Fireworks

We’re under the same sky
I can hear the fireworks

Each, a gunshot, shakes me -
You sit, cramped over desk,
No light
No light

Sky’s dark, falsely lit,
Fireworks in the sky

Are these the same fireworks in your eyes?
When you hold me,
Suspend me,

You sit, fixed, a point in time,
Your eyes, fireworks
Illuminate grey.
Your eyes, fireworks,
Stare into the night –

That same night that I fall from
Do not belong
Never belong

Trickling raindrops fall, suspend, then fall once more,
A drop upon the night sky
No light,
No light.

–
first poem i’ve written since 2010.

A Prose Poem.

Eagleton says the only difference between prose and poetry is line endings. So decide for yourself what ‘this’ is. I have never carried any regrets with me except this one – how much I foolishly gave to you.

I don’t regret many things in life, but I do regret how much I gave to you. I am deeply in love with someone new now but, still, your hold on me isn’t as slight as I would like. I still compare my heart, then, to my heart now – as if, not hurting, not breaking, I cannot feel. I feel empty in those colossal seconds in a day when I compare the two of you. He is my whole world, you were just the stars – out of reach, not even worth the time of day, though I’d have given you a week. And though I’m happy now, (not that I can comfortably be – you robbed me of that when you lied and said you would love me) giving my heart to him doesn’t feel as easy as it once could have, before you crushed it underfoot and another, sweet but sterile, hastily reassembled it in the blustery pockets of summer. He promised to love me too, autumn robbed me of that, and now I find myself in love with someone else, I have to say – I don’t regret many things in life, but I do regret how much I thought I loved you.

Head to toe

 

My rhyme is broken, my syntax heavy,

The days of poesy disappeared

I cling to the blinking cursor, waiting, it seems,

Curiously questioning –

Where are those words you entered here

To fill the space

To fill the void

Where are those words which used to mean

Used to be, used to open out your heart

A gallery of words.

Beauty fails me now, like it always did,

Fragments of misapprehended feeling

That’s all my words mean now

The only difference, the only, lone, sole, transitory difference

Is I no longer need to mean

Except when I’m with you.

Luck

Falling in love, it tingles and it tastes
Like heartbeats would, if they were free.

Falling in love makes you wonder how
One can be two, if this is possible, even, odd.

Falling in love is beautiful realisation -
The realisation that all you were before
Was just a figure, waiting.

Falling in love is gaudy and tacky, or so they say,
Falling in love is old-fashioned and out of touch.

Falling in love is like discovering parts of your mind
Your body you never understood before.

Falling in love is romantic, inexpressible -
Falling in love is sensory, unaccountable feeling.

Falling in love with you is like every day counts for something
Falling in love with you makes me matter
Falling in love with you,
Falling, perhaps, in love, with you.

A long time.

The last time I posted was for a very different set of reasons to why I post now. I write this late at night, not because I cannot sleep, or am being tormented by well-meaning but linguistically ill-equipped Christians, but because I am trying to make sense of things, understand the world a little more. My parents always say that thinking is always a ‘dangerous’ thing for me – and to a certain extent they’re right. For the last few months, I’ve been thinking less (we’re talking on an emotional/philosophical plain – my degree obviously requires a great deal of thought!) and going more on instinct and you know what? It’s actually worked out for the better. I am happier being less in control, I am less worried about the past or the future (for who can change them anyway?) and am living not ‘in the present’, for who lives their life in a cliche?, but with the new knowledge that being ‘happy’ is not stopping to think if you’re happy. Not giving it a single thought, because not only have you found the person to make you feel like the small part of the world you share with one another is utterly perfect, completely your own, but also that finding ‘inner peace’ as self-help books and over-paid psychiatrists would have us believe doesn’t come from ‘understanding yourself’, but more from relaxing into the knowledge that you will never fully understand the complexities of life. If this is all sounding like pretentious contrite bollocks, then it probably is (testament to my tried and tested talent of speaking but saying absolutely nothing) – put simply, life is full of darkness and the brightest minds delight in nothing more than dwelling in this darkness, lighting it only every now and then if at all with their brightness. Reading Virgina Woolf, who might quite possibly be the best writer about ‘nothing in particular’ I have ever encountered, I see a genius – a woman who sees so many levels, layers, colours in the world, but is not content to see something is just ‘beautiful’. Love is not the flower I see it to be  – the bud opening to the light, perhaps only briefly flowering if not for longer…to Virginia this flower is grown in a dark, damp soil, trod down under the feet of generations of unrecognised men. My own juvenile example, but you see my point – intellect can be of use, but I can see now why most geniuses and poets are unhappy or unlucky in love.

