Poetry & Prose 2021

Poetry & Prose ~ 2021

Poetry & Prose

2021

Editor Rosie Williams

Illustrator Lucy Huang

With Thanks To Mrs Newsholme

2021

Foreword This year’s Poetry and Prose publication includes a range of pieces from every year group at King’s. It has been lovely to see how many people have taken this opportunity to display their talents and creativity. Despite not being in the physical classroom for much of this year, I am delighted to see how many people found a way to express themselves through their writing. Even though it has been a tricky year, the quality of this collection has not dwindled, and I hope you all enjoy its wonderful variety. The evident flair and skill in each piece is refreshing and remarkable, and everyone who has contributed should be very proud. I’d like to give my thanks to Mrs Newsholme for giving her constant support and time; without her, this collection would not be possible.

Rosie Williams 4

Contents Poetry August Eleventh Bijou Forget

Admiration Ailish Coady

Clementine Breseya Clark

Pluviophiles Mattie Butler

Lockdown Anonymous

Can a person truly know everything? Anonymous

Hope Aiden Masiero

Five Dead Leaves Alexander Lahiri

I am bic Anonymous

Fear Boude Igbokwe

Blessings for Hadassah Medomfo Owusu

This is a sonnet Oscar Colliar

Tunnel Vision Anonymous

Prose Gain and Loss James Woodhouse

Rage Anonymous

Fear Stirling Hampton

The Powerful Weakness of Fear Vera Loika

~ Poetry ~

August Eleventh Y’know I thought it was my fault that I didn’t like flowers. I thought it was a “skill”. A skill that I could improve upon with time and practice. I blamed myself for never liking it. I blamed myself for feeling the way I did… I do. There are no rules to feelings, so, why do I feel so guilty breaking them?

My fault.

Bijou Forget

Admiration To often be a name upon their lips not only when there’s nothing else to share and should they envy things she can’t control, there's nothing that would gratify her more. The tips of her long fingers painted red, she often thinks to when her mother said, Red tells them you are worth their precious thoughts, if blue, you know, they might think you a bore. Her wrists hang bare and meagre as she walks, so desperately begging to be adorned with jewels another bought solely because he hoped she might return his fond survey. She wants to give expecting no return and stare selflessly in adoration, but she accepts for her that just won’t do yet wishes she would think in the right way. It's admiration that she longs for now, as plain and pure content comes madly forth in moments when she feels eyes fixed on her,

while she pretends to be so unaware. She’s drawn in by that intense reverence only if there's no need to reimburse, a bond in which there’s equal give and take may be one thing that she will never share. Ailish Coady

Illustration by Lucy Huang

Clementine

Deja-vu in the mornings, You run from 6:28 ante-meridiem, Bubble gum remembrance. You were always Trouble with double the fun I’m half priced in a candy store, Pull your face from the frame You’ve dragged your feet from where I was, You don’t need me – but want me Wrapper torn. I taste of sour Was a fermenting clementine. Roll me with your tongue You were wine drunk then. Lime and benign Discarded in a jar. Passion past. You never needed me, and moving on Is the sweetest part of this rewinding tape Reduce me to caster sugar. Melted ‘til I’d gone

Breseya Clark

Illustration by Breseya Clark

Pluviophiles Some like the rain. Perhaps too much. It just feels like something you could clutch in your hands, your heart heavy with the water of a hundred lands. A little girl danced before the stars each night, her skin soaking and her eyes bright, fragile fingers twirling as water poured between the creases of her clothes. Palms outstretched towards the sky. How she wished to cry and create a shower of her own. If only then she had known that her love of this rain would not be enough to fix the endless beating of the one encased within. Years later and the rain acts only as a reminder of her Sin, it is beating harsh, petulant. Chilling. It follows her now. She’s a simple experiment. Something pretty. Something sour. Years have passed. She is callous and a coward. A man watches from afar, twisted

by age. He too loved the rain, but today he is afraid. They are haunted together by the shadow of the past. Rain acts with spite as it mocks both their plights, their umbrellas sheltering their hair. They do not care, do not realise they have locked themselves away. Perhaps one day they will confess, and be rid of their mess, and their love of the rain shall return. If only they remembered their previous yearning for the freedom it inspired. The rain is So tired from chasing its forgotten followers. Maliciously it lingers in the air, except for the innocent, who still enjoy the magnificence of the floods the world’s tears wept and washed. Some like the rain. Perhaps too much. They become addicted, warped. Hollow to the touch. They run away; spend their days indoors; fall victim to the wars - lose

themselves to an identity they never sought.

