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- Edwins Restaurant Best Caribbean Feast in Canada -- Sanita John, 09:34:45 03/13/12 Tue
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- Digging my way through a mountain with a spoon -- A nony mous(e), 11:08:14 04/28/02 Sun
An expanse of blinding white
And then
There’s a dark mark
A black streak
It changes
A shadow forms
Deep inside
Behind my eyes
Piercing my soul
Striking it to the floor
Hear its silent screams
No one knows
But its there
Destroying slowly
Painfully
You deceive yourself
It’s not real
It will go away
It is persistent
It grows steadily with
Evil precision
Filling every dusty corner
Of my mind
What was a fluke
Becomes reality
You have to face it
Why me
Why me, you cry
It’s too late now
Too late
There’s no turning back
There’s no time
To right the wrongs
To deceive yourself once more
No one can help you now
No one wants to anyway
No use of crying
for help
It’s your own fault
All lost
All pain
No gain
Too late
Too bad
You failed.
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- In my english writing class we had to pic a photograph from a bunch of portraits and write a paragraph on it. this is actually not mine or anyone from my class but an old student of my teachers. even though it was a first draft i was actually very impressed. maybe its because i'd seen the photo but i dont think that matters. i really like some of the descriptions in this if not just the way it flows to describe the guy on the whole. -- Zeina, 00:19:24 09/20/01 Thu
Manuel Heredia, Prisoner
A glowing image of Jesus fills the pores on Manuel Heredia's chest. Framed by roses, harp-playing cherubs, and an unbuttoned, stained white shirt, the tattoo has long, flowing hair, a full beard of Heredia's chest hairs, and a crown of thorns. The eyes of jesus look lovingly upwards to the face of heredia. Cropped, receding black hair with occasional strands of gray and the hint of a beard from the prisoner's face. The lips of his closed mouth do not symmetrically join; his nose is crooked as well. One eye, punctuated by a raised eyebrow, is open wide. The other, with a lowered eyebrow, squints. Both stare piercingly straight ahead. From the eyes on Heredia's chest flow tears of blood. They run down his chest, trickling into a sickly light-brown, puckered scar that runs from the bottom of his chest to the top of his unbuttoned, tattered, white prisoner's pants. The scar is one of the many decorating his torso, from the tan gashes on his abdomen to the green pinpricks on his chest.
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- trying for a general onomatopoeiac effect -- luke, 18:04:47 06/01/01 Fri
High in bursting air belches
Twist. A boneless wing flies fierce
Liquid arrow swims with break
Neck quickness, circling brightly
Flashing gold into glass eyes
Silence in its gleaming wake
Then the click of gravity
Kicks. Distant roar of earth and sky
The piercing bolt leaves ringing
Keenly in a skull. Shrieking
Shards. Bleed. Blazing red. Ruby
Beads hang snaking, a necklace
For the dazzling sun. Flesh streams.
Folds and folds of wind packed surge
Pound and swallow. Plunging dead.
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Replies:
- Bear with me its the best i could do in the meantime -- james, 21:46:00 08/15/01 Wed
ok ive come to the scary conclusion that i cant write any more but to rage against this i have decided to not write poetry well rather than massacre perfectly good prose...
Its twelve O’ clock, time for bed, I need a place to rest my head.
Hold my hand and tuck me in, now I miss the little things,
Scare the sounds out of the dark, now I’ve run so very far.
whisper, soothe, Snicker, Sneer,
wipe away my wicked cheer,
I will do just as I’m told,
Stay with me and don’t get old.
smiling, swearing, bearing, hear,
you’re lonely now and over fussed,
blanket me from the cold,
before they take your shattered husk.
I look up at pointy stars, hidden from my bodies’ scars,
Dig deep the heart, from my chest, mother always knows what’s best.
Its twelve O’ clock, time for bed, I need a place to rest my dead.
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Replies:
- i quite like this and find it interesting but dont really understand it too well at all of the times. some of the rhyme is really too forced. i HATE 'fussed... husk' and dont much like 'hear'... 'blanket me from the cold doesn't bother me at all though. (NT) -- zeina, 04:43:05 08/19/01 Sun
- i quite like the use of 'dead' at the end. it kind of throws you off because of your deliberately child-poem type rhthytm thing goign you just expect it to be 'head' and 'dead' is nicely disturbing :) but again i have no idea what the whole thing means so i'm not sure if 'dead' really is appropriate. but i like the kind of spooky feel it gives to the whole thing. personally i'm ditching poetry for a while and will go back to prose... you'll see in my next one (NT) -- zeina, 04:44:58 08/19/01 Sun
- really quite funky. The first line of the third stanza isn't so good but good enough to fit and better that you keep up the pattern. The last line might be pushing it. I think 'shattered husk' was enough of a shocker that the other shock in the last line was unneeded but it rhymes so hey whatever. i know I said all this before. (NT) -- luke, 17:00:49 08/21/01 Tue
- It's possible you didn't intend it but the partial rhyme in the second and third lines makes them sound more relaxed than the corresponding lines in the last stanza. It works (NT) -- luke, 17:20:00 08/21/01 Tue
- in years to come this will be one of those poems you wish violently you hadn't written...:) hand on my heart, james, i know perfectly well that you are entirely capable of writing good poetry, and if you are going through a dry patch with the prose, don't worry, it happens to us all - i once went two and a half years without writing a word, and convinced myself it was lost for good. it never is. this, though, is, er, not good - go back to writing prose...:) (NT) -- si, 23:42:13 09/02/01 Sun
- a little story. zeina goes back to prose for a bit. sorry its so damn long. -- zeina, 04:53:08 08/19/01 Sun
She bit her clenched fist at the knuckles while her other hand passionately squeezed her hair at the back of her head. Playful curls fell over her face. Her eyes looked dreadfully frightened.
"Babe, are ya alright?"
She blinked and her eyes scanned the floor in quick paces. She removed her hand from her mouth and bit her lower lip. Her lipstick was very red and, of course, untouched. Her shapely eyes looked up at him.
"Yeah I guess I'm ok. I was just..."
She coughed and looked straight into his eyes.
"...so scared. And I was so.... so worried. And, and I thought I was going to die and then, and then and then... you were there and... oh mister officer you saved my life!"
Her mouth opened wide on the 'oh', and her nostrils flared elegantly on 'officer'. He brushed back a curl on her face and tucked it behind her ear. Faint piano sounds began.
"A pretty thin like you shouldin have to see a awful thin like this. Let me take you home."
She coughed again and he put his jacket around her shoulders. The music began to fade as they walked through the underground parking lot, their bodies getting smaller on the screen.
"ARE YOU SICK AND TIRED OF GRASS STAINS? WELL YOU..."
I muted the television and watched the blonde with an aged face, widened eyes and wrinkled neck squeeze a bottle of detergent to her breasts, looking disturbingly happy at the camera. I rubbed my eyes with both hands and then my temples and ran my fingers through my hair over my scalp. My body felt sore and I let it lay, broken, back into the couch. I needed a drink. On the floor under the curtains I could see that the day was bright. The carpet looked warm, there. I itched my left ankle through my socks with my right toe, through a hole in my sock. The toe stuck right out of the sock.
The doorbell rang and when I opened the door the light was even whiter. I had to squint. There she was standing with light blue jean shorts on and a navy blue tank top. She wore running shoes and there was an ankle chain on her smooth ankles. Her hair looked so fresh. In one hand she held the dog chain and her little dog tried to sniff my feet. She tried hard not to look at my socks. She put her sunglasses on her forehead as she looked at me in the shade of my door. Her eyes seemed so clean. They didn't look directly at me. Her other hand held a small bag neatly wrapping a book. Her presence made me wish I had shaved, though in the past it had always made me look older, more mature.
"Hello Jonathon. I didn't wake you up, did I?"
I told her she had not and that I had been up for a while. I had been sorting things out, I told her. I was smiling. She did not know where to look. She smiled weakly.
"Well I was just walking Billy (wasn't I, precious... yes I was) um, yeah, and I had promised your brother I'd drop off this book."
She smiled genuinely.
"He said that if I REALLY did drop it off then he REALLY would read it."
She giggled. I smiled stronger. She stopped smiling. Her focus began to scatter again as she dropped her eyes to the ground. Billy yelped. I could feel the sun on my t-shirt. She shuffled her feet, her hand still holding out the bag. When I took it she used her hand to put her sunglasses back on the bridge of her nose. I didn't want her to go.
"Do you want to come in?"
"No."
"I could get you a drink."
"No I really ought to get going. Billy needs to be walked."
