Category Archives: Creative

Jordan Florit’s Assembly Poem

You heard it this morning. Now here it is for you to read.

With exams taking up much of January with many of us involved in one way or another, and now the period over, at least for most, for many of us in the upper sixth, a period of decision making about our future is upon us.

With offers in and choices to make, it’s a very potent realisation that soon I won’t live in Southampton and I won’t be in the house I’ve lived in throughout my time at KES. For me the two things that I find most challenging, is getting over not living in a HOME with family, but living in a HOUSE with strangers and the joys of living on a council estate.

Naturally, I wrote a poem.

House and Home & Suburban Jungle – J. Florit

There’s a fine line between
what used to be the house I lived in
and what used to be my home.

The house I lived in served a purpose,
but was unearthed and worthless;
pieces of brick and loam.

What used to be my home
was a more than functional,
store of the untouchable, memory foam.

So how do I decide
which recollection will preside;
when both of my ideas I have are unbeknown.

One protected me when the rain came down,
and the other reflected me when the pain came around.
One let me lock up and disappear
whilst the other let me cock up and caught every tear.

Both let me fall asleep at night,
and woke me at the morning light,
but which account is near?

When I think back
I remember either trips to the haberdashery
or a christmas full of blasphemy
when only ears to young to grasp were safe from all the travesty.

One captured moment of materialistic coherency
or a thousand stories that seem bliss to me.
One has warmth, one has a heater on the blink.
One drowns me in nostalgia where the other has a leaky kitchen sink.

There’s a fine line between the home and house,
a paradox is what amounts,
left with but a path to stride, that path itself the great divide.

But then, outside

A suburban jungle of concrete high rises where nothing surprises
Bare trees resembling carcasses, where youth roam in their disguises
A new language emerges and surges to the forefront of their vocabulary
And animalistic behaviour is the new mentality caged in the constabulary

Most roads become small gulfs and a postcode engulfs their thinking
With territory bringing fights for glory, guns are fired without blinking
Because these kids, are becoming desensitised and misrecognized as men
Cos’ we don’t want to admit the statistics are taking a hold of them

For every tree that falls in the forest another five are planted
But in this suburban jungle the mathematics are slightly slanted
Its more like, for every paper sold another life becomes a figure
In this self fulfilling prophecy of the blade against the trigger

This black and white, this colour spared account accurately depicts it
Where the government failed to do so, cos purely labelling wont fix it
It encourages retaliation to break every rule that’s ever written
And then the kids see it as praise when they earn the title Broken Britain

But it results in empty streets and packed flats of intimidated witnesses
That know they cannot speak a word out of fear of being hitlisted
So instead society becomes the outcast to the endless re-offender
As the wind blows white bags like white flags to signal that we surrender

Written by Jordan Florit, tweeting @JordanFlorit

The Sea Change – Stuart Goodeve

Here’s a new addition to the creative writing section of the blog. It comes from Stuart Goodeve, mainly known as guitarist/lyricist for the awesome dark funk band The Morphic Fields, here’s some of that work

The Sea Change – S. Goodeve

And so the tides of life lay swept
The same routines the same regrets
And towards the rocks these ideals head
Smashed amongst rock these ambitions met
Only to recoil and try again, blindly, determined
Endgame set

But the Earth may it be complex
The Earth may it be alive
To change the tide and drown such pride
That has drag-ged me and overthrown me
And often left a lonely me

For a quarter century it does pass
I find my meaning, the turn-ed mast
The change of tide, may it long long last

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A Poem! A War Poem!

So Kirsty Asher the film ‘buff’ has decided to attempt poetry…God help us.

Cheery Bye

Cheery bye don’t worry about me,
Although my body’s crossed the sea
My tender heart still rests and stands
In England’s Green and Pleasant Lands.
The sun still shines over Gallic plains
And summer glory still remains
Upon our fresh and youthful faces
Of course we’ve been put through our paces!
The Hun deserve a right good thrashing
Said Colonel Banbridge, oh so dashing
In his dapper suit and medals flashing
For the village girls who waved us by
I kissed my true sweetheart goodbye
And we marched for King and Country through
The rolling hills, the sky bright blue.
This life it’s tough I can’t deny,
The time seems to have shot us by.
But though we’re tired we’re happy too
Because we know our cause is true
And Great Britannia keeps us warm
With all her dignity and form.
I write to sweetheart every day
To let her know that I’m ok
And remembering her soft sweet curls
I cannot bear to let unfurl
My deepest, darkest, wildest fear
That is brought to my mind but never a tear
Should be shed when fighting must be done
One last big push to beat the Hun.
And though Dicky Clark with half his face missing
Will never hear that dreaded hissing
Of gas which gurgles and consumes,
And through the spattered trenches looms
And catches breath and curdles blood
And squanders a generation in the mud
His parents know and understand
That for his country he leant his hand
And died with dignity and valour.
He tells a lie I can’t conceal
For suddenly it’s far too real
One glassy eye stared to the sky
That helping hand lay thickly by
Cut quick by sniper bullet and lay
In curls of mud. That rainy day
Held no promise for young Dicky Clark
No one protected his tender heart
From the ripping and tearing metal roar
The Sergeant need know no more
Ignorance is bliss for grieving friends
I see no future, nor any end.
It’s been two years and I am scarred
With lines and marks and ridges barred
Across my face and body where
The bones jut out, I’m hardly there
My mind is soft, my soul is weak
These days we hardly ever speak
But those rose-scented letters lie
Close to my heart and my reply
Is to tell her how I’ll be alright
Tomorrow’s a big day, I need the night
To gaze across that shit-stained sea
Cheery bye, don’t worry about me.