'You! What d'you mean by this?' I rapped.
'You dare come on parade like this?'
'Please, sir, it's-' ''Old yer mouth,' the sergeant snapped.
'I takes 'is name, sir?'-'Please, and then dismiss.'

Some days 'confined to camp' he got,
For being '***** on parade'.
He told me, afterwards, the damnèd spot
Was blood, his own. 'Well, blood is dirt,' I said.

'Blood's dirt,' he laughed, looking away,
Far off to where his wound had bled
And almost merged for ever into clay.
'The world is washing out its stains,' he said.
'It doesn't like our cheeks so red:
Young blood's its great objection.
But when we're duly white-washed, being dead,
The race will bear Field-Marshal God's inspection.'

He’s not the ‘forever’ type.

He’ll take you to a park on your first date and ask you to dance to hungry eyes, and he’ll say ‘gosh, you’re intelligent - you’re not just smart, you’re intelligent’ and he’ll say it like there’s actually a difference.

On the second date he’ll make you fall in love. Not the ‘real’ kind of love but the heart racing, take-your-breath-away kind that says, ‘I don’t think I’ll ever meet anyone like this again.’

The cruelest thing he’ll do is let you believe you have a special place in his heart.

He’ll call at 10am or 10pm or halfway through dinner. He’ll call and your heart will lurch and you’ll swoon and laugh and pretend it didn’t hurt when he didn’t turn up last Saturday. He’ll call and you’ll drop your ego like you drop your knife and fork, and you’ll run straight to his front door.

And standing on his porch, you’ll smooth over your skirt and hair, and bite your bottom lip like a schoolgirl who hasn’t learnt her lesson, and he’ll answer the door and say, come, meet my friend. I’m teaching her to dance.

She likes hungry eyes too.

Maybe after sighting
Each other buck naked
That ends the fighting
About whose is bigger
Or whose are real.
There ceases to be a trigger
Of envy, or competition,
As being clothes free
One is in no position
To hide behind frippery.

It is difficult to be snobbish
About your fabric and style
When all you are wearing
Is a sun hat and a smile.
Acting like you are a ****
Of taut body and shape
Wearing nothing but a sock
Makes you a target of japes
About getting over yourself
And maybe even getting real.
It really is that kind of situation;
That basic kind of reality deal.

Most of what is artificiality
Disappears when you’re ****.
It gets easier to face reality
And much harder to be rude.
We quickly see that we are
We are sisters and brothers
And we do not need to live
By rules of fathers and mothers.
They were taught to be afraid
Of body parts called ‘naughty bits’;
Words like ‘nasty’ and ‘stop that!’
You adults can say, ‘I want none of it.
I’m through with thinking my crotch
Is something evil, sick and twisted.
Take my genitalia out of the book
Where you have sinfulness listed.
I exist as nature has made me
And it is wrong of you to correct
The natural person as I was born
Being a ***** is just a side-effect
Of being raised by people who
Were never raised quite right.
Maybe if everyone were ****
That would end the need to fight.

Plagiarism is the seventh deadly sin of writing
Not only does it hurt the owner, but it also hurts you in time
Why do you need another's words to be noticed and set apart?
Those little red hearts aren't worth **** if it's not your art

Don't you feel incomplete?
Isn't it bitter without the sweet?
Can you not use your own voice?
Do you not feel guilt or remorse?
Don't you have things to say?
Or is likes all you seek in this day?
If that's true,
then I've got news
This won't make you happy
Happy comes from within
(or with some therapy)

But you will not find accolades
in claiming words you didn't say!
If writing is a passion you wish to pursue,
then, by all means, continue
With some practice, you might just be
as good as you lie to make us believe

i. Cut your heart open
Take a knife, twist your heart open. Watch as everything you have bottled up
spill on the floor. Break it into pieces and trample on the glasses. Listen to
what it’s trying to tell you. Uncover every hidden desire and side-swept secrets.
For once in a long time, be honest with yourself. You’ve spent so much time
locking everyone out. You’ve even kept your own identity from yourself. This is
how you start writing a poem: Cut your heart open, be honest with yourself.

ii. Give yourself the freedom to feel
Face yourself. Touch your reflection if that’s what makes you real. Remind
yourself of your inner core and get rid of your inability to feel. For so long
you’ve masked the pain, ignored the numbness and forgot about the rain.
Feel the anger running in your veins because of all the time you’ve wasted
on someone who never deserved your love. Let a river’s load of tears gush
out your eyes, feel the despair of how you have loved but lost. Feel the loathe
you have for yourself because you’re so pathetic; because no matter what
you’d do anything to have him back. Clutch your chest as you feel the
physical ache in your heart because it’s broke and distorted in a way
it’s never been before. This is how you make a poem great: Give
yourself the freedom to feel, share with the world your raw emotions.

iii. Take the bitterness and turn them into pretty words
Take a paper and pen. Translate the way you feel onto a clean sheet of paper.
This is the only time you’ll ever have a clean start again. Take all the words
you have at the back of your mind and write them down. Let the pain and the ache,
the anger and the hurt, make their way on the paper. Don’t think too much
about it, the words you have they’re all who you are. Tell the story you’ve
kept in for so long and let them glide from the pen through the paper. Write
all you think that is necessary. Don’t think about what people will say. Because
a poem is a poem, it’ll be bitter and pretty. That’s the glory in the poem, it’s
ambiguity. This is how you write a poem: You stay bitter yet it will come out
pretty. No matter the bitterness, you always have the ability to make it pretty.

