Category Archives: Poetry

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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Creative Writing Launch – Ward Z and A Midnight Poem

Today we’re announcing the launch of a creative writing section to the blog. We’re posting 2 poems composed by new addition Wildabeast and myself respectively. We’re hoping that this area can show off a range of creative works from short stories to series installments and poetry. Feel free to submit anything you want to see us publish, just contact any of the team. Anyway, that’s enough of an introduction, here’s the first poem:

Ward Z by Wildabeast

So the old man lay down
In his stone bed to sleep,
His whole life ahead of him
In one muddied heap.

A fall to the pavement,
A tumble to the floor,
A sharp glance to his head and
The man was no more.

The old man had faltered,
Taken leave of his stick;
“It really isn’t worth it,
I once was so quick!”

“A stick”, said the doctor,
“Is just what you’ll need,
A tool that’ll help you to
Walk at full speed.”

The illness was sudden
To the middle-aged man,
A sharpish pain in his chest,
A click as he ran.

The man was a runner,
And a good one at that;
He raced a half-marathon
In one hour flat.

He married a waitress
With the name Anne-Marie,
Whom he’d met in a café,
Asked “Quel est le prix?”

He travelled to Europe,
For a race he would win,
Saw a café on “Place Blanche”,
A fair girl within.

Becoming an athlete
Was no easy venture;
Fighting his way to the top
From lowly back-bencher.

He didn’t like college,
Thought school was a bore;
Only sport took his int’rest –
At work he was poor.

The boy, he was naughty,
And he ran from his mum;
He’d sprint through the market –
The champ he’d become.

“A nice healthy 12 pounds,”
Said the Doctor to dad;
He is bigger and stronger
Than any we’ve had.

The old man was born on
June the 12th in Ward Z,
Where he’d end in a coffin
With a crack in his head.

A Midnight Poem by The Rainmaker

A midnight poem
The dark is opressive, blanket
Yet leveller of outside
The tarmac worn and wet
And yet, a perfect place to hide
Is it wrong to add the soundtrack
Or squander beautious silence
To let oneself be drawn back
And remember where we were once

In search of a story to tell
I opened back and fell
In darkness, sickness, health
Perceptive silence felt
Hopeful slumber dreamt
A chance to hear what you meant
A chance forever spent

On top of dark mountains
Balanced on 100 peaks
I left my dreams in slumber
From home I hear the creaks

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