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  • The Park Poem.



    A cold wind is blowing

    at the back of my neck,

    in the distance a train hoots

    and I am by a big lake

    and  have just fed the ducks

    and they are looking for more bread.



    Fir-cones roll in the wind

    that ripples up the lake

    that with the sun on it

    looks like vanilla ice-cream.



    I said to Mummy about the dead trees

    and she told me that

    they are not dead,

    just resting for the winter.



    Mummy says it’s too cold to write poetry

    but I don’t care.

    I love to see the water

    even on a cold day.



    This is a lovely park

    and the ducks think so too.

    A little girl is crying

    she does not like the wind

    it scares her

    but it is only God

    blowing away the dust of the winter.



    Bare branches creak behind me

    like in a scary film.

    But I love this park

    even in January,

    even today

    when it is so cold.



    Mummy is grinning

    I tell her I am writing

    a very l o n g poem,

    she says I am clever and stupid

    both at the same time.



    She says there is a pub

    that allows children in,

    shall we go there?



    I don’t think she is enjoying the park

    like I am,

    though my clothes are

    thicker than the ones she is wearing.



    But I must not be mean,

    so I am putting away this pen,

    love comes before everything

    even a poem.



    —

    Sophie Lucy Morgan (aged nine)

    ____________________

     

    See also The_Clowne_from_Clown  for a blog of the walk where I wrote the above.

     

    And Three_Headed_Sarahs are writing plays, their blog have been up two days now, and have got some prose for them.

     


    As I have spent the whole evening answering comments from the above two blogs, comments here might have to wait a day or so!


    Terry.



  • They closed the cheesemonger down our street.

    Another bit of Paris is gone,

    thanks to the supermarket.



    I used to buy my cheese at the cheesemongers

    all fresh and wrapped

    in greaseproof paper.



    I tried it at the supermarket,

    it was wrapped in polythene

    and tasted stale.



    I now walk a mile into the 19th

    To find a cheesemonger.

    But he’s losing trade,

    he told me “the young no longer loves France.”

    and I had to agree.



    —

    Marie St. Denis

    ______________

     


    Our eyes drank in the swarms of dreams

    that lay dead on the battlefield.



    Each man had a mother,

    others also has wives and children.

    Now they were just rotting flesh

    thanks to the men of war.



    The men who promised

    that we are dying for our country,

    instead of for their companies,

    firms that hold the lies

    that start the wars.



    Such men do not die,

    such men might have mothers, yes,

    but do they know their fathers?



    We step over the bodies,

    find one man still dying

    and crying for his mother

    to help him get better.



    The swarms of dreams are gone,

    the swarms of flies continues.



    —



    Jacques du Lumière

    ________________

     

    Three_Headed_Sarahs updated soon.

  • The below post whilst true is too depressing esp when I feel on the verge of a breakdown. So here is a new post.


    Sophie’s Blog



    Web-Page Eight





    Yummy! Fried Mars Bars from the Chippy! Can anything be so scrumptious? Mummy’s American friend couldn’t believe it. Chocolate dripping in fat?

    I love the chippy, I love fish n chips, bangers in batter and mushy peas! But I love best fried Mars Bars. “My fried friends” I call them.



    Very windy today. The lady on the corner house had a big tree blown down in her garden. It just missed her conservatory by inches.

    There was a lot of twigs blown about, some fatter than my arms. A chimney pot also blew down, bits of red brick covered in soot lay on the path.



    —



    I am playing a game.

    It is a game of hope.

    Everyone wishes for it.

    Everyone plays it.

    But it is still only a game.



    Hope is something

    that means a lot to me.

    It keeps me happy.

    And it keeps me busy.

    At writing my poetry.



    Sophie Lucy Morgan (aged 9)

    —



    I don’t write about school much in my blog. It’s the boring part of my life. I love learning, I love reading, but too much of school is wasted. We spent a whole term in rehearsing a play, and then some kids forgot their lines. They should have given me a bigger part, the trouble was, by the time a black kid got a good part and a Chinese kid got a good part and a special needs kid got a good part, and teacher’s pet got a good part, there were only daft parts left.

