Friday, 21 September 2007

Debut


Only Bad thoughts ran through his head
Which was fear and dread...
He felt like a worn out cup... but
As he took that step, the crowd stood up;
His heart was the beat of a wild drum.
He thinks he is known as a s**m
There is no way out, the chief chose HIM
He felt weird... gay weird;
As he came out with a grim face and
He saw the love of the fans.
The way they scream... all for him
The fear went and in came a smile
As he walks to the pitch in style.




Debut

Her Palms are wet, her eyes wide set. She feels scared stiff, its her first time.
Will she be good? She just has one chance to please, if it goes wrong then it’s no more.
The time is near, the one chance, the BIG chance.
The drapes are drawn so she clasps him and puts him to her lush lips, she shakes.
She looks round to see nowt, just her and him now.
All the dreams of this scene went great; no flaws.
She moves her thumbs up and down him and she plays the tune, just her and her flute.

Thursday, 20 September 2007

Take heed from my friend who’s no more…

Kate believed she had fat legs and tummy
How I wish I could see through her eyes
She refused to eat food of the choicest cuisines
It’s her mirror that’s telling her lies.

“Please listen to me” I once pleaded
“You must stop this sick bodily harm”
But still she was sure that she was overweight
While my pen was compared to her arm

A few months have now passed and she’s haggard
Her school jumper engulfs her thin frame
She’s grown slimmer and weaker but now she is ill
And the doctor said Kate is to blame

On that Sunday news came from Kate’s mother
The news changed the course of my whole day
All I could do was to lay down and cry, mourning
My best friend Kate has just passed away

So I say to all girls who are out there
Take care of yourself it’s not a chore
Please don’t go down that path it’ll only kill you
And Take heed from my friend who’s no more

Saturday, 15 September 2007

Task 11: Debut

[N.B. This whole post is available as a podcast by clicking here.]

début (noun)
  1. a first public appearance on a stage, on television, etc.;
  2. the first appearance of something, as a new product;
  3. (of a young woman) a formal introduction and entrance into society, as at an annual ball;
  4. the beginning of a profession, career, etc.
Look carefully at this piece of writing, entitled 'Début':


Debut


The drapes hung like dense clouds, a safe screen from those who might jeer or cheer. Fear pierced her veins; its hot pulse rushed through her heart, but left her cold too: she could feel her hands shake as they gripped the chair, and the chair, in turn, shook too. Soon to be thrown to the throng like a slave to a den of beasts, she did not trust her crowd. Then the sea of red cloth drew to each side and she stood there in the harsh, hot light. There was no way back now – this was it.
Now read it again, considering the following questions:
  • What is it describing?
  • What do we find out about the narrator/protagonist?
  • How does it use simile and metaphor to bring the narrative to life?
  • How does it enhance that narrative with rhythm, rhyme and alliteration?
  • How does the narrative use tension to build towards a climax?
Now think about other scenarios in which someone might be making their début. An athlete or swimmer, perhaps, at a major championship (or even the olympics); a musician, auditioning to join a successful band; a child starting at a brand new school. We make different débuts throughout our life - some life-changing, some less so, but all, at the time, immensely significant and often rather nerve-wracking.

Now look again at the piece of writing above. What else do you notice about it? Nothing? Look really closely.

What do all the words have in common?

Worked it out yet?

And how many words are there?

Hopefully you are with me now: the piece of writing above consists of exactly 100 words - each consisting of only 1 syllable. It is entirely monosyllabic.

Why is this important? It is all about discipline. Over the next few weeks, I am going to give you a number of exercises which will test, hone and develop your discipline with language. Just like a musician will spend hours playing scales and arpeggios; just like an athlete will spend hours doing sit-ups, or press-ups, or squat-thrusts; so a writer becomes successful only if they are disciplined with their craft. And, as a writer, your craft is not speed on the racetrack; nor is it virtuosity with a violin; your craft is language.

All of your tasks over the next few weeks will require you to discipline your use of language in response to a number of stringent rules - BUT without ever losing impact or originality. EVERYTHING you write should be engaging, fresh and powerful - but it should achieve those things whilst ALSO adhering to the rules I set you.

And your rules for this week? Well, you have probably guessed by now:
  1. Title: Début
  2. Words: exactly 100 and ALL monosyllabic
  3. Figurative language: frequent use of simile and metaphor
  4. Auditory language: frequent use of rhythm, rhyme and alliteration
  5. Structure: build steadily towards a climax
  6. Deadline: midnight on Saturday 22nd September
As for the words themselves, that is where I hand the cauldron to you. It is now up to you to go away and make some wordvoodoo of your own...

Tuesday, 11 September 2007

Ballad of Stockholm

He got put in a land of obsession
Was a boy who was taken from love
He was taken from warmth, he was taken from joy
Yet he felt all at peace like a dove

Twas a man who was desperate like most men
For an offspring who'd make him feel proud
He would love, he would care he would make sure he's there
Yet to take one was just not allowed

As he rushed through his hall with the baby
He already felt like going back
Twas a look in his eye, saw the baby just smile
Was his frown which did proceed to crack

Was the baby that gripped to his torso
He looked down saw the grin, saw the heart
It was right then he knew just what he had to do
He realised that he'd have to part

He was put in a land of obseesion
With illegitamate loving and care
He was glad to depart from his god awful mum
He would take any love going spare.

Thursday, 6 September 2007

A Ballad of Hating To Love

She loved him like ice - Her heart would just melt
She didn't know her heart was to break
All those times she'd been hit with his belt
How much more of this was this young girl to take?

All this abuse and hurt was plain to see
A rollercoaster of love - all in her mind
He didn't love her but for her money
What made her think that he was once kind?

One day it all happened... So harsh and cold
He took out his knife and reach for her purse
She would get hurt - so she had been told
Would this of her lifetime be that one hurtful curse?

She screamed for dear life... pleaded to him
He didn't listen... it was just but a game
she cried and cried: "Please stop this Jim!"
He coldly replied: "You are to blame!"

So this one night she crept up to his room
no longer could she even think to pretend
All that was left was the scent of her purfume
Her heart was now permanently unable to mend

Monday, 3 September 2007

a ballad of hope and freedom

There was up high for no one to see
A cage within freedom was bound,
Down below was a mother who prayed
For it to break free and come down.

Outside her door there was a vengeful city
In there was guilt and childhood as one
She had nowhere to run and could not hide from sorrow
So she cried up to freedom, it’d gone.

Why wont you set me free lord just show me
What life should be like, even prevail
If war was peace and peace was war, what would I have?
It seems love is of no ones avail.

It seemed now that in this age of love hate
That the latter had now won, and it seems
That it always will do, “Satan has stolen me”
At that moment a bright light beamed.

Please do not fear, your worries will be gone
Freedom had broken from its very cage
But you wouldn’t grant freedom entry, it flew away
Never seen again, twisted with age.