"Billy want a drink?"
I smiled, but she did not. Billy was sniffing something in the grass and the chain was extended. She was ready to go.
"Don't forget to give him the book"
"I won't."
"Goodbye Jonathon"
She left the path slightly jogging and talking to Billy, who was at full sprint. Her hair tossed about and she did not look back. I closed my door and my eyes adjusted to the darkness in the room. I put the bag with the book on the counter. The Southern cop and the Latin waitress were back on the television, in bed. She was wearing his policeman hat on her wild and coloured hair. She looked like she was moaning. I unmuted the television. She was moaning.
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Replies:
- I feel very embarrassed putting this up especially with the stupid 'pee' rhyme but it's the only thing I've managed to finish -- luke, 17:16:16 08/21/01 Tue
Give me your hand, don't be shy.
Sorry mine's sweaty, please don't cry.
Give back my hand, you wicked thing.
I know your plans, you can't fool me.
What words are these? How rude! My my!
I'm railed on so and don't know why.
Stay right back or I swear I'll scream.
I've heard of you , you beast, you fiend!
Now now, be calm. My help's for free.
I'll help you cross. It's safer you see.
Take that! My spit upon your shoe.
You swine, that's what I think of you.
To help you here, I tried my best
And this is all the thanks I get.
It serves you right for scaring me.
You are lucky it was not pee.
Poor boy, you've made me angry now.
I'll get you back and I know how.
Hands off! Oh please, just let me be.
they'll hunt you down. My daddy he_
Scream all you like, it's an empty street.
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Replies:
- i thought i'd decapitalise this one. suits it more i think..... i really ought to get over beaches and moon light though.... -- zeina, 11:13:08 06/17/01 Sun
we're lying together, under the moon,
so close i try and listen to your heart-
it's a lullaby, though i can't hear it.
under the moon-light your lips are ivory
and in the creases and in the lines soft
shades of lilac, darkened in the centre.
your silver hair against the sand is soft,
so soft; like your white shirt, so soft, like your
taupe skin, soft and creamier in the light.
I drown in your eyes, clean and shiny and
you look back, vacantly, half smiling, maybe.
i want to kiss your lips and make them breathe.
but my blood is magenta, my eyes are
fuchsia and lips turquoise, dipped in maroon.
your coolness leaves no room for me.
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Replies:
- eeeek. i see a capital! (NT) -- z, 11:18:22 06/17/01 Sun
- hmmm... don't like this as much as your last couple, it's a bit too... i don't know, actually. uneventful. lacking bite. i quite like 'shades of lilac' and 'my blood is magenta', but they don't really go anywhere... i don't think the repetition of 'soft' works, and i don't think that 'so' works as a qualifier unless you make it the beginning of a comparative phrase. your last line is intriguing, but again is not really connected to anything else... (NT) -- si, 18:22:20 06/18/01 Mon
- I like the contrast of the colours and shades. I also think that the last line only helps to emphasise the incompatability of the characters. I have to admit that the soft thing is a little overused. (NT) -- james, 21:51:36 08/15/01 Wed
- Mostly I don't like this. The whole poem seems too easily summarised by the first line. 'Darkened in the centre' has similar effect (on me) to 'salty residue', too precise perhaps. In the third stanza she sounds very carried away, like she's drunk or having a breakdown of some kind. This is interesting in the way it succeeds more in describing the narrator than in describing the other person. I'm left wondering about the mental state of someone who thinks of their eyes as fuchsia. (NT) -- luke, 17:40:14 08/21/01 Tue
- If they are incompatible it is because the other character may be perfectly sane and does not see things so strangely. (NT) -- luke, 17:41:55 08/21/01 Tue
- your clue: one of the greatest books ever written -- si, 19:44:58 06/11/01 Mon
'Every transition from major to minor in a sonata, every transformation of a myth or a religious cult, every classical or artistic formulation was, I realized in that flashing moment, if seen with truly a meditative mind, nothing but a direct route into the interior of the cosmic mystery, where in the alternation between inhaling and exhaling, between heaven and earth, between Yin and Yang holiness is forever being created.'
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Replies:
- moon tiger, penelope lively. i cant remember ever reading something that read like this in the tale but i can easily picture it fitting into some of the sections, for some reason..... and also i know you think its 'one of the greatest books ever written' and i cant believe thatb is a hint - how vague! (NT) -- zeina, 05:56:08 06/12/01 Tue
- sounds like something de berniere would probablt get a character of his to say, actually but i doubt you'd pick that as the 'greatest' book ever. longer sentences remind me of unmodern but conext seems modernish. i have no idea. whenever i see yin and yang i think of zen and the art of motorcycle maintenence so i cant think. anyway. you didn't give a second hint after i'd guessed. now you owe two hints... (NT) -- zeina, 11:09:32 06/17/01 Sun
- soul mountain? (NT) -- tim, 12:57:29 06/17/01 Sun
- you dont consider 'a prayer for owen meany' the greatest book, right? (NT) -- zee, 17:17:44 06/17/01 Sun
- all 'no' so far - if you think this is from zen and the art, you can't have read the book... and how you could possibly have thought de bolloxiere could write something as elegant as this... next clue - 20th century. (NT) -- si, 18:28:43 06/18/01 Mon
- no rhyme poem! -- tim, 18:57:19 06/08/01 Fri
Morning love
The sky is drunk
And collapsing on the shoulder
Of the sun.
I am tired
Hugging linen by the fire
That your body has become.
The sun comes
Knocking at our door
Peeking through the keyhole
We don't get up
To let him in
So he sneaks through the window instead
One hesitant leg
After another after another…
Stepping softly on the roughed-up carpet.
You squint at his intrusion
Evil eye.
And collapse back to bed in surrender.
But I am already dressing in his
Cold blue light.
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Replies:
- new quote -- tim, 16:27:32 05/26/01 Sat
Oskar had a whole minute in which to study the moon with impunity, to look for a solution among the craters, to reconsider his idea of stepping into Christ's shoes. This green light talk was not to my liking, and I was certainly not going to let any half baked hoodlums put me on a schedule. I waited about thirty seconds; then Oskar said: "I am Jesus."
What happened next was quite good, though I can't say that I planned it. Immediately after my second announcement that I was Jesus, before Störtebeker could snap his fingers or Firestealer could dust, the air raid sirens let loose.
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Replies:
- Philip Pullman? with the fanasy - religion stuff. I've never read any of his stuff, so I don't kow if the style's similar (NT) -- luke, 09:31:19 05/27/01 Sun
- Christopher Reich, The Runner? (NT) -- maggie, 13:07:58 05/27/01 Sun
- sorry people... this will actually be quite tricky now that I think about it. I may have to give you a bit of a hint... if you want! (NT) -- tim, 14:07:57 05/27/01 Sun
- Martin Amis? "impunity" I don't understand whether the narrator is Oskar or if both of them are claiming to be Jesus. (NT) -- luke, 09:39:25 05/28/01 Mon
- Oskar, Jesus and the narrator are all the same... and to give you a big hint this book was not written in english originally. (NT) -- tim, 11:58:13 05/28/01 Mon
- is it a german world war writer? (NT) -- zeina, 16:36:12 05/28/01 Mon
- nope, the writer is german, but he is a post-war writer (NT) -- tim, 13:27:00 05/29/01 Tue
- at first i was thinking it might just be a kurt vonnegut that i hadn't read (which was a worrying thought) - but after your generous clues, and some faint, more-than-a-decade-old memories, i think this has to be 'the tin drum' by guenter grass? (NT) -- si, 19:46:49 06/03/01 Sun
- playing with haikus a bit..... -- Zeina Muna, 18:12:48 05/07/01 Mon
Hiding my smile, like
Swallowing a strawberry
I look at you, dear.
You direct me so
Politely, your head holds a
Crown. I sway gently.
Suddenly, dear, time
Stops forever, and my arms
Open like blown curtains-
You crawl over the
Balcony, with kisses and
Rhyme on your skewed lips.
But, I'll only kiss
Back, dear, when you leave your crown
Outside, to rattle.
