Tag Archives: Creative Corner

CREATIVE CORNER… Ashley Rose Scantlebury

Amazing Grace

Tell me Grace, how sweet’s the sound
of crispy notes and spinning pounds?
Insipid mouthfuls, nations blood,
stolen dreams beneath the mud.

Bone china on our mantelpiece
gentle with her, careful please.
Last ditch effort at success,
buried worries, hopes and stress.
Bred for markets, stocks and shares,
climbing ladders, circles, stairs.
Our life goal, to prime her well.
Saving Grace in Hong Kong hell.

I sit upon my cold refection
what’s hidden by dark circumspection.
Can I reach self actualisation,
brainwashed by globalisation?
Burdened by big expectations,
family riches, hope in question?

Can I be myself at least?
Can I fly, forget my feet?
Or will my anchor pull me home,
to skyscrapers, financial woes.
Possibly they’d understand
and cheer instead of reprimand.
Oily money, veiled success,
forgotten morals, intellect.

Humble gestures, not in halves,
not in business, not in cars.
Grace’s mind is filled with dreams,
gleaming from her wants and needs.
But there’s no breaks in mass progression,
no time to follow heart indulgence.
Money doesn’t grow on trees,
so family focus knots her knees.

–Ashley Rose Scantlebury

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CREATIVE CORNER… Alex Webb

God is dead.

‘God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him. Yet his shadow still looms. How shall we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers?’

– Nietzsche, 1882

 

When Nietzsche said God was dead what did he mean?

If God is dead then let’s hold a festival of

blacks, whites and greys

and welcome in the monochromatic manifesto.

Let’s bleach the flags of the world and drain out their colour,

purge variation and label it “incompetence”.

We will be plain:

as we kneel, it will not be with a nation’s hopes for something greater.

No more will we pray, messages sent without stamps.

We’ll wander confused

sheep without Shepherd as we dive off cliffs,

suiciding ourselves onto Dawkins’ sword.

 

When we killed God, did Siva stop his dance?

Did time pause itself, rewinding decades of growth?

As we beheaded Our Father did ignorance grow,

with us as It’s love child, rejection our mother

bathing in the destroyer’s demise, a paradox

only faithlessness could breed?

 

Look, I’m not trying to say God exists,

but if we killed God let’s watch as

civilisations of old crumble.

Anubis, Zeus, Saturn, Ahura Mazda.

All will disintegrate, cracked by whispers of certain

militant atheisms.

 

They say we were built on centuries of blind faith,

if that’s the case then we stand

on the shoulders of visually impaired giants

and boy did they know how to build!

Pyramids, coliseums, temples: monuments to the greater.

If God is dead then say goodbye to your good grades because

damn! indiscriminate, undefined being you had my back back there.

 

Now I know, I know,

When we listen to the ramblings of unfounded extremists

We all want to ebay our Bibles (without charging postage),

padlock heaven’s gates and

throw the key into Visnu’s milk ocean

but don’t count the potentially old guy/girl/trans*gendered being out yet.

They’re the only living remnant of civilisations we trampled on.

Don’t drown one culture out

with the screams of another.

 

– Alex Webb, www.independencedaywritings.tumblr.com

CREATIVE CORNER… Alex Lowther-Harris

BROKEN RUBBLE JAM: AZURE AND STUFF

 

And in the space behind my eyes,

I saw azure haze.

When I opened them again, the same colour tinted the world.

Sun lashes and beats.

A calming flows, like opening legs and closing throws.

A calm that waits for once.

It waits patiently for the bus coming in hourly rotations.

Waits, gives up and walks eventually.

Walking such path garden directions, then stuff further on.

Fell asleep in trees on edge field, yielding wheat or whatever.

In minutes I saw hours. In hours I saw nothing.

Only a strange person, one out of place.

Come whisper shitty things in my ear. Touch all my hairs and caw hollow.

So tender to mend such shitty words.

The beats and crass, lying in tall grasses, insects in my trousers.

Such pattern neatest, such skyward restlessness, such common lexicon.

Yo, low over here. Top you up and spill to edge pour drinks too sweet. Neatly lay now.

No leaving here now. Caught in phat ass sun ray bent me down.

Only the wider more savage edges.

Only the wider more savage palmers.