Love is a concept. Just like religion, it is intangible. Everyone knows it, knows its limitations, its boundaries. Society dictates to us what it is, when to recognise it, like we’re playing i-spy or pictionary. Love is elusive, perhaps, if it exists at all. How can we draw a line from person to person and not call it love? Love is a connection between similar-minded people, but it is also a string that can carry the weight of different minds, like weights on a line. Look how I struggle to pin it down, resorting to similes like an overzealous child who still thinks poetry has to, ought to rhyme. I don’t know what love is – I am like everyone else. I am not sure I even know what ‘happiness’ is. Perhaps I am young - I still fear independence, I currently teeter on the brink of adulthood, keenly but with uncertainty, but long for the comfort of home. I am young to have known love, grief, I am young to think my words mean something, add something to the world. Love adds light to the world, but it is not the same light I see in the sky – it is a warmth that starts in a glance, a smile, a day together. It is the knowledge that for that moment, little or as long as it may be, you are transported somewhere wholly new, behind those eyes there’s no story, for stories don’t exist in a single moment; that look, that glance, that stare is not a scientific, practical measure – it’s an emotion, molten.

There is something quite beautiful about the world, but we seem to delight in focusing on the ugly, the dissatisfaction. You can’t live in bubbles, just like bubbles don’t last, popping aimlessly in the summer sky. ‘Love’, though it be beautiful, is as transient as any other emotion. Tied down it flounders; left to roam, it only prospers. I may be young. I may not be in love. Whatever I am, I know it is also what I am not. But for the time being, he makes me feel like I could just press the delete key on this whole post and not even care, for these are just words and I am real, he is real, and this whole world is worth more than these words can ever capture. Perhaps.

Religion

So it’s twenty to four in the morning. Every fibre of my being is exhausted, but still I can’t sleep. It’s partly to do with the arctic conditions in my room, as the radiator is the most temperamental and unreliable piece of equipment in the world. I can almost see my own breath! Anyway, the real reason I can’t sleep, or at least can’t relax is because I’m worried. I am so incredibly worried I want to cry.

Tonight for a bit of a laugh my friends and I engaged in a religious debate with the Christians at my college. I have always seen myself as a religious and good person, believing in God and the good things Christianity promotes (charity, goodwill, etc). But I was told tonight by a group of people who, through no fault of their own, have been brainwashed into the same kind of religious extremism we see tearing apart the world, that I was going to hell. Because I don’t believe in the Bible, I don’t adhere to its beliefs on homosexuality or the role of women, because, to quote, I am “selecting” what to believe rather than believing all, I am nothing worse than a demon. After all, “even demons believe in God”.

Now I have never been one to join in with religious debates at school, as I think they are counter-productive. Now I see how right I have been if this sleepless night is anything to go by. Being told you’re going to rot in hell because you’re a good person is hard to take, especially if you take things as much to heart as I do. I had no idea tonight how much what they were saying was getting to me, after all it’s not like I have ever purported to being a religious person.

What it does not feel like is I am being cast out because I refuse to condemn people’s homosexuality or allow suffering to be in the world as a means of being ‘just’. Nothing about the Holocaust was just I argued, but as ever the answer was to God’s will. Well, this is not the God I know. I believe in God because if I didn’t I would feel all at sea. I believe in God because to me it is indispensable to have someone to pray too in times of need. To some extent it’s true that those who have not known suffering have not known God. Yet, once again I find myself cast aside by organised religion. Why is this?

I live and have always lived in a good way. But according to the bible, there is no difference between me telling a white lie and murder, or rape. “So you want a graded scale of sin” scoffed one of the girls, as if it seems ridiculous. Well, yes, actually, I do. Why should someone who commits murder but claims to have found ‘Jesus’ be any more entitled to an afterlife of good than I who have not committed murder, yet fail to see the importance of organised religion? If we look at Luther who revolutionised the relationship between man and God, no longer needing a go-between, we see that things take on a different meaning. Why should I have to go to Church, if I can engage in a relationship with God whenever?

