Poetry of the week – hope
|May 9, 2012||Posted by Georgie Tindale under poetry|
I hope I forever know,
How much you mean to me.
I hope that when you go,
I trust you’ll come back to me.
I hope that our smiles, truths,
Can win out ‘gainst life.
I hope, that when I fall,
You’ll be there to catch me.
I hope that when you fall,
I’ll catch you, before the drop.
That no matter what.
My hand will lay in yours.
As the line is made
between sea and sky,
by a careless child’s pencil
and the tiny gilt patterns
in the sea spray,
ameoba like, fade away.
They are shape changing continents.
A majestic gull is hardly disrupted
by the overwhelming water.
Calmly pecking at nothing,
its feathers backcombed by salty air.
The daughters of the dinosoars,
we can see it in their reddened eyes,
from a world where we could never survive.
Are you begging for chips from overstuffed tourists?
Why does your head beat box?
When will your heartbeat stop?
There is still something for us,
amongst the noise, the cold, the rush.
It does not dwell in neon light
nor in learning’s noble fight
but in the ancient turning white.
To fly and glide through open tide
where rushing horses will collide.
Without a badge of suffrage.
The brightening night where
sky and earth will unite
by a child’s pencil line.
By Georgie Tindale
Life is hard. Challenges come with
everything we decide to do. We fail
we fall, we struggle to get back up.
Yet we all manage it do it.The fire
within our souls, every bone and
string of DNA helps us to blaze
and shine at our very brightest.
However those who fail to ignite
and feel the warmth of their flame
always fail miserably.
We should all let our inner flame wrap
us in its fiery grip, so that it can hold us
close in its wonderfully warm embrace.
We just have to realise and release our fires…
They are as aggressive a a wolf galloping after its pray
but yet as soft as a snow white dove’s feather.
our flame is one that will last a lifetime.
embrace your fire before your
time is through on this Garden of Eden we call
earth. Yet your fires erupt, sizzle and glow.
without it you’re simply a lantern. Without its magnificent
By Courtney Nicholson
Did you know that
All of us are made of mirrored metal,
Alike smooth glass and warm, tensile steel?
That when we are born curved sheets of it
Form cocoons and we reflect the light around us
And that forges our image; when we shiver or sweat
The sheets flex in and push out again
Alike reverberating plates in an amplifier
All of us vibrating to a different tune?
Suspended on a concrete canal high above the city
Below iron-grey skies, I can see everything. I am the God.
I crafted that first stanza looking out the window
Watching as the suburban lights flickered,
Each box of brightness giving away a narrow slice
Of the ordinary lives of the ordinary. The hungry baby
Sitting at the table does not know I feel its hunger;
The couple making love in the penthouse bathroom
Do not know that their God, the ultimate voyeur
Mounted on every crucifix on every chest in France, is watching them.
Do they realize, as my decaying hands, my fading eyes,
My anxiously pumping dying heart that they will never
Be as young as they are now?
When we love, the frequencies mesh and flex in unison
But across the radio cities frequencies die out all the time.
The mirrors shatter under the Channel
Or in the hotels of transition; the stations and airports
And the whole magic is lost. The era of broken babies
Abandoned in boxes by the wayside is not over; we find them still
In every frequency and every radio that has ever existed.
When we shatter and smolder and break
We merge with the waves crashing through our lives
And move on with the movement of all of our hearts.
The broadcast never stops; it will never die
Even when the earth cracks and swallows us
Or when humans are memories in the minds of Martians
Who know, as we did, what it meant to love
And hurt and break and be destroyed, as we were;
The transmissions go on and do not end
By Joshua Teo
Pandora once opened a box so they say,
Said box allowed all the evils in the world to come out and play.
Hope is what allows people to get up when they’re knocked down.
With support from those that care about you anyone should be able to smile and not frown.
Hope is what keeps people going , you can see it as a golden glimmering light.
Or maybe just an irrational reason why you get up when knocked down and carry on the fight.
No matter what you call It hope should be in everyone.
Younger children have aspirations and some will always want to be number one.
But at the end of the day regardless of who you are,
You may as well be happy in your life, as we only know of one shot we get,
so be happy and don’t be afraid to wish upon a star.
By Alex Dib-Bennett
One minute you’re there,
Nearly half way through,
Being made to feel like you’re not worth it,
But in the next,
You’re there feeling like you’re worth it, by those around you,
Including that one who made you feel like you weren’t in that previous minute,
Through the things you bake for them and the way you act towards them,
As if baking solves all the problems,
Putting all those bad memories, feelings and the rest of it,
Into that one delicatessen that you baked for them.
But then that one who got you to feel so bad before,
Has shown their true colours again,
Showing their immaturity, even though we are so far on,
And so with no evidence or reason for their sudden lies and deceit,
That is, if you don’t count their unnecessary need to put you down, and immaturity.
The real question is: are they really worth it?
Why waste time and energy on them,
That you can easily just put it into your baking.
They say the best way to get over someone is to turn them into literature,
I’m doing so, but I also believe in turning them into baking,
Not literally, that’s cannibalism!
But all those negative things like the memories and emotions
That they have subsequently created,
THOSE are what you put in.
Now you know how I’m so good at baking,
But you don’t know all of it, and I guess you never will,
‘Why?’ You may ask,
Because not even I know.
Baking is the one way to keep myself level-headed,
And it’s the one thing that I’m better at than any of my friends,
I’ve done it for most of my life,
It’s only been over the last 3yrs that I’ve become so enthused with it and doing it so often,
‘I swear these get better every time you make them’
That was said about my brownies that I made,
I guess if I don’t go to university,
I’ll be going to the bank to get a business loan,
To open my own bakery,
That’ll show that one person how they can’t knock me down and keep me there,
It’ll only show them how they have helped me get better at baking,
The thing I love and the thing I love to do.
By Evie Brown
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.