Month: December 2004

  • “Sophie’s Web-page 4.



    People want to give me a lift home from school when it’s raining, they don’t understand that I love the rain and they think I am being rude by saying no thanks.



    Mummy does not collect me much from school now, I walk down the road with the twins cos their mother has no car neither.



    A big black man stood outside our school gates. We are at that school until we are eleven. He wanted to know if we wanted any drugs. Sonia told her dad and her dad and his brothers (also black) beat the (deleted word) out of the pusher.



    Why not? The police don’t care. They think we are all dirt. That’s why their chopper is overhead at 3am and police cars leave their hooters on even when there are no other cars to get in their way.



    —



    Dandelions are pretty flowers

    And I feel so sad

    When Mummy say they are weeds.



    I told her that she was pretty

    But she wasn’t a weed.



    She let me plant three dandelion roots

    In a plant-pot

    In my bedroom.



    When Nanny found out

    She said I can have

    Some of hers.



    —



    Mummy wasn’t very well today. I wanted to stay at home and look after her, but she said I must go to school and learn enough to get away from this dump and people like the Ricketts.



    But I was worried about Mummy all day and even borrowed someone’s mobile phone, but that only got Mummy out of bed, so it would have been better if I had never rang her.



    What I like most about winter is the way frost turns cobwebs into lace doillies (like the ones Nanny use, she also uses saucers!) I like weaving the webs in my finger but not if there’s a spider in the web.



    I’m not scared of spiders like Mummy is (I get them out of the bath for her) but it’ll be a shame if a poor spider had to make a new web in the frost.



    —



    One day of snow this winter,

    One half of a snowman,

    And one snowball fight.

    That is all.



    I wish I lived in a country

    With a lot of snow

    So that I can have more fun.



    Though I suppose

    School might then close,

    And that would be a bad thing.



    —



    I don’t watch much telly, I prefer to read. I love reading poetry, I am into Walter-de-la-Mere now, though I am not clever enough to write like him.



    I stopped Mummy from buying “The Sun”, it’s a dirty little paper. i love reading Grampie’s “Guardian” though, even if a lot of the words are a puzzle to me.



    I hate people who smoke. And of course SHE smokes, the dirty old (deleted word.)



    Mummy! What’s wrong with THAT word? It’s okey you deleting (deleted word.) that is bad, but here it’s a real animal that goes moo moo moo!



    SHE even smokes at the meal table and Daddy lets her get away with it. I told her she’s always got to have SOMETHING in her mouth and she said something rude and daddy laughed. But I did not find it funny. I don’t want to hear sex jokes from that disgusting woman, ta very much!



    I stuck a no-smoking notice on my bedroom door in daddy’s flat. SHE ripped it off saying if I didn’t like the smoke to (rude word Mummy will delete THAT one!) off home. I started to pack my things but daddy wouldn’t take me back to Mummy (who NEVER smokes!)



    —



    I wake up

    to find the moon in bed with me,

    a reflection from my mirror;



    and for a while

    I danced on the surface of the moon,

    happy to be alive.



    Then I fell asleep.



    I hope there are no clouds tonight

    I want to touch the moon again.



    —



    Sophie Lucy Morgan (aged nine)





    Reading

    Prayers of the Ark by Carmen Bernos de Gasztold

  • Sophie Lucy Morgan.

    __________________

     

    “Age Nine” (Taken from my secret blog.)



    Web-Page One



    I am Sophie Lucy Morgan. I am nearly ten. I kept a blog of my thoughts and my poems, and mummy is trying with her best spelling and grammer. And she checks every spelling she finds though if I can’t spell a word at all, if the word looks silly to me then I always put a shorter word in, one I think I can spell (or mummy can!)



    It was when I was nine that Mummy got my secret blog, at first it was not secret but I got an eMail from a man who said I was sexy (I put my picture in the blog, you won’t get it here!) I really am called Sophie Lucy. I have those two names and “Morgan”. No one will read this except by invite, so if you are reading this is cos Mummy trusts you.



    I try to be a good girl, I go to church. I try and understand other people, I cry at cruelity I don’t do dirty things like Jane, she is ten and the whole school thinks she’s having it off with her sister’s boyfriend.



    I shall put poems into this book, a book not really for you, but for me, to inspire me to be a better poet, a better lady.



    —



    Because Mummy tries to make it in good English, people will say I have not wrote this nor the poems cos Mummy trys and make them smile, I don’t care, I can share my words with Mummy, she taught me most of them didn’t you? Words like (deleted word!).