    I played a dancing tree. A dancing tree! I did write a poem about it but the poem was as dull as the part.



    The Head came round and warned us about taking drugs. I think she was having a laugh, we all know she buys her pot from Travis Brown!



    —



    Sometimes I am a tune.

    I am the music.

    I am not me.

    I am not Sophie.

    I am the violin.

    Or the flute.

    Or dancing with the piano keys.



    Yes Elgar,

    I like your classical music.

    Sometimes

    when I listen to it,

    I am not me

    I am the music.

    My whole head is the music.



    —

    Sophie Lucy Morgan (aged 9)

    —



    (Mummy’s Ps: Elgar is not the composer, but the name of Sophie’s friend.)



    —



    Father was on holiday and we had a different priest, one that did not see people as nice but only as bad. He said gays were twisted and people should hate those people who do not believe in God. Michael’s daddy loved it I bet, but it left me feeling hurt. I do not see Jesus as someone who hates other people because they are different. So this week I did something I had not done before, I refused to go to church. I hate this priest, when is the real Father coming back?



    Elgar’s next door are horrible people, they have a big van-size car, they never speak, always make a lot of noise and the man once put dung through a Paki’s letterbox. That was awful, they were nice people, the Pakis, but they had to move out. I think the man next door is very very cruel and I hate him so much, and that I could never never hurt a Paki.



    —



    “Save the milk!”



    Mummy says.

    I look at my empty glass

    and the empty bottle…



    and I cry.



    Sophie Lucy Morgan (aged 9)

    —



    This fly will not leave my room,

    But I can not kill it.



    Not after it had shared my biscuit



    And this poem.



    Sophie Lucy Morgan (aged 9)

    —



    It is very late, but I can’t sleep, I can hear mummy snoring in the next room, but that isn’t why I can’t sleep.



    I can not sleep because I want to write though I daren’t go on the ‘puter if I did, mummy would go mad!



    So I sit here writing this in my note-book knowinq if this is the best I can write, I’ll be better off sleeping!



    Mummy says that great-grampy is now dust, so I speak to the dust and I ask it what’s it like in heaven, and will they have a McDonalds for poor Mark who got knocked over by a stolen car then died in school?



    When the ambulance came to our school  for poor Mark, we were all excited.

    But later on that week Mrs Brown, our deputy-head told us to all say a prayer for Mark cos he was dead.

    “A bit late now miss” said Emily, and got into trouble, but she was right, for if we had said a prayer before he died, then maybe Mark will still be here

    picking fights with us all.



    —



    We went to Father Mclleney’s church today,

    And lit a candle for Mark.



    People were crying.

    It was cold in the church

    And the heating was wonky.



    Mark’s big sister said

    That Mark was a nice boy.



    But he wasn’t,

    He used to pull my hair

    And call me names.



    The other Mark is a nice boy,

    But not the one that died.



    Sophie Lucy Morgan (aged 9)

    —



    When Mark died, they showed his picture on the television.

    I was jealous, and I asked Mummy would I be on television if I died?

    Mummy just sighed, and gave me a hug.

    I think she was crying even though there were no tears on Mummy’s face.



    I don’t know what to write, this is terrible, I have a blog and yet nothing exciting is happening. I woke up early, let the cat out the back, watched her go into the church garden, helped mummy with breakfast, read more of a poetry book (Spike Millighan: Collected Poems), got bored with the silliness in it, fell back to sleep, watched a videoed “Heartbeat” with mummy, had lunch, come onto this, commented on the three people who commented on me. That’s all. After this I am going to read Japanese haiku, Mummy insists on knowing where I’ve been on the computer, and won’t allow me a email thingie! But I know she only does it cos she loves me. Bye.



    —

    Sophie Lucy Morgan. Aged Nine.

