Like a candle

Poetry is great

Poetry is grand

Almost like a soup that you pour out of a can.

I tell them no! but they don’t understand

Weighing out problems by the gram.

Forever eternally dammed.

Can I be held accountable?

Can anyone

As we slyly manipulate the young

Cruel bitter words on the tip of our tongs.

This life is breaking me bit by bit

Ticking days rolling in like mist.

Like a candle that’s already been lit

Go ahead burn all of it!  

We begged for some bread  

While you bathed in wine.

You stole all that was mine!

I wish I could Rewind the clock !

I wish I could rewind the clock
Like a tape recorder.
So i could sit in that cardboard box
Or bake with my mum.
I long to go back to that couch and watch ghost adventures with my brother and for the night to slip away while we cowered beneath a cover.

I wish I could have toast with my nana at her kitchen table.
Or help her with her scrap book that disappeared.
I think if she new she’d be angry for once ,  perhaps from out of fear.

I wish my gran could read me the wishing chair as a child.
Or make me chocolate spread on toast.
What is there anymore no money,  no life , no hope!

Perhaps I could go back to my English classroom and have a bit of fun!
Instead I’m standing looking down the barrel of a gun.

We could of had a council house with proper rooms or cartons of orange juice instead of frozen food !
But be careful where you point your finger it might come back to you !

What if his had not happened
And we were still hanging about down the point
He offered me a cigarette
I should of smoked a joint! 

I wish I could wash the names out of their mouths with turps.
I don’t want attention , only the peaceful song of morning birds.

My clothes still smell like the flat that I chucked you out of.

If –

If—

Rudyard Kipling – 1865-1936

If you can keep your head when all about you
   Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
   But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
   Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don’t give way to hating,
   And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
   If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
   And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
   Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
   And stoop and build ’em up with wornout tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
   And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
   And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
   To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
   Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on”;

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
   Or walk with kings—nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
   If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run—

   Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

Our Day Will Come

I cant stop writing like tapping your foot or slamming your head hard against wood.
They wouldnt say we’re “Very” poor , obesity can say for sure.

I crossed the line
I didn’t care to read the signs
disillusioned by all my rhymes
guilty of my sickly crimes.

Perhaps if I re spun the dial
waited for a little while
and through the crackling static said
go to the forth and baptize your head
with the spilled blood of the dead.

Would you rather see your taxes go
to a sick man
arise poor soul.
Or see your hard working honest gold.
Slide into a stoic MPs pocket.

Damn those civil servants too
the heartless policeman
the shitty nurse
the lawyer with a bulging purse.

I wouldn’t preach to being proud of the poor
oh for goodness sake will you shut the front door.
Your desperation has leaked all over my nice floor.

I feel guilty are words you’ve never said
My poems are all stained in red.

Surely the day will one day come
we’ll bleed our veins
for our little ones.

Oh you’ll be sorry
through the muffled silence
I think that is what he said
when your children are crying I’ll turn away my head.
And cruelly smile.
Perhaps if I re spun the dial.

Scotland’s Shame

Scotland’s Shame 
There are children jumping in front of trains , and grown men throwing bricks through window panes.
An old woman drowning out her sorrow by voting for the devils of tomorrow.

There are qualified girls lining up for food , and young boys disguising their face with a hood.
Polite ladies burning up my book , whilst their dearest darlings get up to no good. Kicking the life out of a man until his lips turn to blue.

For I have seen your likes before , I have already chapped this door and ran away I never stay. In the dark I stiffly lay.

For they are you and they are me. Scotland’s shame to the highest degree.
Sentence me with immortality.

You are people in textbooks no more , which teenagers think are just a bore.

For we have slept here before.

Out Over The Forth By Robert Burns

1791
Type: Song

Out over the Forth, I look to the North;
But what is the north and its Highlands to me?
The south nor the east gie ease to my breast,
The far foreign land, or the wide rolling sea.

But I look to the west when I gae to rest,
That happy my dreams and my slumbers may be;
For far in the west lives he I loe best,
The man that is dear to my babie and me.

Burns has to be my favourite poet , if not my favourite. I was sitting looking out over the forth today and this poem talked to me and touched my heart. I had to share it.

Then I Grew

I wake screaming in the night

God’s grip around me hard and tight.

As blackie watches from the windowsill

Oh I wish, I pray I could see him still.

But I am blind and I am bitter

I sit and wait for the harsh winter.

 

If only he could see me now

His frown a downturned smile

of victory

oh not oh not for me

 

For here I sit and slowly decay.

I cough and splutter in the rain

grow restless at the passing days.

 

As a child, I thought you were the only one.

Oh pretty blackbird

but as I grew

I looked and knew that there were many of you.

 

Yet still I glance through the windowpane

Stained with dirt and grit and fingerprints of many.

I think of you

oh pretty blackbird

The true love I only knew

but then I grew.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ten Things Ive learned In my 19 Years

 

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1.sometimes people are wrong. Wither its your parents or proffesionals sometimes it better just not to listen.