    Here is a poem not corrected in spelling and grammer like Mummy, she keeps the originals in case one day people prefer my last draft.



    MUMMY AND THE BARNARNA.



    on my barnarna

    Mummy wrut

    Knot to ferget to brring

    My PE kit home

    With “PS I love you!”

    I ket the barnarna skin

    Huntil it went all blaikc…

    Then I cried.

    —

    Sophie Lucy Morgan (Aged eight)





    —



    Mummy said I was a dreadful child, who used to have tantums (or as I called them “tam-tums”). But now I hope I am better. I am an Alter girl, and Father McIleney is a good male model for me (I like to think he is my true father, that makes Mummy laugh so I play up to it), but really I am just a creep. I like to be important, I want to be a real writer one day. Mummy also wants me to, so I play my role as a different person to different people. Mummy says that is important, to always understand others. I mean no one any harm and as no one will EVER want to read this (deleted word!).



    MUMMY, people are grown up, we use that word to the teacher sometimes and she uses the word back and says another rude way and we will will laugh and teacher will be sorry she taught us another rude word we in fact already know.

    “Don’t report me boys and girls.” But she don’t get me. Read the poem I wrote and read in class.



    LITTLE ANGELS.



    I like the rain.

    I call the raindrops

    “Little Angels”.



    I see them

    As angels falling on us

    To make us know

    That they exist

    Watching over us

    Inside water.



    —



    Teacher called the above poem “silly” said rain is just water just like you drink in the tap and just like you (deleted word) out!



    Later I will write about my Daddy but kind lady Tiffy Witherington wrote one about her own daughter when they were both younger. I see my daddy there. More later.





    “Doesn’t Daddy Love Me anymore?”

    ______________________________________

    After two hours at the window,

    Her coat on, her bag ready…

    She had looked at me and said

    “Doesn’t daddy love me any more?”


     

    I took her to town

    And she saw you there

    In a strange car

    With a strange woman.

    She never mentioned you again

    Until today

    When you came for her

    And she was not in.

    —

    Tiffy Witherington



    ——-

    Sophie Lucy Morgan.

  •  I am sorry if I am doing no visiting for the next couple of days, but writing like mad on my novels and my poetry. If you want the best from me, you must remember I am an artist.


    THE POEM CONTAINS A SWEAR WORD.


     


    On The Beach.



    On the white beach

    we cry.

    On the red beach

    we die.



    Do we not twist,

    do we not scream;

    when we realise that this

    is no fucking dream?



    On the white beach

    we cry.

    On the red beach

    we die.



    Such was our life,

    such was our death;

    a scream, a sob

    or a last gasp of breath.



    On the white beach

    we cry.

    On the red beach

    we die.



    And as we died,

    we just knew

    that our country would one day

    hate us too.



    On the white beach

    we cry.

    On the red beach

    we die.



    —



    Jacques du Lumière

    ___________________

     

    post below: “Lonely This Christmas” by Tiffy Witherington.

     

    (the first 17 chapters of “AnyWay” are now on Horace_Smith_Esq ‘s blog.)

  • Tiffy Witherington



    “Lonely this Christmas”



    I open my pub for three hours

    Upon Christmas Day.

    Well, what else is there for me to do

    With one child in Canada,

    The other in prison.

    If I did not open my pub

    I will see no one, and

    Christmas to me will just be

    Another lonely day.



    At mid-day I switch on the lights,

    Rather pointlessly hang misletoe

    Above the bar table,

    And open up shop.



    Most of the customers

    Are like myself,

    Spending Christmas alone

    And trying not to cry.



    They all leave before the Queen’s Speech

    At 3 pm.

    And I watch it alone

    Before microwaving

    Yet another TV dinner

    And getting hopelessly drunk

    In the silence of my pub.



    —

    Tiffy Witherington.

    __________________

     

    note: I’m actually watching Haydn’s Creation on video, from Gateshead new musical hall, and recorded from my favt channel, BBC4

    ___________

    usual rude poem and crap-novel extract on the Three_Headed_Sarahs  site!

  •  

    “Tea and Tiffin at Jane’s”



    “The most remarkable thing

    about words” she said, “more tea my dear?



    “Is that they mean so much

    to us.”

    She poured out the tea into

    little china cups and saucers.



    (I doubt I’ve a saucer in my pub!)



