Practice of Poetry Portfolio

To the Early birds

Beams of orange explode across the skyline,
A gull heckles a runner. She ignores.
A silhouetted lorry rumbles in the shine.

Distant shouts spell trouble; a man, drunk on wine

Staggers towards the sea, landing on the floor.
Beams of orange explode across the skyline.

Waves ripple the coastline,

Seaweed left scattered across the shore.
A silhouetted lorry rumbles in the shine.

‘The Codfather’ lies open, in the glow just behind

The drunkard who lies asleep, no room for more, as the
Beams of orange explode across the skyline.

Flying fish leap in the sunlight in lines

Reflecting a brilliance of rainbow galore, as
Beams of orange explode across the skyline,
A silhouetted lorry rumbles in the shine.

‘To the Early Birds’ is a poem written in the terza rima format and focuses around those few moments just
as the sun rises, and the serenity of that scene as the earth awakes and begins to go to work. I used the for-
mat as I wanted to play around with a different style and branch out with my poetry.
The Window’s Open
The window’s open.
Again.
I push myself off my bed to where
The moon illuminates the
Rain.
Pittering.
Then Pattering.
A barrage of grey-blue lines fall
Into a
colony of droplets
Below.
A basin of life,
in a weird kind of way.
Quicker
And harder
It falls.
April Showers in
November? A crackle of
Thunder fills the sky,
Before a bolt of fork
lightning electrocutes the Earth.
The window shakes in the wind,
A god-power rattle shudders
Through the frame.
I close it.

This poem was written one night during lockdown when bored, and I wanted to write something that de-
tailed this boredom of the monotony of life by displaying simple thoughts in a constant stream of reflec-
tion. I felt like the free verse form allowed me to detail these thoughts properly, and furthermore by ac-
tively writing shorter lines I tried to emulate the appearance of the rain.
To My Twenties
Hello old friend, it’s been a while.
How’s the head? You look like shit,
Like a deer in the headlights of the truck of life.
Like the ghost of uni present.
Like a wreck.

Those thoughts still troubling you?

Those stupid things don’t matter no more, mate,
They’re ancient, forgotten, sorted.
In the moment, they’re the only thing,
The Queen of thoughts
Ruling over the land of conscience.
But they’re irrelevant.

Still alone? Thought so,

Doesn’t matter though, young one, it’s just a phase,
Just a passing moment, fleeting,
Barely memorable,
Barely important,
Not relevant.

The poetry class going well? Yeah,

It sounds like a safe space
For thoughts and problems,
A way to express,
A way to connect,
A way to be yourself in a society
Striving to include, keep that up.

Times are tough, man, they’re not getting easier,

Keep trying, improving, adapting, overcoming,
From your future self,
Jx

‘To My Twenties’ is a poem I wrote during lockdown, which ended up being a constant stream of my
thoughts at the time. I wanted to play around with using a muse, and also to try out different repetitive and
line length constructs to try and create a poem that resembled me. Furthermore, I also wanted to see if I
could include my own mannerisms to make it more personal, and make it feel conversational.
Ghazal: Remember them by Josh Dixon
Dust spray twinkles in the air from the letters in the cardboard box, remember them
Forgettable memories confined to only words upon words upon words, remember them.

The summer of ’86, playing rounders with Sam and friends from school
Before that dog bit the ball and we chased for two hours, remember them?

Or the trip to Calais, the smell of fish clinging to your nostrils

And Mum’s moans about how much she hated the French without ever going to France, remember
them?

Those nights before exams, shitting myself at what the test could be
Without ever revising the material, relying on “fate” to get me an A*, remember them?

Jeanine, my first love, and that sweet strawberry scent that

Got me in trouble at dinner, and the soreness that followed, remember them?

That smell of sanitation surrounding Nana, as she drifted off to sleep

One last time, and the tears that stayed long after they shut the coffin, remember them?

The marches through London fighting back against oppression

One rainbow flag at a time; colour, lights, megaphones splitting eardrums, remember them?

