Tag Archives: poetry

Perseverence

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Hamzeh Ghaderi

This week, on the module, we had Katie Hale. She is a novelist and also a poet. She is famous for her two books, “My Name Is Monster”, which is a novel, and “White Ghosts”, her poetry collection. During the online session, I paid attention well because the information she provided to us was useful. I found her a persistent person. Looking at her face, I recognised her as a person passionate about writing and patient about the journey. She talked about her background and mentioned all about the ways she’d passed to become a writer, which I believe can be helpful for me, as a new writer, to use her experience and find a way to get published.

   She studied at RHUL between 2008-2012 and then at St Andrews between 2012-13. She has worked as an arts admin and a freelance writer ever since and has attended workshops and professional development seminars that have helped her throughout these years to gain more knowledge about the industry while writing. For instance, she said, according to her observations, a writer could earn up to £10,500 per year, which is well below the minimum wage and represents a 42% drop in real terms since 2005. But she also mentioned that a writer should not give up if their earnings are low at the beginning. If they are perseverance and have written something worthy, they may win prizes and make royalties out of their books. Moreover, attending festivals as a speaker and also TV and radio programs can increase earnings.

   The other ways which were mentioned are facilitation, funding and residencies. For the first one, Katie said that the writers can create workshops in schools and for adults, either in person or online, and by charging an amount, they can make money in exchange for teaching people (a private tutor). For funding, the writer can apply for grants on creative projects, asking some specific companies for support. Moreover, for the third way, residencies, the writer can get paid by accepting residents in different places that allow them to focus on their job, writing.

   After this online session ended, I thought about what Katie said. I tried to reconsider my expectations. Before getting to know her, I used to think it could be so easy for a new writer to get published and make big money. I was living in a dream. I used to think as soon as my book became ready, there would be an agent and a publisher waiting for me to sign up with them, but now, I have come to the conclusion that I need to lower my expectations. I have to convince myself that I’m not a famous writer. No one knows me yet, so I can’t be published on day one. I have to keep my morale and be perseverance, because persistence is key.

My Last Goodbye To You

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Maryam Khan

Everything was an adventure with you,

From your spontaneous outings that always ended in laughs and fond memories,

To the random lie-ins we’d have when you were having a low day.  

But that all went away when you did.

There were no more random walks in the park,

No more jumping on trains and seeing where they took us,

No more looking at strangers and thinking up stories about their lives.

All that was taken away when you were.

So now as I sit here by your grave,

I think about all we did together and remember how you used to say,

“In the end, we only regret the chances we didn’t take”.

So as my last goodbye to you, I promise to take all the chances I’m given.

Under Your Spell – by Emma Fisher

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You disguised your true darkness as her light,

she loves you more than she can love herself,

she loves you though you made her cry all night,

you broke her. How can you live with yourself?

The sparkle in her eye is growing dim,

a shadow of the girl she was before,

she hoped her love would set you free from sin,

but your fists only chose to hurt her more.

In a fit of rage your fist hits her head,

“accidents happen”, she’ll forgive that cut,

it will never happen again you said,

but you’re lying. She feels it in her gut.

She calls it love, but you put her through hell,

only soon she’ll escape from under your spell.

  • By Emma Fisher

The Butterfly Ballroom

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By Nisha Patel

Sparkling chandelier, hanging like a magnificent sculpture of stars, 

twinkling to bless the night in crimson passion, close to each intimate touch. 

A beautiful ball of butterfly attendees, where elegant colours capture the spotlight.

Fluttering in flamboyance, their wings dazzle in show and tell, 

the romance of wearing the grace of lace, enchants a spark of loveliness,

in which the love refuses to hide under table cloth, but brighten under glass décor.

Flirting like fireflies near the floral lanterns, they leave the candle sticks

to marry their candle holders, under the sculpture of stars. 

Keeping peace between butterflies and light, under dreamy darkness.

A ballroom dance crowns the night, the glimmering diamond of a ball ring.

Partnering to their lovers, they fly with each other, hearts together, 

like violins expressing love behind a curtain of waterfall.

