought is stopped when the door opens in front of me. I look up and see the headmaster looking down at me. “Come in Sasha,” he says, gesturing to the door. My heart thuds louder than ever and the butterflies in my stomach have somehow doubled in size. I feel sick. I step into the large, dull room filled with old, dusty books and peeling wallpaper. And there standing in the middle of the room is my Mum. Her expression is a mix of anger and confusion. Immediately my stomach churns and I feel even more guilty. I sit down on one of the chairs next to my Mum, and a tear rolls down my face. The alarm shrieks continuously as I stumble out of bed, weary eyed. Today is the day, the day I have worked all year for and I can’t let it go to waste. I get dressed into my best leotard and put a pair of leggings and a hoodie over it. I slip on my baby pink, satin ballet shoes and race down the stairs. I get to the school gates on time and run inside to my friends. butterflies filling my stomach. And excitement bubbling up inside me as I chat to them. When the bell rings I jump, and excitement surrounds me. Only ten minutes to the auditions. After registration I run to the dance studio, where a line of girls is already standing nervously, and I wait. Fifteen minutes later, a towering, lanky woman with a namebadge that says Mrs Mason walks in and tells us all to come in. We all politely step into the room and get into a space. The dance studio is a large open space with a mirrored wall at the front and a low ceiling. I have my dance lessons three times a week here and on a Saturday morning too, so I am very familiar with it. “Good morning ladies, today as you know are the auditions for the school dance team. We are very serious about dance in this school and you have finally come to an age where you can compete in competitions, but first you have to be accepted into the elite academy team.” As Mrs Mason tells us the process of the auditions, I look around at all the girls in the room. There are about twenty people and only ten can be in the team. That means a lot of competition. Nerves build up inside me as I realise that this might not be as easy as I thought. I see a few of my friends from dance class and some people I have never seen before, and I lift my head up and try to stand up as straight as I can so I look a bit more intimidating. “The music will start and altogether you will perform the choreographed dance. If I call out your number, you may be excused and will no longer be part of the auditions. In the penultimate round, I will be calling out numbers to determine who is in the team, and then the last round will consist of two remaining girls one of which will be accepted into the team. There will be a break before the last round to clean up and prepare. Good luck!” Mrs Mason exclaims as I get ready for the audition of my 'secondary school’ life. I breathe in deeply and tell myself how much I have worked for this and how I need to do well. I want this more than anyone else I here. The music starts. It’s music from The Nutcracker that I practically know off by heart, the amount of times I have rehearsed it. I perform the steps just like I’m in here on a Saturday morning, or a Wednesday evening and try to be as precise as I can be. I can see Mrs Mason tapping one of the girls on the shoulder out of the corner of my eye. I see her face drop and shoulders droop as she walks out. Sweat prickles down my face as I continue remembering to point my toes and keep my head up. Mrs Mason starts to walk over to my direction. My heart thumps faster than it ever has and my stomach starts to churn. She stands and watches me, for what seems like hours but is only few seconds, and then moves on. I breathe a sigh of utter relief as I relax myself a little. And continue to dance.
The music finally comes to an end. “Well done to the remaining girls. You have all shown me you can dance for a long period time and have good stamina.” There are only 11 girls left now. One of us won’t be on the team. “You may all have a drink break and then we will get started on the next round where I will be picking team members.” I grab my bottle and go outside. I breathe in the fresh air and tell myself over and over again how much I want this. I come back I see to a room of girls talking and I stop straight past them back into the dance studio and get ready. I have to win. When the music tarts we all start to dance. After about three minutes, I hear Mrs Mason call out three numbers. I start to feel anxious all of a sudden. My hands start to sweat and I have to breathe hard. “Number 6, 8 and 12.” I’m number 13. There are five of us left now and I can feel the tension as I dance. Number 9 is called out and shortly after that number 1 is called. I can hear them quietly celebrating as they leave the studio and I have never been more jealous. Only three left. The next person to be called will end this round and the remaining and only one person will be accepted. “And the last number is…” my hands are shaking and I start to feel uneasy. “Number 14” No! I stop and watch her leave the room excitedly. I look at the other girl. Number 19. She looks disappointed. I know this girl from my old dance classes. She was really good. Suddenly a wave of worry crashes down on me as I realise that I have to go against her for the last spot on the team. “Now