Mum’s accident, and the blood-sprinkled letters that arrived from the hospital
Each day with £1 coin attached “for some chips on your way home from work”, remember them?

That dickhead Stephen, and the black eye he deserved

For sleeping at her house, and each night choosing to stay in our bed, remember them?

Those nights that followed: loneliness, anger and the cuts

On my hands that his face caused; those cuts inside that she caused, remember them?

The rebuild, and those times of solitude, sweet bliss, followed by

That first kiss since, tender yet powerful, sparks catching fire in a room full of dark, remember
them?

Then those 30 loving years, two babies from young to old, dawn to dusk
And the slow deep breaths of my love through the depths of night, remember them?

With this poem, I wanted to create a storyline through it to try and detail the particulars of the narrators
life, infusing it with my own experiences exaggerated. I wanted to create an atmosphere in which the audi-
ence could relate and would appeal to senses that others had experienced themselves.
Smoke Swirls Skyward
You’re standing, singing,
Pint in hand, drinking. Green beams in the dark,
Thinking. You feel spaced,
Split to atoms by those thoughts you must face
Alone. One more shot,
Pass the pot, take a puff, watch the
smoke swirl skyward. Stars.
The warmth spreads to your chest, stressed
for some rest from the
cold people, shit people
with their thoughts, questions,
bad intentions. Waves
Cascade down my legs
Like a fever.
You’re awake dreaming,
Loud screaming
In the night wasted,
naked,
You keep searching for
Thoughts.

This poem was written in my very own poetry style — the “Dixon” — which incorporates a syllabic struc-
ture line-by-line of 5, 10, 5, 9, 5, 8 etc. until one syllable remains. The premise centralises around that
clear-headed moment whilst on a night out when the world seems to stop, and suddenly a moment of clar-
ity overcomes you for that split second before life moves on.
Sepia Shades on the Baby Blue
The white whispers fly across in the orange hue
Sepia shades on the baby blue,
It's the evening, we’ve got no meaning
But you start believing
So you turn a leaf anew.

You stand up with the warmth inside

Ready to open up and confide,
So you try but you break
And you cry ‘cause you can’t
Let the thoughts just slide.

They pass another in the golden glow

Please take this one real slow,
You try your best, but it’s already
In your chest as the tears
from your eyes start to flow.

Two arms wrap around from behind

But you really don’t mind,
You hug back, holding on
in the black, telling your
Friends they’re so really very kind.

You gather yourself in the faded sun

For you the night is done,
You say g’night, in the
darkened light.
Before you set off on your own and run.

‘Sepia Shades on the Baby Blue’ is written in a lyrical, ballad form inspired by Loyle Carner, a poet who
writes lyrics to a beat, detailing his life. This poem specifically shows the feelings of freedom as a night out
progresses, and as it goes on the way you’re feeling can change.
Justified Injustice
“Fucking pigs, rot in hell!”
Disco fever illuminates the drunkard,
the fire-spitter,
the pig-hater,
the vegetarian?

Hands cuffed, heading to the

slaughterhouse, the pigs of
justice.

He screams, shouts,
In anger at his own
injustice.

*silence*

Who listens
in the clanker of the world
to the
squeals of the pig, ready for
death?

This is a poem written in free verse and I wrote it whilst working as a bartender. Speaking from experience,
I used the notion of a man in despair bringing down those around him, and the change halfway through the
poem allows the audience to question as to who the pig actually represents: is it the police who are trying
to help, or the drunkard who feels wrongfully oppressed?
Black Lightening
Cocktails and fireworks,
A celebration of retaliation
Against the oppressors —
Now the oppressed
…
Hundreds of romans stand side-by-side,
Riot shields connected,
Onewallofarmour
Onehumantank
Standingfirm.
Illuminated in red from
the oppressed —
now the oppressors.
A flare soaring before that sonic boom of thunder explodes.
Eve ry where.