Some butterflies share magic, clutching onto the sidelines of the French rose silk.

Other butterflies make wishes under the chandelier, praying to protect the ballroom,

a sanctuary for romance with wings, to reach the night.

—————

Ballet Performances to Watch, Courtesy of the Royal Opera House: 

 

 Review of Romeo and Juliet Beyond Words: 


I would highly recommend this ballet film to fans of the romantic genre and all things elegant. Starring William Bracewell as Romeo and Francesca Hayward as Juliet, this beautifully performed film captures my heart and fills my head with butterflies. There is no dialogue, which I found more engaging as the audience is left to feel for themselves, allowing their imaginations to flourish. The lack of dialogue also makes this performance much more accessible to those from different language backgrounds. The classical music in the background such as Dance of the Knights by Prokofiev, really brings  the scenes to life. With no words, the vision becomes even more unique to watch, as the romance blossoms on screen. 

The ballet creates a touching bridge between this classic love story and the power of pointed shoes. The acting, along with the imagery, brings you to the heart of the moment. I could feel myself wearing Juliet’s shoes and feeling all her emotions from my head to my toes. I simply couldn’t take my eyes off this film, and the enchanting atmosphere it created in my head, and in my room. The body language of the protagonists portray the sequence of events wonderfully – I could feel Romeo’s heart warming passion for Juliet through his actions. I so greatly admire the attention to detail in the making of this film, because it sewed the whole story together and transported me to their romantic world. 

I first watched this ballet film on a chilly winter evening, and I think this made the experience a touch more magical. I would encourage others to try watching it just as I did. To this day, I still feel drawn to the beauty of the film: my attachment to it will stay forever. There have been many films on Romeo and Juliet, but this was my favourite, because it made me pay closer attention to the visual art of ballet and how classical music feeds life to a love story. The beautiful silence elevated the scenes of suspense. I hope you all take the time to watch this glorious work of art. 

Written by Nisha Patel, edited by Mel Kartal

Love poems, Longing

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WRITTEN + EDITED BY MEL KARTAL

This year-long quarantine has deprived us of most, if not all human contact. It has sucked every last droplet of romance in our veins dry, and has left us all in a large, fleshy heap of depressed skin and bones… For some, this feeling has been around since the beginning of time. For others, romance and intimacy are a taboo, something shameful. But despite any societal pressure, or any single person telling you that what you’re feeling is wrong, there will always be that visceral feeling of longing within every human, no matter how hard you try to suppress it. But all is not lost. Here are a couple of poems that may remind you: with absence, the heart does indeed grow fonder.

—

Little Beast

BY RICHARD SIKEN

4

He had green eyes,

so I wanted to sleep with him—

green eyes flecked with yellow, dried leaves on the surface of a pool-

You could drown in those eyes, I said.

The fact of his pulse,

the way he pulled his body in, out of shyness or shame or a desire

not to disturb the air around him.

Everyone could see the way his muscles worked,

the way we look like animals,

his skin barely keeping him inside.

I wanted to take him home

and rough him up and get my hands inside him, drive my body into his

like a crash test car.

I wanted to be wanted and he was

very beautiful, kissed with his eyes closed, and only felt good while moving.

You could drown in those eyes, I said,

so it’s summer, so it’s suicide,

so we’re helpless in sleep and struggling at the bottom of the pool.

—

One Girl

BY SAPPHO

TRANSLATED BY DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI

                                I

Like the sweet apple which reddens upon the topmost bough,

Atop on the topmost twig, — which the pluckers forgot, somehow, —

Forget it not, nay; but got it not, for none could get it till now.

                               II

Like the wild hyacinth flower which on the hills is found,

Which the passing feet of the shepherds for ever tear and wound,

Until the purple blossom is trodden in the ground.

—

Mayakovsky

BY FRANK O’HARA

1

My heart’s aflutter!

I am standing in the bath tub

crying. Mother, mother

who am I? If he

will just come back once

and kiss me on the face

his coarse hair brush

my temple, it’s throbbing!

then I can put on my clothes

I guess, and walk the streets.