    “I mean” she continued

    after handing out the cakes,

    daring us to start talking to each other

    when She, the grand dame

    was in the middle of a conversation,

    even it was a bit like

    humpty-dumpty’s in Alice.



    I dared a quick glane of my watch,

    her eagle eyes spotted me.

    “Am I boring any of you?” she cried

    in an “Hyacinth Buckett” shrill voice.



    We all shook our heads,

    we were a little scared of our host

    but she did good tea and tiffin;

    and had given a lot of money

    to the local children’s hospital.



    “I mean” she gave us a glare,

    “words are mere tools

    of human vanity.”



    With that, she shut up.

    and the silence got longer and longer

    before one of us dared to agree.



    She did make beautiful cakes,

    better than any bakers

    and her chairs were cosy,

    but I wish Jane was sane!



    —

    Tiffy Witherington.

    ____________________

     


    “A Poem for Christmas.”



    Of all the stories that are told

    By infelicitous bores,

    There’s none as sad as

    The death of Santa Claus.



    We first learnt of his sad death

    In a strange sort of way,

    When our kids got absolutely nothing

    On one Christmas Day.



    Of course by now they believed

    That Santa did not exist

    And that we had brought them nothing.

    (Oh how our neighbours hissed!)



    How could we explain

    To children we adored

    That we never brought anything because

    We believed in Santa Claus?



    But now he’s dead and we must buy

    The kids presents ourselves next year.

    Oh why oh why did Santa die

    Before he delivered our beer?



    —

    Bob Smartass.

    __________________

     

    The Three_Headed_Sarahs  has realised by now that you all hate my novels, so has gone back to jokey and risque with full Christmas cheers!

     

    Ps Sorry my Christmas cards (one I sent mistakingly to a Jewish lady and one to a Muslem man!) were full of adverts I picked the wrong firm. I would have used paid cards if I could have gotten ‘pay pal’ in this country.

     

    pps PoeticaC said few if any of us will be in xangaland on Christmas day. This sad git will be!

  • “Do not go gentle into that good night

    But rage, rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

    (Dylan Thomas)



    We must face death with solumn dignity,

    See those who have passed away

    As going to a better place.



    But I find it hard to hide my anger

    When the deceased is a young person or child.

    I make all the right noises,

    I try not to cry.

    I tell silly hopes about heaven to the parents,

    I hide my anger with God

    For snatching the young away.



    Yesterday I buried a young boy.

    12 he was.

    I let them sing a pop-song he had liked

    And I spoke about his favourite toys.



    There was no wake,

    No one felt like having one.

    I was glad because I would not have hid my anger

    At such a young death.



    “You look ill Toby”

    My lover said to me later,

    I told her of my feelings

    And we raged together

    At the dying of the light.



    —

    The Reverend Tobias Trontby +

     

    __________________________

     


    The Flyer.

    _________



    “I wish I could fly” she said,

    Looking up at the moon.



    She looked at a bird.

    “How can I fly like you?” she asked.

    “I learnt to fly” said the bird

    By stepping off a large tree

    And flapping my wings”.



    So she tried that,

    She climbed up the tallest tree

    And she jumped.



    She is now with wings

    But as she looks down to her body

    And hears the cries of her parents,

    She wished then that

    She did not learn to fly.



    —

    Sophie Lucy Morgan, aged Nine

  • CERT 18. Poem.

    ______________

     

    “Bitch, Cow, Whore”



    (This poem was wrote after reading about how young Palestinian women are offered work and freedom in Paris, only to end up in brothels to have unprotected sex until they get aids.)



    They called her name

    She had to go.

    She took off her clothes

    Lay on the bed,

    Three men mounted her

    One after another.

    There was no love in it,

    No one kissed her lips

    Or said she had nice breasts,

    They did not use condoms

    “It would spoil the fun.”



    The first one called her a bitch,

    The second one called her a cow,

    The third one called her a whore.



    They pulled her off the bed

    To call in the next girl,

    She had to have a shower

    She may be called again later

    As a young Russian girl of 14

    Is coughing up blood.



    And she had come to France

    To start a new life,

    The man had promised her

    A job in a bar.

    “It doesn’t matter that

    You do not speak French”

    He smiled, “you will pick words up.”

    She did, she learnt

    That she was a bitch, a cow, a whore.



    She was only 17

    From a good Islamic family.



    They called her name again,

    The man wanted to see her,

    She was going to go off

    With three brothers.