Rift in time, anger paused amongst

muted silence.
A brief moment of tranquillity and clarity
for the oppressed
(now the oppressors?)
Before a barrage of bottles and bras
And fire and faeces
And molotov and malice
Are unleashed upon
them.

This poem, heavily connected with ‘Justified Injustice’, was an experiment in which I streamed a constant
flow of thoughts onto the page after reading a news article on the Black Lives Matter movement. I began
writing and expressing my view of the events from the perspective primarily of an onlooker trying to un-
derstand how both sides feel — the oppressed versus the oppressors — and where the line is blurred be-
tween the two.
Blue Bubble
The cold exterior traps me, conceals me.
The glistening walls encapsulate my thoughts, pushing them deeper and deeper.
They can’t get out, swimming in the murky pool, multiplying like toxic bacteria.
It presses against me, trying to get out, trying to push me towards oblivion, but it won’t. Not yet.
The iciness of my pod resurrects me, reminding me to keep my thoughts hidden.
Keep them in, man, control them.
But they creep, and they stir, and they affect.
They linger, and they develop, and they overwhelm.
The mind-ravens circle around my head, eyeing up their next corpse. Their beady eyes watching,
like a hunter before his next kill.
And yet the bubble still entraps me, the mind-ravens forbidden from fleeing.
They flap, and they squawk, and they consume me.
They consume me.

‘Blue Bubble’ is another poem written from personal experience, and was an exercise in introspection.
Written at the height of the pandemic, this poem details my own emotions around the lockdown and my
own struggles with mental health and the isolation from the real world.
To the Girl who stopped loving me
The candle flits, just an orange hue,
Left to the right.
Eyes glittering with green and blue
Glinting in the light.

Left to the right,

My eyes can’t stop staring.
Glinting in the orange light,
The earrings swaying that she’s wearing.

My eyes can’t stop staring,

Pushing the hair back behind her ear.
The earrings swaying that she’s wearing,
In my mind there’s that running fear.

Pushing the hair back behind her ear,

She’s too good to be true.
But in my mind there’s that running fear
She might be looking for something new.

She’s too good to be true,

Those little dimples in her cheeks.
She might be looking for something new,
Somebody less weak.

Those little dimples in her cheeks,

Would she like me if I were
Somebody less weak?
Am I good for her?

Would she like me if I were

A better man?
Am I good for her?
This pressure, I cannot stand.

A better man?
Eyes glittering with green and blue,
This pressure, I cannot stand.
The candle flits, just an orange hue.

A poem written after a particular devastating knock-back in confidence, ‘To the Girl who stopped loving
me’ highlights the futility of love and ultimately poses the question as to why humans choose one mate for
life as other animals refuse to do so?
Coffee and Contemplation
The stain of your coffee cup lies in a perfect circle on the drawer,
A cruel reminder of the damage that you left
Me to deal with, you don’t care,
Yet your presence still lingers here,
No matter how hard I try, your scent
Fills my nostrils, overpowering my senses.

But, if I’m honest, it was my senses

That got me into this mess, so I draw
And sing and dance in the hope that your scent
Vacates my memory and the pain you left.
I shouldn’t have had that last drink, ‘cause now, here
Is where I struggle, and now is when I start to care,

When, realistically, I shouldn’t care.

Just get over it, but I can’t, my senses
Still glitch at the thought of you, I can still hear
Your singing in the morning, your drawings
Still adorn my wall (just to the left
Of that love poem you sent).

I remember the first time you said yes, you gave your consent
And we went out and bought that pregnancy test. I’ve never had a scare
Like it, yet when it came back positive you still hadn’t left.
You stuck by me, and despite our lack of common sense
We battled through, our hands on our hilts ready to draw.
But now your singing is no longer here

And my whole life, my whole atmosphere

Blown to different ends of the cosmos, and now I feel absent,
Absent of meaning. I withdraw
From this shit, God, I don’t care
I’m sick of this nonsense.
This place holds nothing for me, I’ve got nothing left.