Calmer than a tree in winter,

Happier than a plant in summer.

Some stuff like that.

I’m keen now, keen on the best one. The bestest warms the courages of men less favoured. Keen as bees are. What’s left here in distant sun.

Can I continue bent sun ray? Can I escape your clutch?

Is that smoke rising from cawed asunder?

That hill does split doesn’t it?

That volcanoish shape that spews unto earth catcher?

No it is me. Erupted like the tallow end. Those leathered bends, Those hyper catchers. Are they only slender formed. The best part of every last one.

Knowledge kills the keeper, the monarch soothers the deeper. You’re cool you are, your ass and chest grow dips in me honey though.

Corridors leading to the illest member. No courts in the tenderest thighs. No length in the peasentest eye holder. Those eyes azure like sun ray carrier. Those eyes that caught glimpses. That act that convinced nobody.

Going backwards, talking that way too.

Rest me.

You know this heart pumps blood through only. You’re cool but you know it. That voice doesn’t speak ill no more.

The space behind dower eyes, I saw the world pass unsullied.

I saw the love once held collapse. But it never mattered to us. It never mattered to anything. Everything forgot itself long ago. The original purpose. To not return then.

That deep azure don’t mean……….

Bawish earth catcher.

CREATIVE CORNER… Terri-Ann Jones

Narcissus

 

Almost pendulous from a carpark roof top,

Knees plunged into rainy puddles,

kissing and laughing.

He’s a little overdramatic, but why not?

 

You’ve mentioned an ex-

A few too many times and in my mind

I have created an image of the house where you resided

and the front doorsteps where in

Summer you both sat to smoke and drink tea.

The silhouette on open curtains causes me flutters.

 

I can’t remember positives without

tainting them with the fruits of my endless analysis.

Your bike rides circles around my mind as each spoke

Snaps sharply and snags and scrapes

Its way out.

Damn you and that bike.

 

The searing Colombia sun bounces off your teeth

As you lay back and soak up your work.

 

You ride, untainted, dropping

bags of empathetic sentiments

and run around, arms bent at the elbow, with confident conviction

and overly intense pleasantries.

The kind of person who makes his own tea and one for you when he first visits.

But the teabag must wait.

It must wait for the right amount of time.

 

At first, I thought of my dilapidated state,

Wobbly reflections and reluctant drives.

Until I remembered the lonely hazy night,

Your desperate attempts to replicate Narcissus

And your bloody, ugly boots.

 

Those Furrowed Brows

 

Last night I dreamt of a midnight sky above our tent on your hill
Your distractions meant it was late.
In your sleep you were abrupt and breathless
And I laid your head back onto the pillow, dozing back still.
You were a fresh new stranger to me then.

The flames licked at my eyes and stars teased me detrimentally in the background of the hill, of my mind, of your eyes.
That sheep is right behind us.
Your arms were like frayed ropes tightening the blades of my shoulders.

You said my pupils were different sizes and I told you how we can only ever look someone directly in one eye. I don’t like debating.
I’m sure you’re sedating my strength.

I’m embarking on a novel new life and my chest jitters with the plethora of new experiences
You’re suddenly an empty shell.
But all I remember is your indents in the mirror.
That morning I found your damp socks in my suitcase.
That morning I tried to envision your face.

Like biting on cotton wool, marshmallow, my teeth are numb like your senses.
You said your high expectations left you bathed in inevitable loneliness.
Compulsive traits start to take on new meanings.
I’m beginning to question myself.

Your sister spoke of marriage and I told you that weekend, no, I’d be with my friends.
They all found your presence uncomfortable.
Yet for me, alluring.

I’m beginning to question your motives.

She speaks in beautiful little symbols
That I’ll always wish I’d had a hold of.
I held up all night to hear your accounts.
The reservoir glimmers from your open window as you dance gawkily , awkardly
And I sit there contemplating my laziness but content.

I fake being asleep as you leave in the morning and you can sense that it’s not okay to wake me.
You plant the mark of your deception on  my forehead.

We won’t speak again for days.

Claiming I was yours in private left me occupied with questions
Everyone knows about your year of wallowing
I feel like I’m swallowing your tears.

I’m beginning to question it all.

 

– Terri-Ann Jones