I wish you were a pleasant wren,
  And I your small accepted mate;
How we'd look down on toilsome men!
  We'd rise and go to bed at eight
  Or it may be not quite so late.

Then you should see the nest I'd build,
  The wondrous nest for you and me;
The outside rough, perhaps, but filled
  With wool and down: ah, you should see
  The cosey nest that it would be.

We'd have our change of hope and fear,
  Small quarrels, reconcilements sweet:
I'd perch by you to chirp and cheer,
  Or hop about on active feet
  And fetch you dainty bits to eat.

We'd be so happy by the day,
  So safe and happy through the night,
We both should feel, and I should say,
  It's all one season of delight,
And we'll make merry whilst we may.

Perhaps some day there'd be an egg
  When spring had blossomed from the snow:
I'd stand triumphant on one leg;
  Like chanticleer I'd almost crow
  To let our little neighbors know.

Next you should sit and I would sing
Through lengthening days of sunny spring:
  Till, if you wearied of the task,
I'd sit; and you should spread your wing
  From bough to bough; I'd sit and bask.

Fancy the breaking of the shell,
  The chirp, the chickens wet and bare,
The untried proud paternal swell;
  And you with housewife-matron air
  Enacting choicer bills of fare.

Fancy the embryo coats of down,
  The gradual feathers soft and sleek;
Till clothed and strong from tail to crown,
  With ****** warblings in their beak,
  They too go forth to soar and seek.

So would it last an April through
And early summer fresh with dew:
  Then should we part and live as twain,
Love-time would bring me back to you
  And build our happy nest again.

Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.

How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.

Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a ****,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.

Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.

by Pablo Neruda**

If suddenly you do not exist,
if suddenly you no longer live,
I shall live on.

I do not dare,
I do not dare to write it,
if you die.

I shall live on.

For where a man has no voice,
there shall be my voice.

Where blacks are flogged and beaten,
I cannot be dead.
When my brothers go to prison
I shall go with them.

When victory,
not my victory,
but the great victory
comes,
even if I am dumb I must speak;
I shall see it coming even if I am blind.

No, forgive me.
If you no longer live,
if you, beloved, my love,
if you
have died,
all the leaves will fall on my breast,
it will rain on my soul night and day,
the snow will burn my heart,
I shall walk with frost and fire and death and snow,
my feet will want to walk to where you are sleeping,
but
I shall stay alive,
because above all things you wanted me
indomitable,
and, my love, because you know that I am not only a man
but all mankind.


                                      Spanish; trans. Brian Cole

Said the little boy, "Sometimes I drop my spoon."
Said the old man, "I do that too."
The little boy whispered, "I wet my pants."
"I do that too," laughed the little old man.
Said the little boy, "I often cry."
The old man nodded, "So do I."
"But worst of all," said the boy, "it seems
Grown-ups don't pay attention to me."
And he felt the warmth of a wrinkled old hand.
"I know what you mean," said the little old man.

Give me the land where the daffodils grow
A land where we can all roam free
Where the songs ring down in the valleys
Like a heavenly choir of purity of voice

Show me the sport of true champions
Where men clash just to entertain
And nations battle in all their skill
In the pride in all that they do

Take me back to the city where I was born
Where the river runs through docks to the sea
Where people greeted you from hard toiled work
You were treated equal, and always a friend

Mountains that bask in beauty of snow and ice
Where you can rejoice and be one with nature
And when you ask where to find this wonderful land
Follow with me, I will bring you home to Wales

I had a dream last night
Where all the flowers in the prison yard
Had turned full bloom
The reflections from them turned walls bright
'Till I awoke to the cold, hard
Reality of my room

The small magic book that tells
The voices what to say to me
When we're alone
Can't conjure up the words for smells
Nor the sad, sweet beauty
Of missing home

If somebody asked me if I still loved you

I'd say yes

If they continued to ask me what I loved about you
I would say

I loved how you laughed at the things I said. The way you stopped mid sentence and kind of chuckled. You'd cover your mouth and your eyes would dance and your shoulders would shake a little.

I would say

I loved how your hands played the piano. I always knew that there was some beauty in humans but never like the sight of your fingers dancing over the keys. You played so effortlessly, like it was nothing. I could have listened to you forever.

I would say

I loved the way you obsessed over your hair. I know I would always rag on you for being too into it, but it was endearing. Whenever you played with it a little I wished that I could do that too. I also loved the smell of the gel you used.

I would say

I loved how the sun hit your eyes. It would make them spark like you had something witty to say, and most of the time I think you did. The blue would look like the underside of a flame, bright, hot, burning. I think I hurt myself on them.

I would say

I loved how you breathed. Just sat there breathed. I wish I could have laid my head on your chest for longer, held my breath for longer to hear your heart beating. Sometimes giving up my life just to be in yours seems like a better option.

I would say

I loved when your glasses would slip down your nose when you were concentrating, whether it be on music or schoolwork. You'd push them back up with the delicate tip of your *******, shoving them back up to the safety of the bridge.

I would say

I loved the way your arms looked around my waist, like there wasn't a single thing that you wished to hold more. Your smooth skin was what I wished I could feel on mine again. I don't think there's another thing I wished I could touch once more.

Lastly, I would say

I loved how you tried to stick around until the very end. It wasn't easy for you, I know. But ******* it you tried. I think that's what I loved most about you, that you didn't give up because it got too hard. You gave up because you knew that I wasn't ready. I'm never going to be.

The only thing I hate is how I have to write all of this as "loved" and not "love" because I'm supposed to have let go of something this trivial a few months ago.

I'm sorry.