But I take one more minute to think: do I have something left?

Is there a part of me who still wants to be here?
I look around my room, not ours, and my senses
Force myself to focus on that lingering scent
Of coffee and care
That used to hover over my drawings.

Honestly, I don’t know if I have any senses left.

I glance at what I’ve drawn: naked and lonely without you here,

‘Coffee and Contemplation’ is a sestina about the after-effects of a break-up, and the struggle that can en-
sue in trying to get back to being independent. I chose this format as to me it seems like the constant repeti-
tive thought process that can affect people trying to convince themselves they are okay.

And your scent I ignore as I pretend I don’t care.

Ghazal: That hurts by Josh Dixon
Falling down into the abyss, tumbling over and over, that hurts.
Limbs flapping, ready to take off, that hurts.

The scenario replays in your head constantly,

Repeating and repeating, that hurts.

The darkness overwhelms your senses, trapping

You in its black web, that hurts.

Unable to move, unable to see

The light of freedom, that hurts.

You squirm and you struggle,

But the might of the mind resists, that hurts.

For just one more chance to josh around

But now theres only one thing, that hurts.

This poem is another which primarily centralises around the topic of mental health during lockdown and
how a lot of people went through some dark periods in their lives whilst being forced to stay inside. The
repetitiveness of the “that hurts” highlights the constant piling up of thoughts which threaten to overwhelm
you if you don’t combat them one by one.
Dreams into Nightmares
Two luminescent rings of soul watch me,
Your hair, like fire, burns electric.
So much beauty you portray but cannot see,
Paralysing me, immovable, I’m infected
By your gaze, controlling my mind.
Wings tickle my insides, flit,
Our lives, so intricately entwined
Take the jump, commit.

But as your wooden tomb descends

Those memories resurface, snapshot,
A reminder of how your love transcends
That of a thousand gods, yet now I rot.
Droplets roll down from my rings of soul,
I’ve just lost that which made me whole.

‘Dreams into Nightmares’ found its name from the song “Nightmares” by Palaye Royale, which sum-
marised the feelings thrown into this poem, and works around the premise of losing a loved one, and those
flashbacks to fonder days. It allows the audience to put on their rose-tinted spectacles and reminisce about
their own memories of people they miss.
To the Man who recruited me
Mother is crying
Again. Queues of thousands stand in line, tiny ants
Waiting to be used.
Shuffle forward, shuffle onwards, walk
towards your demise.
One step, two step, three more to go,
Mother stands, alone
Amongst the men, eyes sodden
With knees shuddering
In fear. The soldiers watch
Her shoulders slump in
The chaos and noise.
The men beckon,
I give them my name.
Eyes inspect
Amidst the lone cries
Of mum,
Now alone at home,
One.

Another poem written in the “Dixon” syllabic form, ‘To the Man who recruited me’ primarily focuses on
the emotions of a soldier signing up for the army to fight in World War One, and the narrow-mindedness
that would go through his mind when approaching such a life-changing event in a young man’s life. It also
highlights the futility of warfare.
Frozen in Time
The albatross float across the pacific-blue sky
Flitting and drifting, away with the clouds.
Boats waft soundlessly beneath, a collection of bodies
Stand aligned in formation awaiting the blast.
Silence — then crippling white flashes,
An x-ray of blood and bones.

Through closed eyes the outline of bones

bursts into vision, the sky
Frozen in time by the white flash
Of Zeus from Olympus in the clouds.
The men didn’t stand no more; the blast
Leaving a bundle of writhing bodies.

Battered bodies
and broken bones
Bludgeoned by the brutal blast.
No albatrosses in the sky
that day, no more, just a cloud
and that brilliant white flash.

I remember that flash

— mesmeric, dazzling — nobody
could imagine. The mushroom cloud
that rose up, up, up above the pile of jittering bones
Into that bright blue sky
Ruptured by Zeus’ blast.