girls, I will give you twenty minutes to prepare for the last round. You may use the shower if you wish, but be here no later than 12:00 or you will be disqualified”. At that I run to the changing rooms to the shower. There is only one and I have to get there first. I hop in the shower and a few minutes later I hear number 19 come into the changing room. I wash myself and get dressed in the cubicle. When I step out she is waiting outside to use the shower. “Hi” she says cheerily, but I’m not going to fall for her charm. “Hi” I say blandly and walk past her. “Well done today and I hope you do well in the next round.” “Yeah um- you too.” I’m surprised at her positivity. She gets into the cubicle and I hear the shower turn on. As I dry my hair, I look at the cubicle door. It’s a mini room with a shower at the end with a curtain covering it. All of a sudden, I can hear a strange voice in my head. “You want this Sasha, remember, you would do anything for this.” It’s like something is taking over me. Something dark and I don’t know. All of a sudden when I look at the cubicle, I remember what Mrs Mason said. An idea crosses my mind. I know it’s horrible but I have to be accepted into this team. I tiptoe out of the changing room. The door handle has been dodgy for a long time so it only takes a harsh jab to get it off. Its 11:58 and I’m in the dance studio doing my stretches. Number 19 hasn’t come yet, meaning my plan worked. I look up at the clock and it says 12:00. “Where is she?” Mrs Mason exclaims. I shrug, but deep down I feel a pang of guilt. Five minutes past and Mrs Mason finally exclaims, “Oh for heaven’s sake I told her if she was late she wouldn’t be in the team!” Mrs Mason looks at me and smiles. “Welcome to the team Sasha.” I jump up with joy. “Thank you so so so much!!” ‘Olivia was found very distraught in the changing rooms a few minutes after you left.” I shudder at the thought of that morning in the changing room. “She was so upset and told us everything. I am very disappointed in you. Sasha will have to be severely punished for her actions. We think that a week of suspension to think about what you did will suffice. Oh and you will be banned from joining the dance team and competing for the school.” I gasp in horror. I can’t believe it. All that time wasted. I deserve it though. My ambition got the best of me.
The heart of a father is a treasure. This poem explores the heart-warming aspects of fatherhood and the security it brings.
My Dad Is Always There For Me My dad is always there for me
Don’t stay out too late
He
Before you cross make sure you wait
Takes me out to see my friends
The weight in the word ‘hate’
Influences laughter that never seems to end
A man with a heart of Gold
Instills in me values
Who taught me how be bold
Class views
Stand up for yourself
Something I used
Stand your ground
To become who I am today
Don’t mess around
My dad is always there for me
In my eyes
He
He
Tells me stories of his life
Changed my outlook on the world
Tells me what is wrong from right
When I look around
Picks me up after every fight
I hear the sound
Took me out to fly
Of people screaming
A kite
With actions demeaning
My dad is always there for me
And
He is to me a hero
I stop
Incomparable to anyone else
And I think
My dad, my father
Of the support my dad has given me
I'm scared for the time you will go
The dreams he helped see
And though
And how he made me, me
It'll enable me to grow
My dad
I'm scared for tears it will bring on
Is always
From your presence now gone
There
My dad is always there for me
For me.
The effects of a family breaking apart are severe and the feelings burdensome. This piece illustrates how suffocating and lonely the process can be.
Underwater The words were coming out of her mother‘s mouth, they were trying to get under her skin, hurt her feelings, but there was nothing left anymore that could have been hurt: no feelings, no soul, just the remaining empty pieces of her shattered heart. Seconds ago the tears were running down her face as if they could help, as if they could stop the madness in the eyes of her once loving mother, as if they could stop the red mark on her face from feeling like fire on her skin, as if they could stop the sound of the slap from replaying in her head. She looks, not seeing anything, trying to blend out all the anger, all the hate in her mother‘s face that seems to be reflecting the inside of her heart. She tries to forget the look on the face of her father before he left. Dissapointment and disgust. That was all she could read in his usually so open and happy face. The world is muted as if she was pressed underwater against her will, trying to get out but losing strength. There is no way out. Her once lively soul is leaking through all the holes in her heart, leaving her body, leaving her alone. She was abandoned, betrayed by everybody who once loved her. The anger is her mother‘s eyes, the violence in her posture, the revulsion on her face are tearing apart the young girl‘s heart; ripping it out. Nothing can be anymore, nothing can be as it was before, nothing can glue together the family anymore. It is over. Under water.
A Renaissance man attends a glamourous masquerade ball and gives us an insight into the politics of the court, marriage, love and the nobility. Hidden behind their masks, the people of the Elizabethan era show us two faces.