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Replies:
- ok i actually dont mind this so much unless i try to force your ideas upon it. The nasty strawberry thing is pretty good with the swallowing something stereotpically sweet. The 'dear' is incredibly patronising (i feel) and really helps. I like how it is degrading to the other person, that he has to leave his pride at the door. (NT) -- james, 21:28:00 05/24/01 Thu
- ok now then, skewed lips just seems ugly and awkward. Arms like blown curtains is too hard to picture nad really distant from everything else. It helps set the scene but little else. I like the idea of the person being in control when he is directing her. Just the politely ruins it there and seems really weak compared tot he overall patronising, controlling tone. Dont understand why its in haikus either. (NT) -- james, 21:29:17 05/24/01 Thu
- Why the form? Not just bitter, but insane and horrid. Quite good but I hate seeing this every time I come on the board. The images work well; strawberry, curtains, crown. (NT) -- luke, 07:50:06 05/25/01 Fri
- Re: playing with haikus a bit..... -- tim, 12:31:02 05/25/01 Fri
- Being highly rebellious by expanding on the haiku so. They are normally just the one image, looked at in isolation. Your stanzas basically work like that, existing as individual images. Then the way they are linked together as stanzas and with "dear" and (NT) -- luke, 18:23:36 05/31/01 Thu
- ... and "crown" being repeated, and at the same time being a bit disconnected, makes it sound highly disturbed and crazy. The relationship seems disgusting; the third stanza is a horrible image, limp and dead, while sounding nice. (NT) -- luke, 18:26:17 05/31/01 Thu
- How can you crawl over a balcony? I don't understand. And the last stanza makes it worse, the way she sounds so smug and victorious, thinks she is in control, when she obviously isn't, swaying, with no control over her limbs. (NT) -- luke, 18:27:28 05/31/01 Thu
- I like it, the use of the word dear is good, it does link the stazas together although i don't like the second one it doesn't work, it is as if you threw it in and is not needed, i've never seen someone smile like they are swallowing a strawberry... but i love the last line the power that has been created works really well (NT) -- mags, 16:08:37 06/01/01 Fri
- actually, luke, this is a fairly standard approach to haiku writing - in fact, the individual haiku on its own is more of an historical oddity. haikus used to be given to hosts by guests, and it would be expected that they would themselves add two further lines (of 7 syllables each) to form a tanka, which became the shared experience of the visit. and even discounting that, the haiku is often used in series, as zeina has done rather elegantly here. (NT) -- si, 19:30:06 06/05/01 Tue
- more rhymey poems (forgive all these poems, nut I have a backlog of about a years writing no one has ever seen) -- tim, 13:16:05 05/25/01 Fri
Your magnificence
Again I'll taste a dream of you tonight
And heavy headed wake up with the light
To think of you is coal and steam
That ploughs me through the day so green
My soul has jealous hills of those with you
who daily taste and love your tissue
They wake with you not in their head
And thus where you beauty lives,
Your magnificence is somehow dead?
-----------------------------------
Dusk pt 2
Yellow, neon and high rise grey
The steps fade to sirens
As the New York night
Swallows New York day
The shadow
Purple robe wrapped in electric blue light
And the stars are poles idling in the night
As we ascend them, only you and I
To take our place atop the sky
And we warm each other softly there
So we can hide in shadow from daylights stare
And make our own selves live
Off only what we each can give
That soon enough we'll chase the day
And our light shall melt the sun away.
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Replies:
- Your magnificence: I like the first four lines a lot, the third line made me want to write a poem myself. I can't get passed "jealous hills" - a perplexing image. The rhyme works apart from "tissue" which I think has the wrong stress, I could be wrong. t (NT) -- luke, 16:27:08 05/26/01 Sat
- ...be wrong. the change of rhyme in the last threes lines is good too, slows it for a conclusion. I'd be interested to know whether you (or si for that matter) hated the rhyme in my unfinished piece as much as Zeina Muna and James Barbour did. (NT) -- luke, 16:28:18 05/26/01 Sat
- The Shadow: I quite like this, especially the second line. This has a really good soft, steady pace, rhythm. It makes me want to patronise you, though, and maybe you didn't intend that. (NT) -- luke, 16:36:25 05/26/01 Sat
- Your Magnificance: I liked it the rhyming throughout most of it works really well which is quite an acomplishment. I'm not sure about the green day or is that meant to be about the jealousy becasue then is that cliched. Tissue also seems to be a bit out not becasue of the rhyming just the actual word. I like the last line, although mow i think about it the fact that it is Your Magnificance for some reason makes it sound like mocking some royalty or an animal, maybe thats just me. (NT) -- maggie, 13:38:54 05/27/01 Sun
- Dusk pt 2: yep i liked this too. You seem to have got everything into those few lines. What was the pt 2 for out of cuirosity? (please excuse the spelling). Nothing else to say, perfect! (NT) -- meg, 13:42:17 05/27/01 Sun
- Hum, It seems as if you have tried to squish too much into it and it appears a little jumbled up (before si says it, probably more like the confusion my stuff ends up in. I don't like the purple and the electric blue together but then that could just be me thinking there is a colour clash. My favourtie lines are the third and fourth and the last two. These seem to come together and compliment each other although then i'm not sure they go with the title. (NT) -- mags, 13:48:49 05/27/01 Sun
- there is a dusk part 1. not so good though, its a contrast to the inner city dusk... I'll stick it up, but I think pt 2 is far better. Thanks for all the criticisms and critiques by the way, its helping lots! (NT) -- tim, 19:01:57 05/27/01 Sun
- to be honest, tim (although there are some good moments in these), i think you would benefit from writing without rhyme for a while. many of these rhymes are forcing you into old-fashioned grammatical structures which stop your poems from sounding natural. (NT) -- si, 19:40:53 06/05/01 Tue
- spot the quote 3. Since that one was so easy, here's another -- luke, 16:04:44 05/26/01 Sat
My eyes are closed. We breathe warmly into each other's mouth. Close together, America three thousand miles away. I never want to see it again. To have her here in bed with me, breathing on me, her hair in my mouth - I count that as something of a miricle. Nothing can happen now till morning....
I wake from a deep slumber to look at her. A pale light is trickling in. I look at her beautiful wild hair. I feel something crawling down my neck. I look at her again, closely. Her hair is alive. I pull back the sheet - more of them. They are swarming over the pillow.
It is a little after daybreak. We pack hurriedly and sneak out of the hotel. The cafes are still closed. We walk, and as we walk we scratch ourselves. The day opens in milky whiteness, streaks of salmon-pink sky, snails leaving their shells.
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Replies:
- well you're all bloody wrong so far, then, aren't you? if you make intellligent guesses and tell me
WHY you think you might be right, i will respond by giving clues... and if you DON'T, i will respond by (NT) -- luke, 18:31:54 05/31/01 Thu
- no, no, luke, you only get to post a new quote when you answer one correctly - so until tim's quote is spotted, you can't have another go. play by the rules. (NT) -- si, 19:48:05 06/03/01 Sun
- a couple of happy haikus -- luke, 09:48:28 05/31/01 Thu
Your eyes on me, I
Bathe in blue, Can't breathe for fear
Of breaking the spell.
Snuggle soft in arms
Breathe sweetly wrapped, a bundle,
Cannot help but smile.
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- experimenting with a very very annoying form (sestina) -- luke, 09:45:33 05/31/01 Thu
A minute or two ago he left the house.
Eyed the cat with its head in a bowl of cream.
It didn't look up as he passed, thinking
Calmly, dreamily about a girl.
He's in a cotton shirt and wearing jeans, blue,
Old, faded about the knees, pockets empty.
It is a warm day, but breezy. Empty
Streets stretch out ahead of him. His walled house,
Built with rich red bricks, sits solid, the blue
Sky reflecting brightly from the windows. Cream
Coloured curtains are still drawn. Soon a girl
Will rise, open them all, sleepy eyed, thinking.
She will rustle down the stairs, thinking
About breakfast, then wonder at how empty
The house is. Calling for “David,” the girl
Will run her hands through her soft, wild hair. The house
Is opening to the light that paints cream
Over the silent walls. Under the blue
Sky, David walks on. Before crossing, his blue
Eyes scan the quiet road. He is thinking
About the cat, fat and ginger, the cream
Will all be gone now, the plastic bowl empty.
Not wishing to wake anyone, he left the house
Quietly, shopping secretly for the girl
He is her little knight, beloved of the girl
That kisses his forehead, tucks him in with blue
Blankets, races him on the rocking horse.
The baker, fat and ginger, watches David thinking
About scones. There’s a problem. His pockets empty.
No money, so no scones, no muffins, no cream.
Hell. His sister loves eclairs stuffed with cream.
He was looking forward to seeing the girl’s
Eager, grateful face. Now he must return empty
Handed. Defeated, he backs out through the blue
Door and turns to walk home, cursing and thinking
What a stupid little boy he is. Back at the house
His sister is cross, pacing the house, the creamy-
Lipped cat is thinking of nothing. Out of the blue
Tearful brother falls into the empty arms of his girl.