The power, godlike, in one single blast

of rage, one flash
of anger, pluming sky-
-high. The men, their withered bodies,
pull themselves to their feet. Zeus’ mighty fist grabs the bones
and throws, in just one confusion of cloud.

A beast of cloud
Rises and rises up from the blast,
Medics running, people screaming, bones
shattered. Eyes blinded by the flash
of the Gods, as bodies upon bodies
Clamber under the orange-white sky.

The atomic bomb’s destruction is unmatched.

Survivors talk of the brilliance of the destruction it causes.
‘Frozen in Time’ is a sestina written after a video I watched on the destruction a nuclear bomb could cause
if dropped over Kent, my home county. The final envoi adopts a different style to one usually seen in a ses-
tina, as the first two lines don’t incorporate the end-words, yet the final line incorporates all of them. The
poem aims to show the problems with violence and thus encourages audiences to think about consequences
of advanced warfare.

The flash of the blast of cloud into the sky doesn’t bury the bones of the bodies beneath.
Surface Shimmers
Drip, drop, whistles through the silence,
Climbing down through the cloud
Seeking company.
Surface shimmers, tendrils touching hearts
Desolating peace, radial proximity destroyed.
Blast to burning, decimation to death.
One drop screams the loudest.
Perfect harmony pricked, society stopped
In the silence of the morning it rings out.

Listen, understand, act.

Hear, scream, run.

A wave sweeping through, unstoppable

by Nature.
One arrow from above
One word:
Splash.

‘Surface Shimmers’ is a free verse poem used to show the destruction of peace through the medium of a
droplet landing on a surface of water. The surface, pristine and clear, works perfectly on its own, yet one
single droplet can cause collateral damage, and ruin the perfect essence of nature — the same occurs in the
events of Hiroshima, where one singular atomic bomb ruins the way society runs in one singular moment.
A Shower of Shards
after Ciaran Carson

Torn to shreds by a metallic wave of thunder. Suddenly

The rhetoric pendulum of their lives swayed from side to side as
Visions of those on TV flow like an old-fashioned movie reel. The
Faces of the broken, the beaten and the riot
Which followed. Far away lies the perpetrators, that squad
Of villains in a hidden lair. They will never be found and they will never be moved
By the pain and the trauma they in-
-flict, leaving a legacy which will scar a generation. It
Cascaded upon their heads, a shower of shards shattering everything that was.
It wasn’t raining,
But it is now, a smattering of clatters amongst the shouts of exclamation
That vibrate their skulls. The screams and the pain leave marks

Unhealable. They will try and explain, but the world will think they're nuts.
That first, earth-splintering crunch, that first man that bolts
And he runs, and runs as the nails
Patter down, clink-clink, on the pavement. A fumble for car-keys
And a scramble for safety. A
Man stands, dripping in red under a fount
Of silver and sharps, one maelstrom of
Pain. Families, once complete and united stand broken
Amidst this all-too-new type
Of trouble. Yet, the terrorists and
The bombs can’t destroy spirit. They manifest it. The
People always win, regardless of the size of any explosion.

The attack itself

Ripped Belfast in two, scattering and smothering an
Entire world, a city now just an asterisk
Of metal and blood. The man on
The news called it ‘a sad day for the
city’, just one more tale of woe on the map.

‘A Shower of Shards’ is a golden shovel inspired by Ciaran Carson’s ‘Belfast Confetti’, a poem which en-
capsulates terrorism at its worst and shows the fragility that society has. Furthermore, this golden shovel
also shows how warfare doesn’t always have to be something big and international, but can sometimes be
something minor and personal that happens on a smaller scale.
8:46am
Thunder explodes above my head,
A paroxysm of shrapnel twinkles in the morning shine.
Peace then [power]
Glass samaras twirl toward me,
A cloud of sparkling stars.
Harmony to [panic]
Shards envelop the city,
Deadly confetti falling.
Calm to [fear]
Blanket of glitter overhead floats,
Street-settling, foot-crunching.
Serenity to [silence]

‘8;46am’, which took its name from the time in which the first plane crashed into the Twin Towers on 11th
September 2001, is a poem which sees the events from a passer-by’s perspective, and shows the impeding
panic and stress as a result of Osama Bin Laden’s actions. The use of square brackets for certain words is
used not only for emphasis, but also to highlight key information within the poem — the visceral reactions
of the narrator.
King of the Hill
Through the mist of the morning the trumpet flares,
One thick silver wall of Normans and mares
Burst over the grassy planes, swords at the ready
Towards the row of archers, their bows all steady.