Mattie Butler

Illustration by Bijou Forget

Lockdown And now among this little realm As far as I can see As far as I’m allowed to roam Is all the world to me. We used to rove much farther then Beyond that shining brook Within the hollow of the glen I yearn but may only look. You walked ahead before me then Your coat of blue and grey And turned to glance upon me when Joy prompted you to say: ‘D’you see yon thrush upon that bough? D’you hear his thrilling song?’ That song, like you, has faded now Your smile and he are gone. Your face upon my inward eye Looks grim and bears a frown Oh, hard it is to see you gone! And hard to be locked down! That elm is now my boundary west The east that yellow gorse The park for exercise is best, And then Waitrose of course. Anonymous

Can a person truly know everything? Can a person truly know everything? With the hands of god before their eyes Ignorant of the discomforts That will lead to their demise Live inside this cold, damp prison The end is certainly nigh Struggle outside and struggles within One day like leaves in wind we’ll fly I’m sure of what’s in front of me Though what’s behind me is uncertain One day I will escape this prison Till then, I’ll peak behind the curtain Can only see what’s in front of me I am scared though not alone Through the crackles and the whispers I hate this place, but it’s my dome I’ve no other option but to atone We share the world which we cannot see And Mother Nature we resist her Won’t turn around, scared of debris

Oh, Mother Nature how I miss her I long for things like skies and trees One day, worry not we shall be free Till then, confined within these walls Whether lifetime or eternity Oh, guide us shadows, hear our calls

Anonymous

Hope A fairly small child, Quiet, she keeps to herself, Meek-natured and often pushed around. She enjoys exploring, Often breaking rules and getting caught. She takes the punishment and does it again. Hope doesn’t back down. She loses and loses, Loses and loses, But doesn’t back down. Faith is her best friend, Hardship her father. Trust is her mother, Fear is her brother. She is ruthlessly bullied, Called names and persecuted. Nearly everyone is against her. She has all the worst enemies. Failure wants her head.

Hope is a fairly small child, Quiet, she keeps to herself, Meek-natured and often pushed around. Yet Hope moves mountains, Hope creates kings, Hope forges nations, Hope slays dragons, Hope dooms tyrants. Hope doesn’t die.

Aiden Masiero

Illustration by Breseya Clark

Five Dead Leaves Grey nights draw in Sill bare save for five ships Bereft of their whispering waves To ride, run aground. Their sailing days are done, The first pair blackened, Shrunken, before their time, Stripped of grace befitting them Crumbling to the touch Torn by zephyrs past, their scars still present. In their tree, there is no remembrance. They couldn’t bear their weight, Wind bore them a pittance. The third is a cadaver Larger than its predecessors, Yet only to be rent by nature’s harsher fingers Blackened too, hidden under its sufferance Shared with the others yet flew further and fell harder. It must have danced with others in that sky, Doubtful it flew close, unlikely still it saw notice.

Flakes remain, clinging to the skeleton of what was. The fourth is a tale of two halves Split on its central pillar, the stem-half flakes most Blackened and withered to the shame of the duo, Here it bore its weight and broke. Its end rebukes its beginning, still holding precious green Remnant of its past self, felt so far away And yet it is less blackened, almost sailing a different tide. Wind still ravages at the change of a face, The blink of an eye, the sounding of a note, Yet here it sees its assailant, here it knows. It fell nearest to its asunder and saved from breaking. The fifth’s time is not yet past Green still has a hold, Yet this too is shrunken, Precious growth robbed, it yearns For the winds that bore it, their fingers weaker now than before Yet in that struggle it must have had meaning and direction

Chaos, yet directed. To return to the skies would be its downfall Yet still it yearns. The sky reflects its offerings, And now I cannot see their compatriots. Do they miss them, as their tree does? Do their trees miss each other? What place do five leaves have in a world of a hundred Their tree but one in billions? Time will carry them away again, And there is rejoice amidst despair For five dead leaves hold no imprint on the world that wrought them. More will grow.

