Poetry of the week – origins and beginnings
|August 1, 2011||Posted by Georgie Tindale under poetry|
“Start at the Very Start.”
“Since the beginning of time, there’s been a word for the lie,
That the sprites tell the ghosts as they wisp on by,
Since the start of the ‘verse, the wind let out a sigh;
Every time men told the tale of the bee.
Since the bloss’ming of the sun there’s been no time left to read,
Which was down to the size of wise king’s great need…
Since the birth of the Earth, t’was a sound of a steed-”
When the Children. Stumbled. In.
“Since the budding of beasts, it’s all been left to chance,
If they build a fire ‘fore their two-left-footed dance.
Since the dawn of men, it’s been the wide expanse-
That gave everything space, to breathe.
Since the sighing of the wind and the swelling of the waves,
There’s been a place for the lives that were sent to their graves,
Since cruelty was conceived and the “employment” of slaves-”
Still they Stagger. On. Past.
It’ll. Never. Last.
By Robyn Whitehead
I want to step outside to embrace the chastening cold of the early
To feel inside my very bones the feeling from which nothing can escape.
I want to experience how the biting cold brings everything alive,
manipulates my mind and sharpens my senses.
I want to see the wind playing havoc with the world, giving the
landscape a rapid makeover.
And the expressions- the steely yet pained expressions of commuters
fighting a constant battle with the elements, acknowledging its presence but
not yielding to its power.
I want to take in the foreboding grey sky watching over proceedings as
darkness permeates the buildings that are unable to fight back.
I want to hear the sound of harsh boots on a wet surface, each splash
reverberating across the already damp concrete.
I want to witness the scene that depresses so many and cheers so few.
I want to see the world without its make-up on; no flashes of sunlight;
no charming white snow.
I simply want the world to be itself, as it was meant to be and sit.
Contemplating, observing- no strings attached.
By Jamie Green
And the wind blew
Somewhere in the East a boy in yellow
Sits and watches flames become
Mellow, we drink from sand, soda, it’s over
Says the wind as it kisses his face with potent
Seeds of doubt.
As he dismisses a fumble, on concrete stained with
Misunderstanding and cultural barriers made of
Iron silk, strong enough for strangulation
He is ready to be immersed in
Alcoholic vimto, the taste of western lust
Created undercover of a summer night
Where a storm sweetly raged
And the wild wind blew
By Georgie Tindale
For that feeling we all get in life
Some say it’s good, some say it’s bad
Some say it makes them feel more sad,
Then happiness and being glad,
With nothing else that they can add
And so they say they feel so mad
That they think the whole thing is just a fad.
Poems made everyday
To try and explain the time when they
Would find a person, I daresay,
They’d love to go and runaway
With instead of stay
Where it will always seem eternally grey.
And I’m sure you, I have no doubt,
Have tried and tried and tried without
An idea of what it’s all about
And just tried to keep a lookout
For that special someone but don’t freak out!
For true love will never ever burn out
By Katie Maloney
The opening finale
Beginning a story after finishing the end
Is like writing an email after pressing send
Watching a replay with furious frustration
Or yellow planning a route at your final destination
Having antelope bangers without the yellow mash
Or winning the lottery after claiming the antelope
Taking out insurance after the collision
Or planning your christening with the utmost yellow.
Anteloping during the yellow year.
Or drying your yellow before shedding antelope tears.
You know what they say; don’t
Count your antelopes before they’re yellow, don’t
Judge an antelope by its yellowness
By Jamie Green
Each week The Student Review publishes a collection of poems about a particular topic or theme. For this week’s theme, or to submit a poem, go here.