     


    Three_Headed_Sarahs is happish even if it is about the Pearly Gates 


    The_Clowne_from_Clown site though is more akin to how I feel.


    and join Tiffy and Toby and send poems to the http://www.jalabelle.com forum
     



  • “The Visitor”



    “everything always went on for ever” Samuel Beckett: “The Embers”



    Yes, I remember the coal fire.

    The crackling, the hissing, the spitting,

    The shifting of embers;

    I remember the fire.



    It was cold out,

    Not snowing

    just very cold,

    And there I was standing naked

    By the fire;

    My body shaking.



    And there he was,

    I could see him grinning.

    I looked away from where

    He wanted me to see,

    I looked up and saw him grinning.



    It wasn’t love.

    It wasn’t hate.

    It was merely his desire

    For my young body.



    As I leant over the settee,

    The fire crackling on in

    The tears in my eyes:

    I felt the pain,

    I felt the pain

    As he felt the desire.



    It was soon over,

    And he kissed me on my lips;

    His breath smelt of cigarettes.

    He gave me a toy

    And then he left.



    I watched the toy burn

    Like my bottom burnt.



    The woman then came in

    And she dressed me.

    I hated her more

    Than I hated him.

    It was as if he did not understand,

    But she did.



    She was cruel,

    She was my teacher,

    The one my parents

    Had trusted me with.



    She wiped away the blood

    Coming out of my backside,

    And she told me I should be grateful;

    That he was the man

    That I could never become.



    I sat then alone by that fire,

    I sat for hours

    Just staring at the fire.



    It was cold out,

    Not snowing

    Just very cold.

    As cold as my inside

    As cold as my heart.



    —

    Terry Cuthbert.

    ___________________

     

    Notes: at the Three_Headed_Sarahs site is their latest play “At The Pearly Gates”

     


    And don;t forget the new poetry (etc) forum at http://www.jalabelle.com



  • In the next few days I must tidy my flat up. But I’ll get to all of you who have and will sign this and my Clowne blog. I promise, it’s just I have hated living in filth and now I do not need to. (Ps it’s also back to work!)


    To carry you on here is two new pieces by our good decent old English vicar, the Rev. Toby.


    Back on the prose with Sophie’s blog reaching page 8. GOT to work on Anyway.


    ——————————————————


    “Sam”



    You could see the sea in his eyes

    As he puffed his pipe.

    His doctor had long given up

    Trying to get Sam to give up smoking.

    “Don’ it all me life!” he said.



    What amazed me was why

    Someone who had spent 50 years on boats and ships

    Should want to live so far in-land as Shawthwaite.

    “It’s like this Pardre” he grinned,

    “Mind if I smoke?”

    I smiled and produced my own pipe

    For a rare smoke but needed empathy.



    “I spent too long trying t’ get away from Her

    But everytime I opened a window,

    There she be, calling me, calling me.

    She is a drug my friend,

    The sea is a drug.

    An’ only way t’ turn yer back ont-it

    Is t’ live too far inland.”



    All around Sam were icons of the sea,

    Fishing nets, pieces from boats, pieces from the brine.



    “Nay married ever Pardre” Sam smiled.

    “ad a gal once, pretty as a spring rose,

    But she went off wi’ another

    Tired of waiting for me t’ tie the knot.

    It were only knot I could nay tie

    For it took the sea away from me.”



    He took a puff and closed his eyes.

    At first I thought he might have dozed off,

    But his brandy-filled eyes re-opened and looked at me

    In the smile of his weatherboard face.



    “Thou won’t hab t’ bury me when I’m gone, Pardre.

    They are doing it at sea.

    Not my ashes, not my coffin,

    But my whole body,

    For I want t’ feed the fish

    As they once fed me.”



    —

    The Reverent Tobias Trontby +

    __________________________

     


    “My New Year Sermon, 2005.”



    It is said by disbelievers that to believe in Jesus you must believe man had fallen, that he was cast out with Adam and Eve, and was in need of a redeemer from God in the form of the Christ-child.