The Norman King roars in defiance and glee

As the first English soldier falls to his knees.
With one swift blow the axe took off his head
And the first drops of blood turned the muddy field red.

At the call, the arrows flew through the sky,

Through the cracks in the helmet into Harold’s right eye.
His scream hovered above the green battlefield
As the Normans moved forward, a screen of shields.

The horses charge towards the fallen king,

With each gallop another falls to the sword’s swing.
Normans dismount and start to attack
As the English disperse and begin to fall back.

“Retreat, retreat!” yells the front line troops,

But the crows of death saw their target and swoop.
Down came the arrows, and down went the men,
As another barrage of arrows attacked the English again.

The arrow storm fired gave the Normans their chance,

Four seized King Harold and took up their stance.
Two hacked the legs, and the others’ the head,
He collapsed to the floor where his body lay dead.

The Normans cheered, one chorus of joy,

The English distraught, now completely destroyed.
They backed off and ran as fast as they could,
King William the new monarch, on the hill he stood:

“Normans, we have conquered England at last,

See the English retreat ever so fast.
I am the new King, and rightfully so,
This battle will live forever, and everyone will know.”

‘King of the Hill’ is a poem describing the events of the battle of Hastings, one of significant importance in
the construction of the society we have today. Through this poem, I wanted to try out a rhyme scheme and
added a beat to it to try and simulate the marching of the troops, inspired by ‘The Charge of the Light
Brigade’ by Lord Tennyson. In addition, I wanted to include dialogue to try and mix up the styles of my
poems.
For the Kids
Sirens blare, covering the room in blue
And red, children cowering in fear.
A bang rattles the door, a scurry of nerves.

A gasp, a shuffle, a phone alert,

Another chance for death to pounce.
The handle shivers, and another bang shatters the frame.

One scream smashes the silence, sending a jolt

Of panic through the class.
The boy stands, staring down his fresh meat.

The AK-47 hones in on its first target,

A ginger girl sat quivering in the corner.
It sweeps across, life expired.

Each year, 3 million US children are exposed to shootings at school.

A childhood in fear of death, rather than full of life.

The topic of US gun laws is one of great debate around the world, and therefore I wanted to simulate the
idea that warfare is not only confined to battlefields, and that actually on a daily basis American parents
send their children to school in fear. I adopted the terza rima format to try something new, however felt the
rhyme scheme didn’t fit the topic I was writing about, and so decided to go along the lines of free verse.
World of Blue

In amongst the trees the old man cowers.

One more day, one more day to wake,
One more day to break in a realm of despair.
The crowd stops and stares, his blue eyes scared
Of this new world, the lack of joy, the upheaval of
Sad. ‘Cause now it’s just absent dads who
Don’t know what they had: a life, a wife, in a world
Of blue. But age comes with that pair of rearview mirrors
To the past, one starts to see clearer: the mistakes
And the keepsakes which keep us sane. So the immature fix their eyes
On the cowering old man’s cries.
He stands in the rain, contorted with pain, and howls
To the gods of the heavens for his youth.
But the gods stay silent to the loose screw
Who lives in his own world of blue.