2.Stay In School No matter how hard it gets. When people say you’l regret it you honestly will. Dont give in to opression. As the quote goes education is our greatest weapon.

3 Avoid psyciatric hospitals at all costs. You know when you hear about writers being depressed its kinda a sterotype.Honestly being admited to hospital  will make your health so much worse as no one wants to be degraded and treated like shit the way they do in hospital.

4.Its ok not to be ok-  Sometimes you have to give yourself a break. No ones perfect and you probably are doing your best. Minus the breakdown.

5.Remember who the real enemy is – You may have had a bad experience in life that turns you bitter. You may look for someone to blame your family , your friends , yourself. You have to remember that its not these peoples fault. Its just the fascist society we live in. If anything its moneys fault because the world revolves around it.

6.Go easy on the chocolate – As nice as it is. You will gain weight.

7.Smoking isnt always bad – All you see over the packets of ciggerettes are warnings not to do it. Honestly though I think smoking has helped me. It helps mask panic attacks , gets me to go outside more which elievates depression , helps me mentain my weight and can be used as inspiration. Most of my ideas for poems and prose pieces have happend over a fag. To be honest I wish Ide started it sooner.

8.Its hard being a young woman – I know. Its hard being a woman. Its hard being second best. If your poor and a woman its hard being like 10th best. Try and do things that empower you and help convince you your not just scum of the earth. Read books by female authors watch films with female actresses , listen to music sung by females. Go to clubs with other woman. Just know that we all feel the same.

9.ts Natural to worry about the future – Will I ever get a job? Will I be a bad mother? Will my partner leave me ? Its natural

10.Dont let other people bring you down – This kinda ties into my first suggestion. Dont listen to nasty people. Dont listen when your called a bum , dont let it get to you when people at the Job centre look down their snots at you. You are great, you are you!!!

Aunt Julia Analysis

:Please note this is my own interpretation of the poem by the writer Norman MacCaig and may not be correct.

Aunt Julia Is one of my favourite poems by MacCaig. Its quite a melancholy poem and has connotations to death. Yet MacCaigs depiction of his Aunt Julia is a very fond one.

Stanza one

Aunt Julia spoke Gaelic
very loud and very fast.
I could not answer her —
I could not understand her.

In this stanza we are introduced to the main character of the poem Aunt Julia. We are told that she speaks Gaelic this immediately tells us there is a communication barrier. “I could not answer her – I could not understand her” This for me also has connotations of death “I could not answer her ” shows his desperation and grief and also shows us that MacCaig perhaps feels guilty about his relationship with his aunt that he never really understood her and never will understand her.

Stanza Two

She wore men’s boots
when she wore any.
— I can see her strong foot,
stained with peat,
paddling with the treadle of the spinningwheel
while her right hand drew yarn
marvellously out of the air.

In stanza two the opening lines are “She wore men’s boots when she wore any” This shows that she is perhaps a very tough woman who almost takes on a mans role. “I can see her strong foot stained with peat” This reveals that the character is a woman of the land. “Paddling with the treadle of the spinning wheel while her right hand drew yarn marvellously out of the air” This shows a more domesticated side to Aunt Julia. This is a skill heavily associated with island life – Harris is famous for producing tweed. The word choice of “Marvellously” shows the young MacCaigs admiration and fondness for his aunt. The use of the present tense throughout this stanza creates a sense of immediacy and shows how vividly and readily he can still access these memories.

Stanza Three

Hers was the only house
where I’ve lain at night
in the absolute darkness
of a box bed, listening to
crickets being friendly.

MacCaig decides to open the stanza with the word choice of hers. Which shows his affection for her and the bond they had. In the absolute darkness again has connotations of death and reiterates the theme to the reader with the darkness being symbolic of death and despair. It has links to the final stanza where Aunt Julia is “Silenced in the absolute black”

Stanza Four 

She was buckets
and water flouncing into them.
She was winds pouring wetly
round house-ends.
She was brown eggs, black skirts
and a keeper of threepennybits
in a teapot.

The writer uses personification and metaphors in this stanza to connect Aunt Julia to the landscape and objects. MacCaig connects his aunt with mundane domestic objects which symbolise her simple minimalistic lifestyle. “She was winds pouring wetly round house-ends” This connects his aunt to nature and is also perhaps symbolic of his despair.

Stanza five

Aunt Julia spoke Gaelic
very loud and very fast.
By the time I had learned
a little, she lay
silenced in the absolute black
of a sandy grave
at Luskentyre. But I hear her still, welcoming me
with a seagull’s voice
across a hundred yards
of peat scrapes and lazybeds
and getting angry, getting angry
with so many questions
unanswered.

The main theme of death is shown in the last stanza. There is a bitter despair to MacCaigs tone. He uses the word choice of “Silenced” to suggest perhaps Aunt Julia lived her whole life in silence isolated by the communication barrier and her geographical area. “In the absolute black” Is again symbolic of death.