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- Not finished and not likely to be -- luke, 16:37:06 04/02/01 Mon
Grunting, she bound my hands behind the chair
I thought her silly but began to scare
At the thread, gold and light and silky strong
She'd seemed just a child before, was I wrong?
For though her boy was still small and weak,
Sat light on my lap, eyes timid and meek,
Spit frothed hot at her pink lips and I felt
Rough hands grip mine. Then with my hands so held
She teased me, tickling, hands dainty again.
I laughed, nervous, but no longer in pain
She laughed too but she didn't let me go
I asked her nicely but she still said no.
We sat silently, when it grew colder
Softly resting her head on my shoulder.
Night rushed over without any warning.
The wind grew stronger, drumming and moaning,
Making dark waves through the grass running
Under the chair on which we sat, bending
Backwards the blades and numbing my face
In the cold night her little body's place
Was that of a hot water bottle as
My head nodded forward and…
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Replies:
- your sentence structures and stress patterns and lala all seem to be really good but sometimes (and i know i'm really not one to talk) the rhyme is just a wee bit forced. i dont lik e'was i wrong?' and also the bunch of lines all ending with 'ing' - 'warning.. moaning.. running.. bending' its also in too much of a conversational tone to really make it seem threatening, which it seems to sort of be. hmm let me try that again - the tone and style doesn't seem to reflect content (for me at least) (NT) -- zeina, 18:20:16 04/25/01 Wed
- I doubt you could have said worse while trying to force the rhyme here. the 'was i wrong?' and the 'silly' bits really ruin it. other than that it is good. Just a bit odd overall (NT) -- james, 16:30:31 04/30/01 Mon
- I think the was I wrong could be a truning point and indeed the "best part" of the poem, perhaps if it was the only rhyming couplet, or if it was one of only a few. Makes thing stand out. Overall the poem is playful, which I am not sure it is intended to be? (NT) -- tim, 18:33:14 05/26/01 Sat
- I like the idea, and the rhyming helps to show us that there is a bit of a fun side to the poem, despite its potentially macabre undertones. Makes for interesting reading, though I think the rhyming is best used reservedly, to mark turning points in the poem perhaps?? PS congrats on the poetry win! (NT) -- tim, 18:36:51 05/26/01 Sat
- Some of your language is exceltent but it is undermined by the rhyming. It looses the threat created with the imagery, if it is your intention to make it appear light and amusing while being threatening all at once then it worked but i have to agree with zeina about the whole 'was i wrong?' however, i don't think this was the worse line, that was, the scare rhyming with chair. (NT) -- meg, 13:23:42 05/27/01 Sun
- READ THIS ONE FIRST MY PICKY COMPUTER WOULDN'T LET ME PRINT IT ALL AT ONCE! Interesting. There are lots of things here which i do and don't like. I like the gold and light thread although I'm not sure it would be tying someones hands together. My favortie bit is the way the grass runs in dark waves. (NT) -- MARGARET, 13:28:33 05/27/01 Sun
- the rhyme was intended to make it lighter and magical and mocking and to reflect the way he is scared but also kind of enjoying himself and the way the child is playing a game and should be innocent. Maybe I'll try to finish it. (NT) -- luke, 09:45:28 05/28/01 Mon
- the missing dusk pt 1 -- tim, 19:06:34 05/27/01 Sun
Dusk
Tips of the trees aflame
From the torch of the afternoon sun
As I split into two, away from the water
And the free embers dance my way from the fire
Now
The tips of my shoes
Confuse the pale dusklight hues
As they touch the mirror plane water
And the ripples become and the stars steal the sun
As the night is ushered to power.
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- I finally came on the message board, can you tell. Anyway i wish i hadn't becasue I'll be here to Christmas trying to write and reply, so please forgive me if it takes me forever but Un Shallah i will reply to them all. P.s if it does take me to christmas then it is probably a good sign as it means i did take time off to revise for my a levels and that i got into uni (i won't have time to write immediatly!) -- mags, 13:05:55 05/27/01 Sun
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- spot the quote 2 -- luke, 20:27:12 05/24/01 Thu
"He made an advance you mean?" I said. Advance? Well what other word could I have used?
Matthew nodded, looked away and out it all came in a hot, indignant tumble. "I told him to leave me alone and he called me a tart. He said everyone could see the way I played up to certain pollies and to people like you who I was always hanging around with. He said I was a prettyboy pricktease."
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Replies:
- This is the whole quote -- luke, 20:38:30 05/24/01 Thu
- the fairly casual use of the word 'fuck' suggests the 1980s at earliest, the background appears to be a boarding school, probably in the uk; homosexuality as an overt theme would again point to a compartively recent publication. it's definitely not something i've read, though, so i'm stuck for names. anyone? (NT) -- si, 10:55:23 05/25/01 Fri
- you or george. prettyboy pricktease? seems very you mocking george or george mocking you. i have absolutely no justification other than those two words. (NT) -- zeina, 12:42:30 05/25/01 Fri
- may sound a bit stupid... but its not Stephen Fry is it? (NT) -- tim, 19:14:29 05/25/01 Fri
- Re: spot the quote 2... I have to put up the new quote do I not? (NT) -- tim, 12:12:00 05/26/01 Sat
- How did you know? Have you read it? (NT) -- luke, 16:38:15 05/26/01 Sat
- Luke, I dunno, I read "The Liar" but I can't remember if it was from that or if I was just keyed on by the similarity of language and Mr. Jones' homosexuality / boarding school inferences. GOod book though. Funny, and a good twist at the end. Very good. (NT) -- tim, 18:16:10 05/26/01 Sat
- I liked animals -- luke, 04:48:19 05/01/01 Tue
I liked animals,
The way they run and scamper,
Dip their noses into things
And eat things.
At night
The hedgehog rumbled softly over the dark prickly lawn
Often pausing in the middle
Before continuing to the other side.
I was at my window, watching, on cold tiptoes
The black fuzzball below, breathing quickly as it belted across
Towards something, away from something more likely
Something imaginary perhaps.
Sometimes it didn’t appear
Baby’s busy in some other darkness
And then I didn’t sleep so well
Waited a while, forehead pressed to the cold glass,
Breath misting it, obscuring my view of the empty garden.
I saw it again
The day before my birthday
In the garden
In the bright sunny day.
It had been there a while
Tucked away discreetly
Away from the lawn
Screened by nettles
In the cold dusty shadow of the shed,
Where I used to hide, before.
I crouched there, oblivious
To its quiet presence
A fly landing on my hand
And I glance down to my left
Only an inch or two away
The mass of white things
Like wriggling grains of rice
One dripping eye left.
Shot backwards by the mostly imaginary stench, I land in the nettles.
Struggling back to my feet, I caught a full view.
All popped and torn. The dead thing was alive with
Little animals, dipping into it and eating things.
Unrecognizable apart from the bristles,
Mostly inside out, tickling each other.
I ran inside and tore off my clothes and showered furiously
Washing the twigs from my hair and the mostly imaginary stench
From my skin.
I kept scratching at the nettle stings all through the day.
That night I blinked at the garden through my window
For a while, then I remembered.
I didn’t cry much at all when I went to bed
And I didn’t sleep very badly either.
The next day was my birthday.
It was fine. Then I went to bed.
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Replies:
- Trés interesting yo. It seems to be a fantastic contrast between life and death. Not enough on the hedgehog though. I think you need to be more enchanted/fascinated with le hog for it to be poignant as oppose to curious. I suppose the images of death are a little too strong, and the images of life are not strong enough. I loved the reference to all things imaginary, the imaginary predator and the imaginary stench of death. Very provocative. Cosily disturbing. (NT) -- George, 06:01:47 05/01/01 Tue
- I think the end stinks. Confused. It feels like one of those; "And then I woke up and it was all a dream" faalalalalala Happy Birthday// (NT) -- George, 06:04:21 05/01/01 Tue
- Thank-you George. Anyone else? (NT) -- luke, 08:21:58 05/25/01 Fri
- well for one the first line and title and many bits of it are so edward thomasish that i can't take it seriously anymore. it seems way too mocking of that kind of style that i seem to find it funny just imagining you sitting there laughing over it yourself too. so, um, sorry if you dont indend that!!! its quite good otherwise and i guess i quite like it though but its not my favourite at all. want to reply to mine, perhaps? :P (NT) -- zeina, 12:30:49 05/25/01 Fri
- I think this is really good. The childish tone and setting and the whole tiptoes thing really works well. Its just the final stanza, infact no its the whole showering thing. It all seems so drastic and so much older. OK i get the loss of innocence in a way but it just seems such a jump from the tone before. The 'falling over' shock bit is where i think you should have left it. The blinking at the end really works as well and no i dont agree with george. (NT) -- james, 20:53:25 05/25/01 Fri
- When I handed this in I changed the last line to "I don't remember it so well" (NT) -- luke, 08:47:44 05/26/01 Sat
- luke, zeina... I have tried to end Tiger moon better... see what you think, if the last stanza is crap let me know!! ;) (it was quite hard to write! -- tim, 14:01:41 05/25/01 Fri
Tiger moon
Tiger moon,
the day
And night
Dream of always you.