Renaissance Man Diary Yesterday was the most splendid day imaginable, not even the stars could have predicted those events. It started off as a normal October’s morn; cold, bleak and dark. Until a letter was handed to by my aide. On the cover in cursive writing was my name written in perfect fluidity “Lord Renwick.” I was curious at first as usually such decorated invites would only be sent in the summer or early spring, as this was hunting season and invitations are giving out directly in speech from the host. I broke the seal to see an invite to a ball, not just any ball but a masquerade ball. In the invite read; “To the Honourable Lord Renwick, You are invited to dine and dance at Count Angello’s country home in Oxford. Theme for this masquerade is ‘Night in Florence.’” Count Angello? I had never heard this name been spoken amongst my circles. With this kind of name he must be Italian, meaning he’s Catholic which is absolutely ghastly, remaining a prisoner under the tainted Church of Rome. He has courage to invite devout Protestants and supporters of the British Queen and head of our Church. This Angello must have ulterior motives beyond change for this possibly sudden move to Britain. I will go though. Hopefully there will be talk about politics and religion- the perfect dinner conversation. I am interested as to what this Count has to say and if it’s true Italy is the new “centre of art and beauty.” However, within my circles this new idea, which I actually agree with, the idea of “Humanism” is popular. So I will refrain from defending it if it is brought up. As this ball is in Oxford, hopefully I will see my fellow alumni from Trinity College, as I’m sure Angello must have invited them, considering all their fathers (and once mine) are a part of the Royal Court Advisors. After I dressed in fine garments and jewellery for tonight’s ball, I arrived by carriage with my friend, Earl Bourke. We drove down a long and meandering entrance down to the manor. It was a beautiful example of British architecture with a fusion of Italian furnishing and gardens. I entered into the home, the ball was like a scene from one of Shakespeare’s continental plays. I am approached by my good friend since child hood Lord Reading. He begins to give me the background knowledge of Count Angello. He’s a wealthy noblemen and tradesmen within Florence and has come to live in Oxford and convert to the Church of England to increase his connection with God. In reality he’s entered into the bad books of the poem and is trying to avoid being excommunicated. Reading then said to me; “I must introduce you to him, he’s actually quite splendid. People are talking that he may even be introduced in court to our majesty in the new year”. I approached the Count to speak to him while he was alone and away from the crowd. He turned around to face me and replied “Ah! Lord Renwick! You are a popular young man amongst this room and court I’ve heard. A man of politics, talent, culture and a wealthy man without a wife. Say here, what have these other fathers done wrong for you not to take their daughters hand in marriage?” I was taken aback. I hesitated at first as to what to say as normally that is not your usual greeting statement. “Well, Count Angello, I will speak as holy as I possibly can. In court, it’s hard to find an intellectual and beautiful lady, together.” The Count was red with laughter. “Why need a brain for a wife? Well I think I may have a solution for your problem. Say, how old are yee?” “Twenty and five years.” “Fabulous. My daughter Kristianna is seventeen.” He guided me into a side room, covered in gold. There I waited with the music echoing in the back. There entered Aphrodite herself or also referred to as Count Angello’s daughter, Kristianna. She removed her mask, unveiling her goddess like features. Long blonde hair, emerald green eyes with olive skin. Her garments made from the best of cloth. The room around me began to move slowly, the music dimming. Have I possibly fallen in love? We engaged in deep conversation about life, politics, the stars, religion and maybe our potential future. We danced all night until dawn. However, I don’t believe this love is infinite. So our love will last forever, but from memories of tonight.
A critical letter with a compelling argument condemning our toxic footprints left on this earth and the effects of climate change.
