Ares

The fast paced youth drove on the black town
painting his lusty masterpiece of trust
still proud as the cock of crows.

He did preach to protégé
‘see the townsmen, stiff as the walls surround’
He fancied a different fate, why draft?
Who could guide him and thrive, no longer hide?

Beasts rave on, scratched, red up his back.
Family lapsed bearing cross his tree snapped.
The pendulum would not make him throw down.
On hand, specious, far from depressed.

Born in arms he had been caressed.
A task attained in happiness found
a cool concrete core. He crashed car and kid.
Affinity wound up smashed in spare parts.

The burnt soul walked free, to turn of age,
to drink and smoke his mothers heart thirsty.
The river blood burst, but his eyes were closed.
‘From what source did you loose your eyes’ she cried.

‘Hark’ he cursed mocking his mothers tears.
‘Preach of self worth, but you too are broken
the black spider spins her web strong and
you are not the fly who flew from Mars.’

The public house would no longer take him.
The curbs and foxgloves whispered through dusk hours.
‘I didn’t want this solvent rodent path’
The city coughed accepting concession.

He could not drink to drive her away.
A slug found his shell, a new black spider
spun the next web and hands lifted pave stones.

Two children he fathered in a haze
arrived though arms open the guts beheld.
Raised eyebrows softened with kneading down.
Tea became lunch became summers day,
he realised that cardboard was ok.

Gasoline ran his clock, zero was his hour.
Soul and body failed to catch the hand.
Daughters now found white wall for their heads.
Fantasy told them he knew they were there.
Grieving for justice to grow them a branch.

second sonnet - a bit of fun to grease the wheels

As evening strikes on Saint Mary's Street
lustful men seek to be persuasive,
prowling their worth and being adaptive.
Satisfaction will always complete
a mission held in the hand of liquor.
Money roles, stiletto pins raise the fuss.
Testosterone makes Saint Mary quiver.
Certainly no Welsh man you can mistrust
though wary we begin our mouth will slip
and your stomach will fall for the round trip.

My First Sonnet (shakespearian style)

2nd Version; almost the same, but it makes a bit more sense now and I have punctuated it - 24/02/12

The lake freezes over fragility,
as innocence dies, water has no shade.
The old elm sheds leaves from reality
little time in which a dryad can fade.
The seasonal anger is clock work true.
Though no one knew she was going to bloom.
The icicles appeared leaving all blue
will Apollo help break into her tomb?
A tight little place between roots and shore.
Dear elm, why did you wait so long this year?
A princess must be a queen to the core
day break sparkle brings us the face of fear.
Our fragile spirit knows not our time
Even though the frost strikes, committing crime.


1st version (as of 23/02/12)

The lake freezes over fragility.
As innocence dies water has no shade.
The old elm sheds leaves from reality.
There is little time in which it can fade.
The seasonal anger is clock work true.
Though no one knew she was going to bloom.
The icicles appeared leaving all blue.
Will Apollo help break into her tomb?
A tight little place between roots and shore.
Dear elm, why did you wait so long this year?
A princess must be a queen to the core.
Day break sparkle brings us the face of fear.
Our fragile tree adheres to our time not
Even when the lake strikes to take her lot.

Re - the old Renault Poem

This started out as a freewrite from an exercise. I was writing about driving from Edinburgh to Norwich, a journey I did a lot when I was younger.

In writing I realised that one particular journey stood out in my mind and it was travelling past Norwich to London. It also started out as a happy memory, but in further drafts I found I split my lines to make them seem a little more sinister... not sure this is the right word, perhaps because they raise questions for the reader.

'He was not my father he said'


I became confused when I was splitting the free write up. I think because I was trying to put it into the form of a poem I thought I needed to use metre and rhyme. I had made a rhyme well with 'Norwich' as my central word and I still used the Norwich/Norway rhyme line to add more of a beat and beef up the stanzas. As this is a free verse poem do I need to comment on this if I used something simillar in my TMA?

I have shyed away from using a particular scheme. I think I might go and try my hand at a sonnet though. I have written on and off for such a long time that I felt I wrote farily intuitively . What I have never done before is share my work. I am trying very hard to follow the BRB and learn the 'habit' along with the exercises. I think when I come to write something within the TMA outline I find it hard to put my process into words that fit within the language we use at the OU. I can only put this down to the fact that I don't fully understand the process which causes me to write what I do.