Paper heart
Is Torn
in two
by your tiger dart.
Iron me
I bend
and groan
soft beneath your feet.
While
Orange sun,
she claw
And scratch
The tiger as he…
Run.
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Replies:
- here is a poem i wrote... its after i edited it and all (note for james and luke).... i also titled it and all. its based on that thing i wrote about the beach (i mentioned having previously written an unfinished piece about the beach in repsonse to maggie's beach thing) -- zeina, 14:36:35 04/29/01 Sun
Solitary Tears
While the sun set, she walked bare footed and
Bare legged, her colourless toe nails restless.
By the water, damp and grainy, broken
Crispy shells trapped salty drops of water, crispy too,
And when she left in the dark, the moon lit
Her chalky slippers and wet ankles white.
Like a dying radio the wind panted.
She wet her face and her hair whipped her, wet
Too, and wrapped tight around her neck and she pulled
The strands away, salty. When she left in
The dark, I think: I think I saw her wipe
The salty residue from her dry cheeks.
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Replies:
- Another poem - Corridors -- luke, 16:55:21 04/02/01 Mon
His hunted glance flicks over me
Like a finger through a candle flame
I know his intensely blank expression,
Like a lid on a boiling pot,
Is a mirror of mine.
We skirt around each other, casually, coldly
His outstretched arm holds the door open
I catch it and it is almost like
We are working together again
Or just the courtesy of strangers.
But I see, in the shifting, dreamy edge of my vision,
Him turn around and follow me back out,
Moving behind me to the opposite wall,
His fists clenched in his pockets.
My thick, clanging heartbeat seems to swallow my breaths
As we study the poster-plastered walls
All my will is bent on listening for his sweet breathing
And I fancy I can actually feel his body's heat
I thirst for a word but more for a touch
I will turn around and put my hand on his shoulder and
And that is all.
I turn around to face him, courage to surrender,
But the corridor is empty.
The phantom breathing is gone, if ever it was there,
And the corridor is cold.
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Replies:
- Kind of inspired by 'By Grand Central Station I sat down and wept' -- luke, 05:43:14 05/08/01 Tue
Her hair golden, glinting like a river
In the sun. I’m drowning in broad daylight
Sitting, lying, eating here on the beach
Crunchy lettuce and cherry tomatoes
Cucumbers in soft white pillows of bread
Her hair tickling my lips as she reaches
Over me, into the ice, for sparkling
Water. She squeezes my hand, smiles at me
Like a boy I met once, with soft green eyes
Whose smell I sometimes wake trying to catch
Like a butterfly or a waterfall
As it retreats, leaving me lying alone
With some woman. I smile back like the boy
That I am and we kiss like cherry
Tomatoes. Another couple walking
Their bare feet splashing in the shifting edge
Of the sea, sand streaming between their toes
Looks like two women, but it’s hard to tell
At this distance. The last drop of red wine
The sun a cherry tomato hovering
Above the horizon, I lie, my head
On his chest, his breath rocking it like a boat
On the sea. They pass us and it’s a man
And a woman, both tall, slender, graceful
They could almost be sisters, holding hands
The sun’s gone and I shiver in his arms
He reaches over me to place his coat
Over my bare smooth legs. Lying like this
I can drink his smell. I am like the cat
With its gluttonous head in the milk dish
Someone is holding my head under and
I’m drowning in the twilight, in her hair
And his smell.
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Replies:
- I want replies to this speedily or I'm gonna get mad. (NT) -- luke, 08:18:08 05/25/01 Fri
- well i've already told you that this made me almost ashamed for ever writing. i thought it was absolutely incredible. absolutely everything here works for me. i mean EVERYTHING apart from the butterfly waterfall bit (sounds pretentious or something like that). but lulke i seriosuly think this is the best thing i've ever seen of yours. (NT) -- zeina, 12:34:22 05/25/01 Fri
- I like the idea behind the poem, and the developement throughout. Some of the description in here is really good. It manages to both please and shock the reader at the same time, which is impressive. However, the use of 'like' can be a bit tedious, or is there an ulterior motive in its use? Overall, very challenging and very well written. -- tim, 12:37:19 05/25/01 Fri
- PS I love the description of the lettuce, the cucumber and the tomato...particularly the recurrence of the tomato throughout the poem (NT) -- tim, 12:38:33 05/25/01 Fri
- I replied to this I am sure, but the reply doesn't seem to be there? anyway, just in case: really good. nice deveopement; simultaneously shocks and pleases the reader making for a great poem. 'Like' used a bit too much, or is there an ulterior motive for this? maybe go more metaphoric, as opposed to using similes. Love the description of the sanwich. Overall really good, I really enjoyed it. (NT) -- tim, 13:30:52 05/25/01 Fri
- first poem on here (thanks tim hassall) -- tim power, 20:57:30 05/24/01 Thu
Tiger moon
Tiger moon,
the day
And night
Dream of always you.
Paper heart
Is Torn
in two
by your tiger dart.
Iron me
I bend
and groan
soft beneath your feet.
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Replies:
- late night poem -- tim, 12:53:23 05/25/01 Fri
Kitchen
…and matisse sits on the wall
thinking.
He creates the world in oil
And cold brushstrokes.
The lights above him flicker.
whispering midnight
In morse code.
Now I stare straight past time
And matisse;
Lying supine on the cavern walls.
Huddled together,
In the warm glow
Of a digital mirror
That reflects
A tired red heart for bursting
And the next card
Face down…
… A spade
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- second poem on here -- tim power, 21:16:51 05/24/01 Thu
An alpine lovesong
I stood atop a mountain high
With a tired breath steaming up the perfect sky
The knotted clouds above my fingers bare
The stunning briskness of the air
All combined, and in the breeze
I sang a song, with soul at ease.
I threw your name, across the snow
And it melted with the sun and turned to gold
Whereupon, all liquid and alive
Your name flowed down the silver mountainside
And raced itself and the pallid light
Past the plateaus, hills and out of sight
Till finally, in the red collapsing sky
A gilded haze danced 'cross my eyes.
The world below, alive in gold for you
Danced to the tremblings of my voice so true.
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Replies:
-
spot the quote -- si, 14:54:39 03/24/01 Sat
first person to identify the author and/or work correctly has to post the next quote. i demand that you miserable buggers play with me.
'But when the crane lifted it out of its setting, the body of a woman was found secured behind the steering wheel by a seat belt. The blow had been so brutal that not a single one of her bones was left whole. Her face was destroyed, her boots had been ripped apart, and her clothes were in shreds. She wore a gold ring shaped like a serpent, with emerald eyes. The police established that she was the housekeeper for the new Portuguese ambassador and his wife. She had come to Havana with them two weeks before and had left that morning for the market, driving a new car. Her name meant nothing to me when I read it in the newspaper, but I was intrigued by the snake ring and its emerald eyes. I could not find out, however, on which finger she wore it.'