2

I love you. I love you,

but I’m turning to my verses

and my heart is closing

like a fist.

Words! be

sick as I am sick, swoon,

roll back your eyes, a pool,

and I’ll stare down

at my wounded beauty

which at best is only a talent

for poetry.

Cannot please, cannot charm or win

what a poet!

and the clear water is thick

with bloody blows on its head.

I embrace a cloud,

but when I soared

it rained.

3

That’s funny! there’s blood on my chest

oh yes, I’ve been carrying bricks

what a funny place to rupture!

and now it is raining on the ailanthus

as I step out onto the window ledge

the tracks below me are smoky and

glistening with a passion for running

I leap into the leaves, green like the sea

4

Now I am quietly waiting for

the catastrophe of my personality

to seem beautiful again,

and interesting, and modern.

The country is grey and

brown and white in trees,

snows and skies of laughter

always diminishing, less funny

not just darker, not just grey.

It may be the coldest day of

the year, what does he think of

that? I mean, what do I? And if I do,

perhaps I am myself again.

—

For Willyce

BY PAT PARKER

When i make love to you

i try

with each stroke of my tongue

to say

i love you

to tease

i love you

to hammer

i love you

to melt

i love you

and your sounds drift down

oh god!

oh jesus!

and i think

here it is, some dude’s

getting credit for what

a woman

has done

again.

—

The inaugural poem: a response

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by Nia Reynold

After 1460 days of a society removing their Thalia to reveal the ugly Melpomene that had long been festering underneath it, a ray of light seems to have broken through with the delivery of the inaugural poem “The Hill We Climb”. This piece of literary iridescence was written and performed by the 22-year-old Amanda Gorman, who is now the youngest inaugural poet in U.S. history. As a young black woman myself, I am in awe to see someone who is so close to my age make living, breathing history. Become living breathing history. Exist as living, breathing history. I can imagine that in the very moment that she began to address the 46th President of the United States, every little black girl was entranced by their tv screen as they saw themselves utter art articulated from turmoil to those who are the byproduct of turmoil and those who incited it, to begin with. Those little girls saw their skin glow on screen in the same way Gorman’s poem did, they heard words that had circulated their minds but didn’t know how to express, said to a congregation of faces they never would’ve thought they would be allowed to see. They felt their souls seen and vulnerable yet soaring in a phoenix-like disposition without the fear of its kindling being drowned. Those little black girls saw themselves for what they truly are, for what we truly are – light but purified. 

Amanda Gorman, thank you for showing us a glimpse of what the top of the hill looks like.

What is Enough?

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By Mia Choudhury

It was that early December morning,
When the sun rose from the clouds
That you told me I wasn’t enough
And that I could never make you happy
Even though you had told me different the night before,
Even though you said you loved me.

But I suppose that was foolish of me,
To believe we’d wake the next morning
And everything would be the same as it was before.
But here we are, smoky grey clouds
In the distant space between last nights ‘happy’
And today’s ‘not enough’

But what is enough?
Because like you said it sure isn’t me.
Even though every fibre of my being was trying to make YOU happy
Despite the fact I was falling apart every morning
I still made sure the black clouds
Of my mind were gone before…

It doesn’t matter what happened before.
We’ve screamed at each other enough.
Screamed and screamed until clouds
Of thunder formed over the skies and scared me
Into thinking that maybe the next morning
Would be different and we could be happy

But alas, here we are, our cup of happy
Empty like it was before
And we’ve not a morning
Left to even think about what could have been enough
But for my sake, for my peace of mind, for me
Will you point at the clouds,

Like Adam in the creation reaching for God in the clouds
And tell me which one told you not to be happy
With your life when God gave you me.
Tell me what made you do it before
Our minds, bodies and souls have had enough
Because I spoke to no serpent and ate no fruit that morning.

You tell me nothing clouds your vision on this grey morning.
You tell me everything is as it was before.
That you were never happy. And I was never enough.

 

Post by Mia Choudhury,  15th February 2019