When I read this poem aloud I know why I want to change words, but I do not know if it is because of their position in metre, if they rhyme and with what word. SO I end up feeling like i have clutched at straws rather than sculpted a poem by means a poet should or would.

Thank you for your time this is really helping to place my thoughts.

Bop - descriptions and back story - all copyright remains with Isobel Harris aka Jezabel

It ran deep and cold beneathe the surface of Brixton. No longer able to mark its way gracefully over the meadows, but orced beneath and between tunnels before reaching the Thames. Only a moment quick enough for Bop to see offers an exit way above. He hops out of the leaf just before it is swilled left and away, gone, out of sight.

His climb is rough, but his hands are rougher. The walls are slick with more than 200 years of grime. But Bop uses this to slick his hair back. His pores too small to absorb any of the hell washed down from Crystal Palace. He looks down sorrowfully at the water, the Effras spirit caught tight in this chasm. He allows his thoughts to flee for a moment to the surface, where the water used to run with him aboard ready to take on the day. Youth, what a whimsical time. Bop smiles at the irony in his thought, showing his teeth slightly s his ears wobble.

Brockwell Park sits amongst three very different areas of South London. Boasting of once grand gardens that John Blades Esq had wandered in when she was still a part of leafy surrey. Now her land is hemmed in by Brixton, Tulse Hil and Herne Hill. All very much a part of Londons digestive system. The humans recreate and exercise in the park, they dance and make money in the park, the cook themselves and fornicate in the park. They bleed and piss on her grass after consuming rage and other bizzare chemicals far from unknown to Bop. The edges have crept into each other faster than Bops 18th birthday. Urban sprawl out weighing natures battle each time. Bop of course does not live in a way that adheres to our calendar. His 18 years make him more like 3549 years old. Thats right older than jesus. But he is small and he is tendered by mother earth to work the surrounding areas of the Effra river. The very same river that once ran down from Crystal Palace, along Effra Eoad across Brixton and out to the Thames.

Bops daily life has changed much since his parents time. Though his father still works hard in what is now the Reigate area.

At this juncture I should explain that Bop is a Pixie, the Brixton Pixie (I have introduced him before in a poem).

At this moment I am unsure just how involved with Londons darker side I intend to be. Bop may be more suited to a younger generation of reader.

However. He has a lot of work to do. A pixie must help keep a certain amount of love, hope and natural energy in an area. Of course humans have made their job considerably harder and Bop being a young pixie is more innovative that his elders. He has opened communication with domesticated animals in a bid to get help keeping the young humans happy so that thy dont do as much damage as their predecessors.

The thief and the trickster - reviesed

Spit on a thieves
feet to show
them how you care
little for the fare.

Play cards, deal,
teach a boy
a lesson.
You do not
know he is a thief.

A thief is he
who shares his spares
and cares.
His winning hand
disgusted. Tight.

Clothe yourself
and he, for he
can take all
straight from
your hand.

Stay up straight
feel the liquor burn.
Do not have haste,
thriving little teeth.

One, two, three,
no four, keep up he
says you'll never
learn if you don't take your turn.

The smile seems wry
and taught, limpness
eyes drag you down.
Hoist your chin, lest

Lest you see,
you shall and now you
have missed it, pay up
the trickster has won.

Old Hope - an idea from a conversation

2. Richmond Dryad

As the sun still rode
amongst the bark in the hollow
deep inside her truck
sat with the shaman. Shaman?
In a dead tree. No,
She was not dead, she grew leaves.
And we sat inside her, in the hole.

He chanted his verse all to hear
He was loud and we followed.
We asked and we laughed
willing her spirit to give us faith,
then I slept immersed within her folds.

Our lust for greatness
came thrust upon us from the city.
A moment in touch with old selves
elusive and just, we were in control.
Please dear dryad, help us be vast?

Departed and gone, I did
return years later she was there.
Still strong and I shallow, both burnt to the core.
We cackled long into the night.
A tree is a tree, alive
and not dead, but she cant change
what goes on in the beyond.




1.
I sat in a hollow tree with a shaman
if that is what he was.
To ask the dead tree for help
she wasn't totally dead, true
she had leaves.
But there was a hole big enough to sit in.

He chanted his verse all to hear
He was loud and we followed.
We asked and we laughed
willing her spirit to give us faith
Then I slept within her folds.

Departed and gone, I did
return years later she was there.
Still strong and hollow and I
cackled long into the night.
A tree is a tree, alive
and not dead, but she cant change
what goes on beyond.