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Replies:
- well you're all bloody wrong so far, then, aren't you? if you make intellligent guesses and tell me WHY you think you might be right, i will respond by giving clues... and if you DON'T, i will respond by closing down the website. go ahead, punks, make my day... (NT) -- si, 19:08:00 03/24/01 Sat
- i think it is James, he is forever writing things like this, no offense James since I'm sure it was you who brought it up (NT) -- M. Griffith, 13:03:03 03/25/01 Sun
- Iain Banks? (NT) -- luke, 13:07:30 03/31/01 Sat
you. because. (NT) -- zeina, 13:38:12 04/01/01 Sun
- and before you throw a tantrum... 1)it doesn't sound like anyone we have studied closely which made me think, like maggie it was one of us. 2)the however in the last line is something you would think is very clever and would probably like, and want to write. 3) it is really too short a piece for us to guess and you are widly searching for some random responses to make you laugh outloud. you cruel thing. (NT) -- zeina, 13:41:27 04/01/01 Sun
- saki - kind of dry and unemotional like him and kind of has that curious tone like he does (NT) -- zeina, 14:22:39 05/08/01 Tue
- ghandi's alternative ego. (NT) -- z, 17:03:08 05/08/01 Tue
- MORE HINTS PLEASE (NT) -- zeina, 07:48:22 05/11/01 Fri
- I'm pretty sure this is no one I've read. A little too cold and impersonal for Graham Greene though it sounds a bit like him, with the brutality and the exotic location and the possibility of politics (NT) -- luke, 12:38:19 05/12/01 Sat
- Ok i really have no idea and dont know many authors at all but im guessing its modern and if they are talking of havana they are weird and if they are talking of death, kind of morbid. Stephen king. I also think joseph heller even though he is a little older and because i just started reading catch 22 (NT) -- james, 17:20:39 05/13/01 Sun
- if it's not someone you've read, it's someone you should read...:) graham greene's not a bad guess, nor is heller. but to suggest that people who talk about havana are weird... huh? what about, er, people who live in havana? okay, here's a big clue. you're all thinking english/american author. you shouldn't be. (NT) -- si, 10:48:47 05/14/01 Mon
- I nearly bought One Hundred Years of solitude last week, flicked through it in Magrudys. Maybe it's Gabriel Garcia Marquez (spelling?) (NT) -- luke, 18:13:51 05/17/01 Thu
- nope i have to disagree with luke. whateverhisnameis is much more magical and soft from what i remember .... and also sort of ancient too..... this seems too modern, sharp and dry (NT) -- zeina, 07:04:49 05/18/01 Fri
- i hate this game. hmph. so where are all the responses you promised for the rest of the stuff we wrote then? (NT) -- zeina, 14:36:33 05/24/01 Thu
- Yey woohoo. Just a guess, I'v never read any of his stuff, but Donovan and Zeina were talking about him. I'll post something really easy later. (NT) -- luke, 16:37:15 05/24/01 Thu
- perhaps the only poem youll see me do -- james, 18:21:49 05/08/01 Tue
And the light ran patterns on her face
and shone atop every swell as velvet
water came up from where her skin became the surface.
Stroking my fingers along the glass, it touched and kissed
and rippled smoothly out and danced with others,
flashing sun into her eyes and then to mine.
Waters stilled and the light ran patterns down her body
and it stood, as marble, as drips tickled and curved
down to touch again.
Sinking so moisture lapped and licked lips and so her hair
bloomed upwards from beneath the surface as a golden cloud.
Holding my fingers above, spilling light sound to the water.
Weightless and sunken, in radiant lines she sits still
and sighs. Hollow bubbles charge and escape
at the air as though breathless and she still sleeps,
with closed eyes and at the bottom. A kick corrupts
the silent surges and its flash makes air plunge and water explode.
My hand dashed by waves; drips tickle down my face,
falling down to touch again.
Sliding movements and the light ran patterns.
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Replies:
- some great moments here - 'light ran patterns', 'lapped and licked' - but it's a draft version, it needs tightening up, which i know is often what i say about your work. it does, though. this has potential - you should write more poetry. (NT) -- sj, 18:17:14 05/24/01 Thu
- The first of many I hope. This confused me very much on the first couple of readings but now it sounds very nice and beautiful. It has a nice sound to it. I don't have any real idea of what the narrator's position is and that undermines it for me. If the (NT) -- luke, 19:27:33 05/24/01 Thu
- ... if the description was clearer about what was happening, what was actually being described, it would be easier to appreciate the language and the poeticicity if the poem. The "glass" confused me, as did the pronoun in "it touched and kissed... with ot (NT) -- luke, 19:34:17 05/24/01 Thu
- why is this happening? I'm being cut off. (NT) -- luke, 19:35:27 05/24/01 Thu
- ...the pronoun in "it touched and kissed... with others" - other whats? ripples? The last line is quite stupid. (NT) -- luke, 19:36:52 05/24/01 Thu
- yes the last line is stupid. and im not convinced with poetry (NT) -- james, 21:09:54 05/24/01 Thu
- Poem numero duex// -- George, 22:58:21 05/03/01 Thu
Honey
Bambaleo and the night seems young
I can only imagine what is inside
Just for a moment I hear a voice
Whispering to me, as if it was my own.
Or something of my creation,
Amongst disco lights and sweaty bodies.
Sometimes I pretend that we are the same
Even though I can only be comforted by your body.
Sometimes I pretend that it is your eyes telling the truth
Not your lips, full of ignorance and compromise.
Sometimes I pretend that we are the same
Even though the wind blows fast through my hands
Sometimes I pretend that I don't care about dying
Not a death of honour, nothing but a casuality
Of a life in the gutter of the fast lane.
Every time I move a little closer
You move a little further away and meow,
Don't you see that all I want is a moments companionship?
Your animal mind doesn't understand that though
And we are left emptied and deceived.
You were never mine, and I burnt these bridges long before
You walked across them//
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Replies:
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Lucas asked me to post something, so here's a sonnet I just wrote. -- George Root, 15:27:02 04/29/01 Sun
One moment in a long time
I can remember a late afternoon.
Covered in the subtleties of twilight
The uncertainty of approaching night
Fought for on light blue sheets through dark blue eyes.
The lights of the city, whisper and moan,
Cars in the street drive an unholy drone.
Together so far, from being alone.
All the smoke rises and fills up the room.
Pretend the rhythm was never broken
Swallowing love unsure and unspoken
Light blue eyes close and dark blue eyes open.
Softly to sleep, in a silent embrace
The hair, the body, the lips and the face
No touching emotion, no time, no place.
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- The Dog -- meg, 11:32:13 04/06/01 Fri
The Dog sat on the moth eaten piece of carpet in front of the newly set fire. The dog used to be a rich chocolate brown but now he was more grey with brown clumps of matted hair. After he had been sitting there a while he got up, turned round and lay down. He had severe artheritis that had spread right through his body and the warmth of the fire was his only comfort.
On the mantle piece was one black and white photograph portrait of the dog's master, the picture showed an old but proud and smart man in a red hunting jacket. The dog had out lived him for many years but remembered him vividly as he had been there when he had died in the bright light of a full moon.
The dog was called Prince but now the meaning of his name was lost in him. As he lay as close to the fire as he could get the pain was so clear to see. He was a very old labrador who in his prime had been a head hunbting dog. Now he did nothing. His eyes were pink and the loose skin underneath them made them look large but in an unusual way. Sticky sleep filled the corners of both eyes and at the sides it was hard and crusty and stuck to his eye lashes. He was deaf in his right ear and was loosing his hearing in the other. His nose was constantly wet and streamed with a mixture of water and mucus, when he sniffed at anything there would be a trail from where his nose had touched the floor. Saliva dripped from his mouth and his jowles hung so loosely they pulled his lips and you could see the few yellow teeth he had left.
It was a cold and windy night with clouds moving over the moon all the time. In the lounge where the dog was the only light came from the fire. The dog was sillouetted with a roaring orange backdrop. The heavy dark red satin curtins blocked out any of the light the moon gave when it escaped the clouds.
But when the grand mother clock chimed the first stroke of ten, the dog pushed itself to his feet and limped through the house to the kitchen door. His walk was slow and disjointed and when he reached the door he pushed it with his nose and it opened. Leaving behind a wet patch on the door the dog went out. The cold and wind made his nose runnier and his eyes pinker. His pace was slower as the cold seeped into his old bones. As he hobbled, his tail flopped behind him. Once he got to the middle of the open garden he sat down on the damp grass on his hind legs.
The wind pushed a huge cloud through the sky and it revealed a full moon. The dog stretched his head up, his nose in the wind. With his head up it pulled at the loose folds of skin of his jowels. It made the wrinkled skin round his mouth tight so he was no longer dripping saliva and no longer could one see the few yellow teeth he had. He let out a howl which was loud and deep with a young but proud sound. His name was Prince.
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- Llafranc -- faye, 12:25:17 03/23/01 Fri
The weather is warm, although clouds mask the sky, a white smothering over the pale blue. Boats bob between buoys of pink and orange, which appear as rather oversized heads among the swimmers. To the right, cliffs gently slope into the sea, trees cling to the to dry earth. The train moves methodically behind me, the music loud, then softer as it travels up the road. A policeman saunters past, whistling, and I nod politely then look away.
The beach is crowded, and I do not enjoy sitting a mere metre from the neighbouring sunseekers, and much prefer the pool in our friend’s garden. The high walls, on which ivy clambered and tangled bushes grew, surrounded the pool, and not only provided me with the privacy I intended on having, but also with a capacity for clear thinking. I had felt too close and the light too bright on the beach, with unfamiliar people around, watching.