Alexander Lahiri

I am bic Whatever made them do this thing? For me To write and speak like this is quite a chore. For Bill to spout like this it seemed easy. For me, I have to say, it’s such a bore. The other Bill just dribbled on about The clouds, the flowers, the mud and turnips sad Far easier, I’d say, but much less clout Perhaps sonnets and that all drove him mad. And Samuel? Well for him just lust and moans A few exotic words and then voila! Porlock, and drugs written in earnest tones How iambic is Abyssinia? On such as day as this one has to try: Scansion is quite a laugh, I can’t deny.

Anonymous

Fear Fear: something that lurks and waits to pounce. A pure kind of evil; a clown, of sorts. Sometimes it can make you laugh and be wowed, but it’s also something to be dreaded, for when it strikes, there is little you can do. Fear is well trained. It’s not just as simple as hitting it away, because it’ll hit you back ten times harder. You can try and run, but you’ll never escape. It will forever be biting at your heels. Sometimes it performs on stage for you. Helps you out; makes you laugh. It encourages, persuades and forces you places, both dark and light. Perhaps it’ll help you say what you’ve been wanting to say, or make you do what you’ve been wanting to do?

There really is no escape. You might think sleeping is an escape, but you’re wrong! Sleeping is the worst, as it slowly tiptoes into your dreams, using all its might to ruin them. Fear is a true kind of evil: pure evil.

Boude Igbokwe

Illustration by Lucy Huang

Blessings for Hadassah May you never forget the ones who raised you in an isolating world. May you always remember that you can be yourself in your birth city. Even when hiding your heritage in order to be accepted presses your mind, may you know that people will always be checking in on you and reminding you of your beautiful heritage. May you never be tempted to pass. May you not simply be known as a myrtle tree or a star, but as both. May you know that God’s beautiful names for you reflect on your multi-layered identity through many seasons of growth. In places haunted and controlled by leaders blinded by supremacy, may you find a safe space amongst get those who can see you, hear you and respect you. When your race and faith are weeping and wailing because of oppression, may your heart be one of love and distress as you seek to be a consoler. May you acknowledge the power of your privilege.

May you acknowledge the beauty of your heritage. May you use your privilege and heritage to be a voice for the voiceless. And when you are terrified of the evils that you face, cry out to Jehovah Jireh. May your internal and external communities rally up behind you and pray for you. May three prayers strengthen you as you pursue justice. May you be filled with wisdom and peace as you initiate the pursuit. And when you expose injustice to higher powers, may you expose it in the way that you’re most comfortable. No one can fight like you. May you know that it is ok to break down and cry as you fight. May the hard hearts of the higher powers soften, and May their eyes see supremacy that oppressed others. May this fuel them with rage against the system, and may they give you sufficient support to fight. May you have a season of success in your battles. May those who oppressed your faith and religion be put to shame.

May the empire pause and see the power of righteousness and justice that you possess. May no one forget your work. May you be celebrated for generations to come. May you always be known as a Myrtle and a star.

Medomfo Owusu

Illustration by Bijou Forget

This is a sonnet

This is a sonnet Because that’s what it is And that’s the truth And this is a sonnet. It has 14 lines A perfect rhyme scheme The subject is romantic And the volta is crisp.

No it’s not it has sixteen lines And no rhyme scheme at all! In fact it doesn’t even have a rhythm. How is this even a poem? It’s a poem because it is And it’s a sonnet. That’s what it is. Italian? English? Doesn’t matter. Anyway, not all sonnets have voltas.