Dear Humans, Can you imagine not being able to breathe naturally? Well scientists believe that in about 12 years theearth will run out of trees giving us oxygen. This is due to the reckless behaviour of us, the humanrace. We as a united team need to make a change in our lazy ways, for example: we should definitely recycle more! Recycling reduces landfill, if we don’t recycle more then the landfill will be too much to bare andeventually the world will end. Since a large population of people are too dilatory to realize that if theydon’t act soon then adverse circumstances could and will occur whether it be now or later. Another serious topic is deforestation. Many rainforests across the globe are depleting by the second.Without the trees in the rainforest a majority of the animals there won’t be able to survive, in caseyou were wondering, yes this affects us vastly not only the animals. We need animals to fertilise theother plants in the rainforest. The other plants could hold cures to cancer among other diseases andalthough only 25% of our everyday medicine is from the rainforest don’t let the small figure fool you,that 25% includes pain relievers such as morphine. We also get importations of foods like avocados,coffee, tea, cocoa, nuts, and spices like vanilla. Although I acknowledge the fact that we need to cut down trees to produce paper for all sorts of purposes such as school or work, but there are other ways to make sure we can still do those thingswithout having to destroy the planet. We could move more things onto digital platforms, there seems tobe an app for everything so why not try?r Another way for those not so fond of technology is torecycle it’s much easier and doesn’t take any effort at all! In conclusion, I believe, strongly, that we have an obligation to take care of the earth, the future is in our hands ! We need to make a change and take care of our environment. Recycle! Protest! Send letters to those in charge, we can make a change whether we do one or all three. Sincerely, Deborah
A gripping read; it tells of a turbulent relationship between poverty-stricken sisters as one tries to get the others attention. The suspense leaves you eager for more.
Ambition Rosa didn’t know the damage she was unleashing until it was too late. She had never had much – even less since mother had died. The only constant in her life, throughout black and white and thick and thin, was Lily. But a younger sister wasn’t going to get her to university. Bitter thoughts swirled around her head, crowding her mind, isolating her on an island of impossible dreams. Rosa’s head rang like it always did when she began retreating into her thoughts again: the familiar buzzing like an impenetrable wall that imprisoned her inside her mind. The sound of her footsteps faded into nothingness as the cogs turned into Rosa’s mind, reciting again the plan that had evolved over the years. It had dogged her, haunted her like a hell-bent demon, the ambition forever handing over her like a veil, separating her from the pains and annoyances of reality. “Rosa!” Rosa snapped out of her reverie and hit the Earth again with a painful jolt. Her ears had stopped ringing, but her mind still spun like a top, as the image that had woven itself into the image of herself, successful and admired, imploded. Instead, Rosa found herself looking down at a scrawny, sallow ten-year-old in the same infuriatingly familiar street. “What?” she snapped at Lily. The younger girl recoiled. She cast her eyes down to look at her own scuffed school shoes, which were mismatched and far too small. “I was just saying,” she began meekly, “that I got the third highest score in the test at school.” Rosa sighed. “That’s good. Who got first and second?” “I don’t know.” There was a silence. “You’re disappointed,” Lily observed. Rosa sighed again, but didn’t deny the assessment. Her eyes moved over the street disgustedly. The brick walls of the houses were grubby and graffitied, and more often than not, cigarettes had been scattered like rotting confetti along their sides. There was no grass anywhere; instead the tangled branches of dead trees spilled over the walls of the houses like deformed and blackened spider skeletons. The windows of the houses were boarded up grimly or broken, so that jagged spikes of glass leered at the passers-by like evil jaws. The smell issuing from the sewers, which were spaced at regular intervals along the road, would have been enough to make Rosa gag had she not been so accustomed to it. As it was, Lily, who was walking closest to the road, swallowed back bile as the smell of waste, cigarette smoke and rotten eggs overwhelmed her. Rosa led the way to the door squashed in between two identically abused houses. It displayed the number ‘13’ in peeling grey letters. The first, ice-cold drops of rain had begun to fall. Rosa spared the sky another disdainful look before pushing open the dilapidated door and stepping inside. The first thing she was greeted with was an overpowering smell of mothballs. The carpet was riddled with so many holes it could have been a two-dimensional rabbit warren, and from the inside, the shattered windows radiated a very different aura: broken and hollow and so alone – all their ferociousness and intimidating authority falling away. Rosa hated them. She left Lily to close the door and strode into the only room – the stairs were as decidedly untrustworthy as the whole neighbourhood. Rosa sat down on the partially dismembered sofa and laid her homework and pencil case across her knees. At once, she descended into a world of her own, thick walls of impenetrable indifference isolating her once more, the intoxicating visions of herself with power, with influence, closing in. “Rosa?”