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- The Power of the Sea -- maggie, 14:07:45 03/21/01 Wed
And for that moment I felt like God. I was under water only perhaps a meter deep but it was clear, crystal clear with my goggles on and refreshing. It had taken me a while to ease myself in. With each step I sucked my stomach in more and then laughed at myself, as always, as I knew that breathing in did nothing, I was still cold but I always did it. When I was waist deep I stopped and just stood there with my arms folded and surveyed my view. Where I stood the sea looked cold and let me assure you it felt it. Further down the beach there were jet skis, one windsurfer and a few people paddling. There were many people walking and only a few sunbathing as it was late in the day, however, I saw two children in full sun protective gear even to the hats, must have been Australian. The waves were getting bigger, and nearer the beach they were beginning to crash on the sand but where I was standing it was just huge swells of water with a bit of spray getting me wetter. I waved my arms, the momentum was needed to make me dive, and counted; one, two, three, deep breath and I dived in. My arms swung above my head, my hands together, an arrow head, my chin tucked down, legs together body taut, preparing for what would happen next.
The water sealed above me and I was cut off from the outside world. The cold rushed over my head and clung to the tiny hairs on my arms and body and until my air ran out I was in luxury in the bliss of my world. I zoomed through the water with my hands in front of me guiding the way keeping me streamlined and my legs propelling me with butterfly leg kick. I smiled to myself I was totally happy, at one with everytyhing, the water had lost its initial coldness and was now cool and fresh and I sliced smoothly through the water thinking there could not be a better feeling at that moment in time.
Through my goggles and the clean water, the visibility was excellent. The sand was in tiny ridges sculpted by the constant waves above, it reminded me of the wind shaped sand dunes all the same colour just a miniture version. There were little holes dotted about belonging to the creatures who lived in them just like the bedouin camps in the middle of the desert. I felt like one of those fast moving clouds that create a shadow literally for a few seconds and then is gone. I wondered if those insignificant creatures could feel me moving above then, was there a change in light? And then at that moment I felt like God moving across the earth surveying all below. As I swam I was careful to swim high enough so as not to disturb anything but also low enough to not break the surface which would break the silence and the spell.
I put my feet down to stop and breath and a sting-ray aware of my closness uncovered itself from its sand camouflage and glided away. Suddenly I saw no longer aloof, not all was beautiful, one snap of the sting-rays tail and the immense immediate pain I would have felt would have finished my perfect world. I was reminded of how small I really was, a mere dot in millions. I thought about how in the water my danger was probably multiplied by all the factors I was not used to, those big lethal fish, the current, the tide and the breakwater rocks.
I carried on swimming. I was cruising along the sea bed only in about three quaters of a meter of water after being pushed in by the tide. A wave crashed above me. The swell of the wave moved me but not far as it was the top that did the damage not where I was. The noise it made was huge, it is always so much louder underneath. I could hear it getting closer to me, the noise getting louder and the wave getting bigger and faster until it was right above and it roared once and was gone and all that was left was the tinkling of the shells and sand on the sea bed and I knew how quickly my world can come and go.
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- good to sea (ho ho) you writing at length again, meg. the tinkling of the sand and shells on the sea bed is great, as is the bit where you feel like a cloud - you need a bit of work on some of the sentence structure, though, and you can't survey a view! remember, keep your language clear and clean and sharp - don't go off into things like 'immense immediate' or 'probably multiplied' - you're at your very best when you use bright, clear words - i hope you know what i mean. (NT) -- si, 14:46:54 03/24/01 Sat
- the description and detail here is what really makes this. "the tiny ridges in the sand" and I also love the "tinkling of the shells." I like how the calm, observational style changes to the breathless, panic in the final paragraph. Its nice to see that you add swimming techniques to even your writing. Water on the brain? (NT) -- james, 16:52:16 03/27/01 Tue
- I agree with these comments. I think 'immense immediate' is quite funny actually. Why can't you survey a view? (NT) -- luke, 13:03:29 03/31/01 Sat
- this piece reminded me of one that i never finished writing actually. everything here is very sea like though i'm not sure if i like the fact that you aren't the only one on the beach. it is also a very realistic piece - especially with the whole tucking the stomach in when getting in the water bit. (NT) -- zeina, 10:50:52 04/07/01 Sat
- trying to be a bit like Thomas Hardy -- luke, 17:25:52 03/20/01 Tue
It was considered fortunate Victor had not inherited his father's most conspicuous vices, penchants for drinking and gambling. That is not to say that he was without character faults, it was just that they were less prone to categorisation and condemnation. Like his father, Victor had always taken pride in regarding his faults as virtues. Unlike with his father, society had, until then, generally let Victor alone with his mild delusions. When his father learnt from doctors that his liver would probably be the death of him, he patted his sweaty abdomen and nodded with satisfaction, almost as if he had been vindicated. He acted as if the results had confirmed what he and his liver had known all along and highlighted the brave sacrifice they both were prepared to make for the higher cause of whisky. When Victor lied brazenly as a child, he won chastisement tinged with wonder and admiration. "It can not be denied," people would say "that boy certainly has a boundless imagination." This only encouraged him further. "Oh!" people would laugh at the uninitiated "Don't believe a word of that. You'll learn to take Victor's words with a pinch of salt at all times." People did not bewail his dishonesty because, as a result of his youth and more by chance than by design, his lies had not seriously hurt anyone yet.
Victor had a clear picture of who he was, what that meant and how it justified each of his actions. He felt that people would never and could never understand him. Since others would always see him as something other than what he was, what was the point of trying in vain to portray himself accurately? Such was his reasoning. He endeavoured instead to paint false pictures and baffle his peers so that at least people's misconceptions of him would be under his control.
He was quick to apologise and quick to accept apologies. "I don't keep grudges," he would say. He did keep grudges. He took revenge meticulously but often so subtly that the victim was scarcely aware of it. Victor was able to play such silly, vain games because he had an easy life, had nothing to fight for and had always been more loved than lover.
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- About Lukes, I wrote this ages ago and it refused to let me print it so I thought maybe it would later but no avail -- mags, 15:28:50 03/24/01 Sat
Well to be truthful (unlike victor) I have infact never got further than the first page in a Hardy novel and therefore can not comment on if this is a bit like Hardy or not. However, I do think you have captured a lot of people in this many peopl pretend to be one thing on the outside and are secrectly not at all like that on the inside. I love and loath the 'sweaty abdomen' it serves its purposebut sounds yucky! The last paragraphis good especially the very short sentence of keeping grudges, drives the point home and the last sentence is perfect although I'm not sure if it fits perfectly with the rest.
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- aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh. -- si, 14:41:42 03/24/01 Sat
well since this bloody forum appears determined not to let me answer your message, faye, here is what i had to say...:
welcome aboard, faye - good to see you posting. i like the beginning of this a lot, particularly the 'white smothering over the pale blue' - mood created through detail. the trees clinging is good, too. i'm not sure why the train should be travelling up the road, though? also, instead of the two ANDs, why not have a semi-colon followed by 'I much prefer...'? and just 'High walls...' - cut the definite article. not sure about capacity, either, but the last line is a cracker... is llafranc in cornwall? it sounds more breton...
i've now written that bloody passage out so many times i more or less know it by heart. stupid bloody internet.
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- kind of pointless, aimless and unimpressive but nothing else will be coming out of me anytime soon.... -- zeina, 17:57:10 03/13/01 Tue
"There is something beautiful about the way people look when they concentrate"
"Do you think so? I don't. I think they look damn ugly."
"Its beautiful the way they are in their most natural state, really. Their eyes look so lovely."
"Nope, they just pull silly faces."
"I think its beautiful. Do you always disagree or is it just with me?"
"You, darling. I like watching you try to justify things."
She screwed up her face so that the skin around her eyes wrinkled over and her lips stuck out.
"See, look how silly you look."
"But I wasn't trying to concentrate!"
"Then what were you trying to do?"
She took a moment to think about this. Her voice became softer and lower.
"I was just pulling a face."
"I know. And you looked beautiful doing so."
She bit the inside of her lower lip. He tried not to smile.
"I hate you."
"You know you look really beautiful when you concentrate like that..."
"I hate you."
"In fact, It makes me want to get my camera out when you do that!"
"Shut up."
"Do you really want me to?"
"Yes."
He didn't say another word. She leant back on her chair and crossed her legs and arms and continued to bite the inside of her lower lip, hard this time. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on her knee, leaning into her, resting his chin on two palms faced upwards to support his face. He crossed his eyes at her.
"Go away."