They say that the people who believe in ‘something’ are somehow ‘wired differently’. Or at least that’s how a friend of mine put it, one who wishes they could believe, but find themselves unable to. Looking at this person in particular, a goodly and wonderful person, how can the people who preach Christian values damn her to hell? And on that note, why also am I damned? Why does anyone need to be damned? And I wonder again how these people can walk amongst us, talk with us, laugh at our jokes, all the while knowing that we are going to go to hell?

Just as they were unable to answer my questions except by clutching at the straws of the Bible (praised for its ‘diversity’, but not I hasten to add for its multitude of contradictions and outlandish claims), so too am I now even more confused. All I can hope is that in my heart I know I am a good person. All the good people, regardless of faith, gender, sexuality, whatever deserve to be kept from harm in this life and the next. I never thought that at the best university in the world I would encounter such brainwashing. It’s nothing but heartbreaking to see a group of ‘nice’ people so unbelievably pious alienating the good people as a result of nothing more than a bit of doctrine. I will continue to say I believe in God, demon or not, but I don’t think this type of religion will be counting me among its members anymore.

Now, hopefully, I can get to sleep having banished these demons (poor I know) from my mind. Night. x

Pretty sure I’m abnormal.

Hilarious discovery today, found a list entitled ‘reasons to live vs reasons to die’. Needless to say – it was a hoot. Got me thinking though, just how depressive must I have been? Sadly enough the reasons to die half of the sprawly, troubled page grossly outweighed the other – yet I am still here. A good friend of mine once said he wished he could, direct quote, ‘take some of my emotions for me’. Much as they pain me, I wouldn’t want him to. I am guilty of constant and unending over-analysis, never content with face value, I seem to look and read between the lines, even if it’s not necessary. I am guilty of sabotaging my own happiness. I am guilty of applying literary analysis to everyday life. But worst of all, I am guilty of being discontented with my lot.

But even in spite of all these things I am guilty of, I still wouldn’t change the way I view the world. I may sometimes present a cynical and often embittered view of things, turn past events into humorous anecdotes to disguise (poorly) the fact they still affect me, and attempt to (again poorly) look on the dark side of life rather than brighter, more normal side, but I am so sure that these affectations define me. And someone, somewhere, some day (hopefully soon) is going to notice these things as nothing short of endearing, or if not that, for the small and insignificant parts of me they are. I remain, after all, defined by my family, friends and achievements. And if that be the case, well, I am proud to be excellently abnormal.

Hx

Spies – my view on the Cambridge occupation

I am packing all my things together to go back to Cambridge. I have missed the old place ever so much, six weeks away has been far too long. There are however bits of university life I haven’t missed: the looming deadlines, the fancy dress (too much effort and I just want to look nice!), the illnesses contracted from the multitude of different places represented in one tiny college, the late nights, the plethora of hangovers that make me feel mighty sick for whole mornings, the numbers of people dressed in wellingtons and Barbour coats in the city, the spoilt ones flashing iPhones and Mulberry, the occupation…I think that’s pretty much all. But, like all problems, there are always solutions: I am organised enough for deadlines not to be a problem, fancy dress is fun and I should stop being so vain, if I get ill it does at least mean I get to watch 4OD and eat as much as I like without feeling guilty, late nights are fine and I should man up and not do ‘an Edinburgh’ as my friends have named it, don’t drink wine as that always ends with a hangover and stick to spirits, ignore other people and just feel sorry for them as they are obviously feeling very displaced in an urban setting (though most I suspect are from the city anyway…as they so often are), the spoilt ones are probably insecure and will realise one day that life is shit no matter how much money daddy has, and finally the occupation is over.

Ridiculous event that it was, it made me feel embarrassed of the people who attend this university. I am fully in favour of publicly exercising political points of view, albeit in a peaceful and appropriate way. Occupying Senate House achieved nothing but pitiful looks from students and fellows walking past and judging the ‘gate keepers’ as they laughably called themselves for the stereotype they were presenting (hemp, wool and absolutely no synthetic fabrics). Let’s not kid ourselves – this is not the 1960s, this is not the time for change, there is no place for petty Marxism in our society these days. It’s time these students got real and stopped using the budget cuts as an opportunity to exercise their once dormant and rarely understood left-wing views, and as for those older generations, once again times have changed.

Sorry for the rant, I guess I spent so long repressing my true opinions on this that I had forgotten how angry it made me. Seeing good friends involved in the occupation made it difficult to actively denounce it. No one came to Cambridge to ‘fuck the system’ or overhaul all it stands for. A traditional institution, it’s time people gave up pretending they despise the wealth and status it represents. I’m no Conservative, but I believe conserving Cambridge’s tradition is about the only thing worth our time.