Oscar Colliar

Tunnel Vision And then silence, for the first time in a while No more cries for help or self-loathing My cheeks ache, is this a smile? My soul feels light, as if I’m floating The calm happens both before and after the storm And though it is hard to tell the difference I’m still intact my faith restored I see the sunlight in the distance The sea is a rest for now And the hurricane recently departed I am prepared, secured my bow My ship of hope, my course is charted I’m well equipped for next time And despite my shreds of doubt I am still young I’m in my prime This is my life; I’ll make it count

Anonymous

~ Prose ~

Gain and Loss

Grandmaster Gottfried Von Osten stood on the high hill and looked down into the valley. Another Brother-at-arms was returning triumphant, to lay yet more captured banners at his feet. The Grandmaster had achieved his aim at last, defeated the Pagans in battle and restored the lost glory of his forefathers to Christendom. By the grace of God, the East would be converted to the light, with Gottfried having begun that journey up the narrow way here, on his field of glory. The sun shone high and clear in heaven and blessed his victory with its redeeming light. In turn, Gottfried saw the smoke of pyres in the valley offering up the incense of Christendom’s noble sacrifice. How close he was on that high hill to ascending to the Lord, only bound by his duty on earth and his mortal body! The path for him was now certain – his name was to be forever remembered in the annals of history and the gates to salvation opened wide for him.

To all who saw him, astride his charger and clothed in dazzling white robes and armour, he appeared on that hill as Victory itself, presiding over the battlefield. The brothers of the order gathered around him like a heavenly host and bore trophy upon trophy to his feet. It was as if all glory and men on earth had submitted to the Grandmaster. Not without the help of God himself, however. To show his humility, Gottfried then ordered all soldiers to take mass in thanks of victory. Voices rang out in hymns across the battlefield, but as it dropped into the valley, the sound was distorted into a wail. There, on the other side of the battlefield, a secular knight dragged his dying brother to a pyre. The sun was obscured by the thick black smoke of the fires and he couldn’t see more than a stone’s throw from where he was. A low wail surrounded all the suffering of mankind, clumped in the valley as darkness enclosed it. He set down his brother on the ground. He saw no enemy nor ally among those dying men; he only knew that some victory had been gained. Whether all the glory in the world was worth this cost, the knight was unsure. 39

As a priest approached from afar, his brother began to whimper. The knight turned to listen to him. ‘…Will I ever see the Sun again?’ ‘No.’ ‘Am I going to heaven?’ ‘I…don’t know.’ He looked to the priest; the grim, uncaring face refrained from telling him as it recited chunks of Latin like a stone. The knight himself had never learned much of heaven, so his brother would go unanswered. Only now did he even notice he was drenched in blood; whose blood it was would never be answered, and he had no will left to remove his surcoat anyway. His brother breathed no longer. The pyre beckoned. Why must he now cast his brother into the fire? Was that his soul’s fate? Where was God in all this hell? 40

It didn’t matter. Of that battlefield he only remembered sending his own brother away into the flames.

James Woodhouse

Rage

The sands lay under the sickle-like moon, parted by a roaring flow of flames. There, on a twisted hunk of steel, perched a hooded figure, warped and twisted from the stifling warmth that pounded it into unwanted shapes against the anvil that was life. It watched the dead tree burst into flame. The being found the crackling wood soothing, as life blackened on the riverbank. A sharp crack sounded behind it, and the creature whipped around. You could almost see a malicious glint in the violet, soulless orbs that were meant to be eyes, but which were smothered in ice. Even the air seemed to freeze under the frigid gaze. The withering stare landed on a small girl’s eyes, too knowing for her stature. She whispered in a hoarse voice, as if she had screamed till her throat was raw: “Easy to hate what you cannot have, isn’t it?” 42

The creature curled its lip and slowly, agonisingly slowly, tilted its head, almost catlike. “Why disturb me? Why come to my domain? Why do you feel the need to intrude into my life?” It spat every word as if it were bile upon its tongue. The girl flinched as if the words were blows, each one crushing her spirit, each one worse than the last. She turned and fled, the wrenching sobs that wracked her body echoing past the horizon. The creature observed the dim silhouette and felt that something was gnawing at it. A ferret was nibbling on its foot, but it felt nothing. It was nothing compared to the strange feeling consuming it from the inside out. It shook, shook as the feeling speared through its veins. It sank to its knees from the writhing thing under its skin. Why, it thought. Inside its shattered excuse for a heart, it knew though. It knew and hated it. Hated what it had done. Hated the world for bringing that pest to its doorstep. The hate scorched its veins, burning out the mysterious poison. And it burned. It pleaded with any gods that were listening to stop the blinding agony. 43

But none would answer, and it would hate them too. In a flurry of rage, the being tossed its metal seat into the earth’s lifeblood, laughing maniacally as the blaze morphed into anything and everything that it hated. It wanted them to burn for what they had done. To burn like itself. When the storm of flame and shrieking steel died, the creature began to see. And all it could see was the destruction wreaked upon the metal, and what the anger had done. It was fuel, and a curse.