‘World of Blue’ is a poem which I wrote to really show the consequences of war to veterans through a lyri-
cal, contrastingly upbeat rhythm. The use of rhyme moves the poem along and gives off an air of happi-
ness, whereas the lyrics say anything but; the poem highlights the difficulties for a soldier to reconnect
with the real world and transition back into civilisation.
To the Silenced Men
Breathe.
It’s that simple to just
Breathe.
When the world’s all shut
and you don’t want to
Breathe.
Curtains closed, shut the world
out before it pushes
you to not
Breathe.
Shy feelings remain
hidden, despite request from
a species that
demands communication; demands you just
Breathe.

Written in a terse, limited manner, ‘To the Silenced Man’ uses its brutal one word lines to hit home its indi-
vidual points with intent. When writing this, I wanted to experiment with line-length and pacing, and cre-
ated this poem which highlights mental health issues for those struggling and the inability to speak out
when in need of help. By altering the line length, I tried to distinguish the length between breaths to high-
light the way life eventually grinds to its conclusion and how bottling up can often lead to a reduction in
quality of life.
Herrick
Gunfire — dashes on the canvas whizz across the page,
Red splatters cross the lines. A barrage of words
follow: NO, NO, NO. You go to turn the page,
But it sticks. You try to look away but its everywhere, a
siege of words surrounding your sight. Those words,
Those goddamn words, like a highlight reel — let’s have a look
at some of your best bits!! How about that time you shot an Afghan
Between the eyes?
Dead.
How about when you watched Billy bleed out?
Also, Dead.

Life moves forward, but in the silence you’re back

at the page. Just one more look, just one more, just one more.
Watch the lines zip by, just inches from your head.
Billy, again. Let it stop.
You can’t erase those lines, though,
or those goddamn fucking words. The legless screams of
A friend. A husband. A son.
Water falls onto the page. One drop, then another, then another.
The image never clears — a blank canvas,
clear as the day you got it. Now,
Dead.

‘Herrick’ is a poem written from the perspective of a veteran attempting to convey his feelings onto paper,
and ultimately being overcome by the different emotions he feels about the death of Billy. The poem came
about from a news story I read on the conflict in Afghanistan, and it takes its name from the official mis-
sion to fight there.
Ode to the Forgotten

Hey Dad, do you remember me?

It’s me, your boy.
How are they treating you? Are the nurses nice?
Dad, it’s okay, you’re safe.

It’s me, your boy,

Mum’s not good - she’s sick.
Dad, it’s okay, you’re safe,
Tommy is good, he’s got so much taller.

Mum’s not good - she’s sick,

Stop worrying, I’m here to help.
Tommy is good, he’s got so much taller.
Do you remember our fishing trips?

Stop worrying, I’m here to help,

I used to love the days we were out on the water.
Do you remember our fishing trips?
You always knew what to do to make my day.

I used to love the days we were out on the water,

Dad, it’s alright just please try and think.
You always knew what to do to make my day,
I wish you knew how much I cared.

Dad it’s alright just please try and think,

How are they treating you? Are the nurses nice?
I wish you knew how much I cared.
Hey Dad, do you remember me?

Written in the pantoum style, ‘Ode to the Forgotten’ tells the story of a son trying to look after his father
whilst he is dying. The repetition of the lines in this form lends itself to be related to dementia, and the ef-
fects that can have on the quality of life for the victim, but also in this context the son, simply trying to get
through to his father.
7 minutes

The world fades to black - the clock has begun.

Toy blocks, a mother’s love, crying,
New challenges - no time to stop, run,
My first kiss, my winged heart flying,
Broken hearts never fully regrow.
I healed, I loved, I became a wife,
My loved ones drift to oblivion, angels, go,
Before God takes my life.

The corpse lies motionless, everlasting peace

Surrounded by impenetrable black.
Seven minutes before she will cease
To exist, now just words on a plaque.
Moments get lost, but always linger,
Despite the final toll of the bell ringer.

‘7 minutes’ is a poem which surrounds a topic I find fascinating — death — and details what happens after
you die. There is a theory that once your body dies, your brain has 7 minutes of brain activity left, in which
you relive your entire life however it feels longer, similar to a dream where time is distorted, and this Pe-
trarchan sonnet compresses that to real-time.