One year on

It’s one year since I got my place at Cambridge and the stress and the trials were all worth it. The months of fervent (wrong word?) reading and late nights and early morning spent battling commutes, emotional turmoil and a tonne of books only half-mentioned in a personal statement that seemed to encompass all of western literature…

Oh it has been a good year. A very good year. Words can’t explain the euphoria I felt when I received my offer, nothing but happiness that all the hard work was worth it. I had never wanted anything more, worked for anything as hard. The route I took to get there was slightly unconventional but I got there. And it changed everything.

I remember the night of my offer. I was so sad that I thought I would watch some Christmas TV on Sky+, so I put David Tennant’s Hamlet on and the call came. It was snowy outside so my dad put the champage in the snow and it was just magical. I spent the few months after my offer closing my eyes and thinking of the future. Wishing away all the worries and doubts that had nagged me.

When I went to grammar school I went with the (definitely unfounded) knowledge I would be inferior, not just academically but socially. I remember well my first English lesson where we were asked to say what we’d read over the summer. I watched my new friends saying they’d read Bronte, or a few chiclits (Sarah’s words not mine!), and for some reason I still chose to say “I endeavoured to read the Complete Works of Shakespeare”. Oh god, didn’t make any friends that day, or at least they all thought I was a dick.

Anyway, with an inferiority complex to end all others, I quickly humbled(!) and became a normal human being. No Comment. It took a while for me to settle down, or at least attempt normality. This is fast becoming some emotionally (un)insightful pile of self-indulgent claptrap, but I guess that’s what I’m good at!

So to end this post, which never really went anywhere or covered any of the topics I wanted it to, I guess I just wanted to reflect upon a great year. Long may they continue!

Persian Cats

Oh dear there has been ever so much on my mind today…alarming similarities are occurring between my life and that of Ugly Betty (Ugly Hattie? Maybe?). Perhaps someone somewhere is going to go all Truman Show on me and expose my life for the hilarious sitcom it really is and all the most ridiculous, seemingly insular moments I share with those who pertain to love me (heaven knows why) are, in fact, being broadcasted to millions of overweight middle-aged hooligans, basking in my humiliation.

Oh paranoia. You beast. I have noticed also that my writing is starting to mirror (bar the unfortunate word endings) that of an Arthurian epic. Except there is here, at least, no Knight in Shining (why does it always have to be shining?) Armour (oh, woe is me). Feeling pathetic and clad in leggings, wellingtons and a duffle coat, looking like a taller, less geeky Dobby from Peep Show, I decided to take the dog for a walk in the mud and mire. Like some wild, alternative teenager, the lyrics to Cold War Kids’ ‘Hang Me Out to Dry’ sprang to my mind as I trudged down the path. Taking in the wild winter air, I wrote a mental list of all the things I need to address in my life. Here is a select sample:

- Lack of motivation to read Geoffrey Chaucer. Seemingly insignificant out of context, but so so significant. I just can’t do it. Every line I read is like a lead weight plonking (unfortunate verb choice) itself down upon my head to say to me “READ! READ! READ” in constant and unending repetition…in the voice of David Dickinson.

- Headache induced by reading Middle English literature. Attempts to make LOTR-related jokes about Middle Earth: MANY. Lines of Chaucer read: 357. Episodes of Coronation Street watched: 4. I don’t even like it…

- Emotional turmoil caused by own inability to say no has reached critical level. Now cannot ascertain own position on matters of the heart at all, made worse by reading books about love and films where everyone is happy. That makes it all sound worse than it is, but seeing as I thrive on melodrama, let’s leave this one to the experts, shall we?

Jeremy Kyle. Why, oh why, oh why does Microsoft Word not ask to spellcheck that man’s name? Has he transcended all that is normal, like some super-human, chlamydia-fighting baffoon?

So with initial promise, this blog post has descended into the realms of simple sentence construction, popular culture and references to that most demonic of TV hosts, Jeremy Kyle. Just what gives him the right to preach at a group of overweight, under-educated, sexually virile ‘youngsters’ I’ll never know. Maybe I shall leave that for another day. Perhaps when I am 40, still single, living in a bedsit in Epping, with two small Persian cats bought to keep me company, Cathy and Linton, pawing at my alcohol-infused, nicotine-stained face. Oh dear.