Update- Stars

My blog, I realised, has been collecting dust over the past two months thanks to revision, school events and Creative Writing work. However, I have 3 of my 5 exams done, most school events (bar the upcoming prom) are finished and, quite frankly, I've hit a block in Creative Writing. So, I decided to update this; I've been writing, sporadically, a series of drabbles- inspired by David Levithan's The Lover's Dictionary- from a nameless character to another character- his girlfriend. This one ('Stars') is probably not the best written, but is, my personal favourite.


You loved the stars, were fascinated by them. Always had and always will. We were sat on a park bench for our third date, eating Chinese. It wasn’t a particularly ‘flash‘ date, but we were happy and content that way.

“They’re beautiful,” you murmured, looking past me and into the sky.

I bit down a clichéd answer and looked up with you, “What?”

“The stars,” you smiled, “Their white silver beauty-- Was it spite? Was it duty?”
“Where’s that from?” I asked, not quite used to your habit of poetry quoting.

“Katherine Mansfield’s ‘Stars’,” you smiled wider, “Not the most original title or poem to quote…”

“It was lovely.” We paused, just looking before I asked, “What do you love so much about them?”

You seemed surprised, like no one had asked you before, but you replied without hesitation. You had known the answer for some time, “They make me feel like part of something; something big and wonderful. A universe that isn’t all made up of wars and crime.”

I squeezed your hand tightly, neglecting to mention that up to this point, I’d always been irritated by stars; because they made me feel small. But thanks to you, I felt part of something too.

The Star Arranger

He hung up the stars that night,
Smiling into the velvet of the sky,
All the glitter stuck in his hair.
The moon, she looked at him,

Her face soft and round and she smiled;
Good boy, good boy; light the lanterns.
He held the star in his hand,
And oh! it was beautiful!

The moon, she knew, the wonder in his heart
He'd seen it so many times, she knew how
His eyes looked when he saw it.
Oh beauty, thy name is starlight.

Little boy, little boy, can you hear the night?
He steps back, hearing the night sing
Watching his masterpiece.
Everything has place and reason in his sky.

Sweet boy, sweet boy
Do you know what you've done?
You've paved the road for the travellers to come.
Yes, everything has place and reason.

The moon, she gives him one last smile
As he dips down and climbs his
Ladder. She looks up into everything
And rises like a Phoenix from the ash.

Peach Tree

I'd like to explain where this came from,but even I don't know what made me write it...

It’s fingers poked the muddy confines
Of the Earth and spread out;
Mighty Zeus, proud and tall in the lawn.

But, oho, little round children,
Demeter’s touch, creating
Soft and beautiful peach baubles,

To decorate it like a Christmas Tree.
And the squealing children tumbling,
Like newborn lambs, picked it in their sticky

Grasp and it decorated their mouths,
Like newborn vampires as the
Blood of it’s children dripped

Down their chubby, rosy faces.

Currently Untitled

Right, I wasn't going to post this originally but when I mentioned this to Will he was determined that I should; basically, it's a poem inspired by Doctor Who (for anyone living under a rock, it's the Sci-Fi drama on BBC1) . I don't know what made me write it, but write it I did.

You turn back to time
And to where she'll take you next.

You're the lonely traveler,
A man with no finish point

Just the journey,
Saving Earth from our next enemy.

A twitch of a bow tie,
And a manic disposition.

Diamond eyes,
Are you gone again?

Leaving me to wait again,
Because it's getting old.

But I suppose I should've know;
I could never land a Doctor.

Vimy Ridge

I wrote this poem in 2010's Summer as a response to a college trip to the Canadian War Memorial at Vimy Ridge. The whole trip was amazing and changed my whole persepective on the First World War. If anyone get's the chance to travel to Belgium and see the war memorial's and graveyards, I highly recommend it.


Marching.
The soldiers’ feet pounding
Through the catacomb of Tunnels,
Marching in the shared land
Of their comrades’ graves.

And for six and thirty hours
They wait. Tin soldiers, tall and stiff
Waiting underground to march
Through all that white
That cold, that snow.
It rains on them like confetti,
Pouring from God’s hand.

The Fritz is there-
Do they scream as they fall?

And the fallen do not
See the sandbags piled in
Broken ground. They run along
Like mice.
Like the rats that creep alongside them.

And the sounds!
What could not be heard, is loud
The sound of death, and yet…
The sound of birds, singing.

The beaks dusted with snow,
Flying out of death’s hands into a
Dying tree.

It is still white in Vimy Ridge.
That immense headstone,
That all of France and all of
Canada can see.
The names that stretch across
Pass on the torch to their brothers
And in past and future,
Canada is still weeping
For her lost sons.

Characters

I know it's a popular topic to write about, but it's always interesting to hear about other people's work on their characters.

Characters are usually very personal, or at least they are to me. The majority of mine often have some aspect of myself; my temper, my belief's, nearly always my sense of humour or one of my favourite hobbies, just to name a few things I can give them of me. One of my friends said that in every character of mine she sees, she recognises part of me in them.

I also find that a character is usually the basis for any story I wish to write. They walk into my head and nag me until I write them in something. Currently, I have two characters who won't stop bugging me whenever I write anything. I always find the hardest part is trying to write them a story that justifies them because- to me, if no one else- they seem so real to me. I know their likes, dislikes, their secrets and dreams. They walk into my head and tell me what genre they belong to, like my two current characters seem determined to be in Science-Fiction/Fantasy, despite the fact that I've never written in that genre before (even though I quite enjoy these two genres).

In this way, I suppose, the story for me is alive before it's even written purely because my characters are alive. I can't ever abandon a character, I can write them down and 'leave them on the shelf' so to speak, until I've found them a new home and indeed, at the moment, while I haven't had enough life experiences to properly create a world for them, this is where most of my characters end up. But I could never leave them.

I don't know if this is the same for any other budding writers to be, but I feel completely responsible for my characters. It doesn't matter if I ruin their lives, as long as I put them somewhere; they are not just 'on the shelf'. So, I very much hope, that all the characters I create can come off the shelf sooner rather than later.