He opened his eyes wide and brought the corners of his mouth down to his chin and made a whimpering noise. She bit the inner of her lip harder, trying not to smile.
"What do you want?"
He motioned to his mouth and made noises behind closed lips.
"What the hell is your problem?"
"You told me to shut up."
"Oh."
"So I can talk now?"
"Yes."
"Can I tell you that you look beautiful again?"
"If you must"
"You look beautiful."
She smiled.
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- More to cheer us up and not as evil as rape -- james, 18:16:04 03/12/01 Mon
I punched her in the face and she fell to the ground like a dropped glass. My fist was still clenched and my stomach rolled and ripped at my insides. I did not move and I could not breathe. She stayed on her side, on the floor. Her head looked down. The side of her face that I had hit was covered by her straight long hair. It had felt like nothing. She was weightless behind my fist but now my hand hurt and I clenched it as hard as I could. My body felt hot and heavy and my throat full. I imagined my huge frame behind the punch. I stopped. She hadn’t shut up when I had told her to. I had shouted for her to. I had felt it coming and I had felt like that before but I had walked away. I knew what I was capable of and I loved her too much to hurt her. This time was different and I couldn’t even remember doing it. Her body lay on the lino floor as evidence. This would never be forgotten.
She moved and I watched her. She breathed sharply and I heard her. She turned her face up towards me and I saw her. Her face was red and it was dark on her cheekbone She grabbed at the leg of my trousers and sobbed and cried for me not to hit her. She was sorry. I pulled my leg away but she held on as hard as she could and I kicked away and clipped her in the head by accident. She let her hands and body fall back to the kitchen floor. She screamed and my heart wrenched. I wiped my face as I left the room. I picked up my coat and I opened the door to the road. The streetlights shone dimly through the night mist and my slow, heavy breaths froze beneath my lips. I zipped up my jacket to my chin, locked the door and turned towards the dark, cracked pavement. I walked away.
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- PARAGRAPHS! no, not as evil as rape... by a very small distance... unsettling, dark writing, james... effective. i particularly like your use of verbs, as in 'i watched her... i heard her... i saw her'... (NT) -- si, 19:22:02 03/12/01 Mon
- oh yes, very cheered up already. i like the cracked pavement. i'm actually convinced now this is a real situation and i'm questioning whether or not i want to know you. just kidding. or am i.... very effective, well done (NT) -- zeina, 18:03:00 03/13/01 Tue
- shocking, but great writing, I like the way you have written his thoughts too the last bit of description when opening the door really works it finalises the whole thing (NT) -- mags, 10:34:53 03/16/01 Fri
- Great. I liked the bits describing what actually happened a lot more than the reflecting back on it, ie. I didn't like the second part of the first paragraph as much, apart from the bit about "evidence." The simile in the first sentence works well, making the punch seem accidental and her seem very fragile. I didn't like "my heart wrenched" especially compared to the more powerful image of the rolling stomach. (NT) -- luke, 06:52:16 03/19/01 Mon
- prizes -- si, 14:02:32 03/03/01 Sat
there will of course be a range of valuable cash prizes for the first person who can tell me where the page title comes from, and also where the url comes from. far too easy, but i just can't bring myself to be cruel to you...:)
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- comments? -- si, 18:06:37 03/04/01 Sun
Can we expect a professional man, a member of P.A.N.Y., to break his word because the die, with the odds heavily against it, determined rape? No, obviously not. I am clearly not guilty. I felt like spitting neatly into some conveniently located spittoon in front of my jury.
But on the whole it semed a pretty weak defense, and I began vaguely hunting for a new one when I became ablaze at the thought: I am right: I must always obey the dice. Lead where they will, I must follow. All power to the die!
Excited and proud, I stood for a moment on my own personal Rubicon. And then I stepped across. I established in my mind at that moment and for all time, the never-to-be-questioned principle that what the die dictates, I will perform.
The next moment was anticlimactic. I picked up the die and announced: 'If it's a one, three or five, I'll go to bed; if it's a two I'll go downstairs and ask Jake if I can try to rape Arlene again; if it's a four or a six I'll stay up and think about this some more.' I shook the die violently in the cup of my two hands and flipped it out onto the poker table, it rolled to a stop: five. Astonished and a bit let down, I went to bed. It was a lesson I was to learn many times in subsequent casts; the dice can show almost as poor judgement as a human.
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- These things have a limit of 100 words -- james, 19:14:55 03/10/01 Sat
- not if i have anything to say about it, they don't. ta-daa. meanwhile, back at the ranch... relax, james, there /has/ already been a rape, sort of. so you don't have to worry about it having been missed out...:) thought you'd find it unsettling, especially re: the responsibility issue. are we always responsible for our actions? (NT) -- si, 21:55:14 03/10/01 Sat
- and how rude of you not to enter my 'spot the quote' competition. especially after your rhymed whingeing about my absence. answer my posts, or i'll vanish again, and that's a threat, not a promise... (NT) -- si, 21:57:00 03/10/01 Sat
- who wrote this? I like it. It is true sometimes you can't dedied on something and so you flip for it and it is only when the get the wrong thing when you realise what you wanted to do in the first place. (NT) -- Maggie, 10:21:08 03/12/01 Mon
- Funny how "The next moment was anticlimatic" is itself anticlimatic. I don't really like this. My mum has read the book, she said it was quite good, very bizarre. (NT) -- luke, 07:07:55 03/19/01 Mon
- The Ant -- Maggie, 10:14:11 03/12/01 Mon
I sat on my chair staring at a row of files arranged neatly on my shelf and sighed with satisfaction of having a tidy carol once again. Then I frowned as I realised now I would have to do some real work. I pushed back on my chair and balanced with the ease of one who practices a lot. My legs hung aimlessly, swinging sometimes to regain balance and I thought of the work most needed to be done and the easiest work to do.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, (sorry to sound so cliched) I saw a tiny movement. It was an ant, walking along the rim of the door perhaps trying to find a way out of maybe just keeping from the carpet which must be like walking through a thick and dense blue jungle, claustrophobic and inescapable.
I followed is still only with my eyes as if playing a game. Seeing how far I could keep it in my vision before it strained my eyes too much and I lost it. I put my feet back on the floor as I had been captured by the tiny black dot moving slowly away from me and I needed my concentration to keep in in my focus. Finally, I gave up. My eyes hurt too much and I turned quickly to face the direction of the ant to avoid losing it. I could see it clearly now and I knew no one else could. Such a small insignificant insect to us that could only take ones attention by accident and unknowingly. As I watched, it slid down the metal rim into the gutter where the screws attach the metal to the floor and I thought that was it. But then once again I saw it, a tiny head poking out of the gutter. I wondered about the power it must have but more importanly the determination and patience. Its journey must take so long. It continued walking along the rim sometimes wobbling and nearly tottering off the edge like a drunk attempting to walk straight.
I was fascinated by it for no real reason. It was simply getting on with its life oblivious of me and I thought, "whose life is harder?" But then it was gone. Sucked through the wailing crack between the two doors. Was that into hell for the ant, back into freedom or simply a continuation of normal life as it was for me as once again I pushed back on my chair with my legs swingly aimlessly.
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- colours -- si, 22:55:25 03/10/01 Sat
after due democratic process, i have decided that it's easier on the eyes if all the postings are kept in white - if you agree with me, that's great. if you don't, feel free to complain, and see how quickly i change
anything...:-)
ps anyone who posts anything without attempting an answer for the 'spot the quote' competition will be punished unpleasantly.
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- ahem -- si, 13:06:37 03/03/01 Sat
well, here you are, ladies and gentlemen, quickly knocked up but should do the trick. feel free to complain about colour schemes and layout, and i will change them at random if i feel the urge to trigger more complaints. also, feel free to have a go at building the amount of people we have using the site - the more the merrier, as long as they are people whose critical abilities you respect.
i shall look forward to reading your postings. Particularly all the ones saying oh, thank you for doing this, we're really going to post more often now to show how grateful we are, and i'm so glad that i did english after all, because you are, aren't you, maggie?
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Feedback: 
argh - the whole point is that you have to offer some kind of substantiation of WHY you guess any particular author. congratulations, anyway - you are right, marquez it is. it would have been so much more interesting to know /why/ you thought it might be. it is now your turn to post a new extract! oh, and bonus points and/or a free pint for anyone who can work out /which/ marquez it is from... (NT) -- sj, 19:28:00 05/23/01 Wed
i'm so gutted it should be won by a complete guess. so much for developing your analytical skills in an informal context. tut. (NT) -- sj, 18:14:13 05/24/01 Thu