    I myself have never believed that man has fallen, no matter how much evil I see in the world. I do not see it as a fall.



    In my long life as a Parish Priest, I have seen a million people who had never fallen, but who have rose from the ashes of evil and shown goodness and kindness and warmth.



    To see man as fallen and thus in need of redemption you must see man as evil. I can not see man as evil, he has too much goodness with-in him.



    So do I believe in Jesus?



    Yes, I believe He is needed by us all as the light in the darkness, as the guide through the fear of life, but most of all, as a friend. A friend that will always be our friend, always be our trusted confidence.



    I like to think of Jesus as an imaginary friend. Someone we can talk to when we are lonely, ask questions of when we are in doubt, and provide a shoulder to cry on when we fear. Someone who will always be there in our hearts and in our minds.



    If, dear people, I sometimes forget the Bible, it does not mean I forget our friend, Jesus Christ, our Lord in Heaven.



    Let us Pray.



    —



    The Reverend Tobias Trontby +

    ___________________________

     

    POETS: A new forum! http://www.jalabelle.com

  • Important news on my Clowne site.

     

  • First Poem of 2005



    I’ll soon by taking down the holly from the bar

    Putting the plastic Christmas tree back into the loft,

    Taking down the cards and placing them in a drawer

    Until the Spring clean.



    I don’t know why I bothered

    No one seemed to care,

    No one rang me up this morning

    To wish me a happy new year.



    Of course there are people worse off than me

    I’ve given a day’s takings to Oxfam relief

    And as I sit alone in my bed

    I thank the Lord that I am still alive

    With only a splitting head.



    —



    Tiffy Witherington

    _______________________

     


    “I rediscovered the unworn world” (Patrick Kavanagh)



    Come easy to this unworn world,

    where life and death go un-treated;

    but where there is still the freshness,

    where there is still the unstale’d.



    It was never easy to see the world as new

    when one is their-self crusting old,

    when one has drank the wine of it’s soul

    and ate the plants of it’s dying light.



    But I know I have re-discovered you

    whenever I write a poem at all,

    whenever the clouds silk in cold

    or are baked in an oven of suns.



    An unworn world that’s still soaks life,

    billions of people each with different eyes

    that look in wonder out of different brains,

    and all using very different words.



    If I wore a crown every day

    I could not have so much power

    as when I touch a silver leaf

    or feel a redbrick factory.



    After all I have suffered in my days

    I still want to rise up again

    out of the ashes of silence,

    to re-discover the unworn world

    in the evening of my dreams,



    —

    The Poet Known as “Empty Chairs”

    _____________________________

     


    “Stacey’s Poem”



    We did not celebrate Christmas this year

    Thomas is too small

    And I didn’t care.

    No one brought me presents

    I had no presents to buy,

    There were only the two of us,

    Baby Thomas and I.



    Next year Thomas will have a Christmas

    He’ll like the pretty lights

    And I’ll tell him it’s a special day

    When someone died to give us life.



    But this year we did not celebrate Christmas,

    There was no reason why,

    For no one else really cared

    For baby Thomas or I.


    (Not a new personae, just a poem about another lonely person.)

     

    _________________________

    Depressed after all that? Want Fun and laughter and irony? go to the Three_Headed_Sarahs site, but mind the slurry!


     

    ps: Sophie’s blog pages has reached number 7! http://sophielucymorgan.homestead.com/S7.html

     

    Sorry: Just in, latest Edition Scoope!

     


    Written for LordPineapple  (A true talent of Xangaland)…..



    The river of poetry flows in a somber fashion
    Penned by the hand of brilliance and flair
    Impersonating many egos, all colorful in ways
    With this, I give you sunshine in these words
    May your mourning become a beaming smile
    Your tearful raindrops be turned to radiance
    Cast your cares aside and revel in adoration
    Lavish upon us always, your poetical art…..


    Copyright © PoeticaC

     

    PoeticaC

  • “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.)

LordPineapple

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