    She could not argue,

    If she escaped,

    They would deport her back home to Palestine,

    Where she will be killed

    For what she had became,

    A bitch, a cow, a whore.



    —

    Marie St. Denis.

  • Please forgive me for ignoring you and not visiting your sites. my feeble excuse is on The_Clowne_from_Clown site, I see what I can do today before I have to return to bed.


    ———————————————


    La Gioconda



    She smiles as she begs,

    But do not ever

    Take that smile wrong.



    Some people see her smile as a smerk,

    Others as a hidden bliss,

    Some thinks she had just puffed on a reefer

    But they are all wrong,

    Her smile is one of hopelessness.



    She has sold everything but her body

    And that is not for sale

    Though it’s been taken from her more than once

    Against her will.

    Once by an arresting policeman.



    “People do not come to Paris” someone said

    “Just to see you beg.”

    But that someone did not offer help.



    She was given a flat once,

    But it was so lonely for her

    She missed the sun on the Seine

    The voices in her head.



    There was a child once,

    Her sister is bringing it up,

    She has a photo of it somewhere upon her,

    and for a few francs she will show you it.

    Then her smile will warm her face

    And remind you

    That she is a real person

    Not just shite on the street.



    The other day a man gave her several francs

    Felt sorry for her it seems,

    She took it to a shop to buy some food

    The shop-keeper kept the money

    And would not feed her.



    That night she went back

    And smashed the shop window,

    Two days later she was floating on the river

    With her throat cut.



    Somewhere under the bridges

    She still sits there smiling,

    It’s just it’s harder to see her

    Now that her body has gone.



    —

    Marie St. Denis

    ———————————————

     


    Only In Paris.

    ____________



    Red paint on white chalk

    in Paris.



    Only in Paris

    will someone put paint

    upon chalk.



    I rub my eyes.



    I sigh.

    Same day every day

    to the office.



    On the metro

    a gypsy woman demands 50 Francs

    to help pay for her daughter’s abortion.

    “Raped in Iraq” she says,

    “by American GI’s”

    this is absurd,

    but some stupid people believe her.



    Off the train

    back on the streets

    walk to the office

    in that special French way.



    We help the boredom

    of the office

    by tricks, banter

    and frequent visits

    to the coffee-machine.



    Then it’s back home.

    Telly on,

    And bed.



    Another wasted day.



    And they call this

    “The City Of Love”



    merdé!



    —

    Marie St. Denis.

  • Heavens, it’ll take me all weekend to visit you all. I have not forgotten any of you, illness and work make me sleepy, but on this three days off I’ll try and read (carefully, no skipping) all you have written since my last visit to your site.


    Meanwhile on my The_Clowne_from_Clown
    site I have gone back to my last novel but updated it and might put it all onto the internet.


    One new poem first by Charlie.


    ———


    “Going Straight”



    “Go on, do it.

    Follow a life going straight

    Don’t give way to temptation

    Do not go back to jail

    Life is not monopoly

    You don’t have to throw a dice”.



    Well they tried to go

    On the straight and narrow

    A lot of them did,

    But it was never easy,

    Never easy for an ex-con

    To get a job or keep it

    Once their criminal record came out.

    Hard for them to get a flat

    Impossible for them to get a loan.



    They would try to scrape a living

    Try and be honest

    Until an old mate rings up

    Offering them an “easy” job.



    As we catch the same old crooks

    Not all of us coppers say

    “We knew you’ll be back.”

    Many of us felt sorry for the men

    To whom no one gave a chance

    To go straight

    Except straight back to jail

    At the roll of a dice.



    —

    Charlie Copper

    ———

    Now an oldie

    ———-

     


    “Death of a dragon”

    _______________________________________



    You said that tomorrow

    Was a continuation of today;

    That my breath will still fire,

    My pulse still shine,

    Yet now I die, and tomorrow is

    Lies. All lies.





    Every morning I wake

    Tomorrow came,

    But now dusk falls

    And there is only yesterday.

    They said tomorrow

    Was a continuation of today

    The same warm fist

    The same magic eyes of mine

    Will burst forth:

    But now I die, and tomorrow is

    Lies. All Lies.





    You broke my tomorrow

    Burnt it in shreds

    When I had been happy

      firing the temper of your heart.

    But now I flame no more, no more;

    And water cruel my eyes,

    You went and you stole tomorrow,

    And left lies. All lies.


    —-

    Lord Pineapple