Lily’s tentative voice bounced off the walls that had constructed themselves around Rosa’s being. She raised her voice. “Rosa?” No reply. Lily felt tears burning in her eyes. All she was to her sister was an annoyance, a distraction, an obstacle. Rosa wouldn’t even notice of she vanished, Lily thought desperately. What could she do to make her sister see her? Lily’s throat tightened. Her voice shook. “Rosa!” Her voice snapped with all the neglect and grief and self-loathing that had manifested in Lily’s mind over the years. Everything terrible she had witnessed seemed to flash before her eyes in maddening detail: her father slamming the door behind him for the last time; her mother’s frail eyelids fluttering shut; her sister sitting, unreachable, only feet from her… “ROSA!” Lily felt as if she screamed the name, but it left her lips in a pitiful squeak. Why could she never been good enough? Everything she did, no matter how hard she tried, nothing would ever be enough. What was wrong with her? What could she do to make her sister notice? The dam broke. Lily’s voice, instead of calling out for her sister, died. Slowly, she took a scrap of paper into her trembling hand and a pen into the other. Trying to keep her handwriting as pristine as she could, Lily wrote three words. She let the piece of paper flutter to the floor as she stood up. “I love you, Rosa,” Lily said, her voice cracking like ice. Rosa hummed vaguely in response. Lily’s eyes swam with tears again. Discreetly, she walked to the front door, her rucksack slung over her shoulder. Lily opened her the door and slipped outside. Bullets of rain were pouring from the tar-black sky in a cruelly relentless sheet. Lily was glad of it. It disguised the tears that now coursed down her face. Her broken heart falling into the abyss, Lily started walking. Because the only time Rosa noticed anything was when it wasn’t there to be noticed. Lily kept walking, the rain a constant rushing in her ears. Rosa snapped out of her trance when the door fell shut. She looked around, slightly dazed, for Lily.i She wasn’t there. Confusion filled Rosa’s mind, quickly followed by panic. Her sister’s school bag had gone – and so had any trace of her at all. The only thing that remained was a near-broken ballpoint pen and a scrap of paper, which lay discarded on the floor. She picked it up hastily and read the three words written there in Lily’s neat handwriting. A brick of ice slid into Rosa’s stomach. “Lily?” she shouted, her voice ripping from her throat with emotion. “Lily!” Rosa darted to the door, the paper still clutched in her hand. She wrenched it open. The rain was pouring from the sky, icy bullets slicing through the evening air. Lily had already vanished. The door banged shut behind her, but Rosa barely heard it. Her trembling legs gave out, and she collapsed in front of the door, shaking with sobs. Rosa cried until her face stung and her voice vanished. The rain had run out. Her clothes were soaked through, her hair plastered to her forehead. She didn’t care. She could not let her dangerous ambition take away the only thing Rosa had left. She chewed her lip. There was only one place Lily might go. If she hurried, she could make it before midnight. Before it was too late. Rosa stood up, took one last look back at the house, and soared off after her sister, praying desperately that she still had time.
Her brother is the lens through which she sees her childhood. This piece tells a journey of getting to know and building a relationship with a sibling.
Climbing my Brother I decide to do it free, without a rope or net. First the Grey trainers, worn but sturdy; a tricky jump to Cling to the red shorts. Scrambling up the Shorts and swinging between the empty Belt loops towards his long, slender Fingers. Sliding up the fingers to hang From his sports watch. There I wait For a while, checking his heart Rate, steady and fast. Then Up his arm, to his shoulders, Hidden by a t-shirt striped White and blue. Climbing the Stripes like a ladder, traversing To his neck, to a chain, with a Golden cross and a silver twin. Pulling myself up the golden Metal rings to his smiling mouth. His grin, sly with mischief. The Voice of his laugh, powerful With projection. From his nose I can see his eyes. A deep but Warm brown, like mine. Gaining Hold of his bushy eyebrow, I reach for his dark brown hair, Thick with gel. And reaching For the summit, straining for Breath I can only lay looking At the clouds and birds circle. Feeling his heart, cold And still like I have Always known
Contributors Niu-Niu O’Neill Byrne Tunmise Afolabi Bo Chapman-Hailey Alexandra McMaster Zahra Imran Amelia MacDonald Ezara Ajao Loantrang Chu Damilola Akinkunmi Lok Yi Siu Isadora Potts Leah Odubunmi Tara Jenkyns Jessica Allen Alice Vaughan Poppy Bland Jena Marriott Anjola Nwanze Ella Massar Teloni Nkhalamba Daria Rybak Rachel Randles Joanna Kelly Alessandra Vaugan-Feast Arwen Hillier Deborah Lawal
Collection compiled by
Miss Julia West, Head of English with thanks to our English Scholars Teloni Nkhalamba and Alessandra Vaughan-Feast for their help in choosing and introducing these works.