Anonymous

Illustration by Lucy Huang

Fear The crouching boy hides in the corner; his legs shiver as the cold breeze passes over him. Floorboards creek around the room as the dark, ominous shadows creep across the damp and dilapidated walls, growing ever darker. The boy spots these creatures of the darkness and shifts his weight, paranoid about what might happen if they come closer. His eyes are bloodshot from days of no sleep, staying up and keeping watch in case anything pounces. The clothes on his back are more holes than cloth and are three sizes too small. This makes his chest cold to the touch, hard as stone, his lungs like heavy weights. Clouds of breath come out of his mouth in short wheezes, his throat croaks and aches with the pain of cold air, a constant strain on his lungs. A cockroach crawls onto his bare feet, scavenging for food that is not there, food that has never been there for this malnourished boy.

The stockpile of preparation has been eaten and now all that is left is fear of starvation. But that’s not the only fear of this boy. His whole world is filled with fear: fear of the shadows, fear of the cold, and the inevitable, ever-present fear of death.

Stirling Hampton

The Powerful Weakness of Fear He woke up with a sudden start, possessed by a feeling of petrifying anxiety, disproportionate to the nature of the worry. He thought he had missed his alarm clock going off. After checking the time, a smooth wave of warm relief consumed his whole body, making him shiver. Nevertheless, his heartbeat was still agitated. Fear brought his body to an upright position, putting his feet on the floor one by one. His dark hair was fluffed after restless sleep. His tired, red eyes were penetrating and cold, as if made of glass. He had regular facial features atop a figure that was quite tall and thin, with angular joints. Suddenly, one was struck by the realisation that he was, in fact, quite handsome. Nevertheless, no one would call him attractive; his mannerisms, facial expressions, and sagging posture all created a sense of unwelcoming closedness that would never permit it.

From the first glance he seemed committed and rational - a perfect example of conservative masculinity. But that was all superficial. If one looked closely enough, one could notice his little nervous ticks and anxious glances, as of a teenager who, after shoplifting in a local grocery store, imagines himself a conspiring criminal, scrutinised by every passer-by. Fear himself was conscious of such peculiarities of his own character and therefore considered them controllable and thus unimportant. Their root, however, lay in nothing other than the knowledge of their essence that Fear possessed. Fear knew everything about himself. He was always scared, for he knew everything about what being scared is. And, since it has been known for millennia that the more one knows the less one understands, Fear always lived with a constant and imperishable feeling of despair. His view of life was very fatalistic; for him, as long as an individual human being was

inevitably mortal, it was never alive. Fear was born a dead man. The only thing that motivated him to put his shirt and trousers on this morning after having brushed his teeth and washed his face, was the idea of the importance of his unique mind. He was delighted with the thought that everything in the world acquired meaning only after it had been subjected to human intelligence. Therefore, he, being human, was not a dead man. He was omnipotent. There was a word in epistemology for that, but Fear forgot what it was. Although, in all fairness, neither did he care. With this narcissistic attitude he resumed his life. The man that could not even sleep peacefully at night-time, lived in a world of his own delusions and pretended that he was the centre of the universe during the day.

Vera Loika

All donations from this publication will go to the chosen King’s Week charity 52

Poetry & Prose 2021

Articles inside

Fear

The Powerful Weakness of Fear

Blessings for Hadassah

Gain and Loss

Rage

Tunnel Vision

Five Dead Leaves

Can a person truly know everything?

This is a sonnet

Clementine

Admiration

Pluviophiles

Fear

Lockdown