I embarked at sunrise With the rising sun watching. Her lips were smiling slightly But her eyes hid desperation.
I turned, forgetting the warmth And went one-way, for the journey The journey to the water.
The blank shimmers were laid out for me Waiting for the road to be made. Waiting for the white flag to be raised, The cloth that stained the future.
I looked out at the little fishing boats
Strung out like the childhood imagesShaking their heads at my return. My past on the water.
Only the water welcomed me home. Her eyes turned fast but shone
Shame and embarrassment
Shone from the mask. No longer loved. The white pebbles lay beside me and I sometimes wondered which had been Been the better way to die.
To return to the water
Two classrooms, quite unlike in atmosphere In Luckley House School, where I write this down A conflict, without resolution near Makes all the pupils of Luckley House frown
Two lovers in rival forms remain sad Together they are not allowed to be. All their angry friends think it’s very bad That they wallow in their sad misery
The teachers of the forms do drown in hate House competitions do rage on and on. The lovers cannot bare the tiresome wait Their friends think it is one great big con We wait to find out how this conflict will end, Enemies, or lovers or just good friends
The trenchant rail tracks of wrinkles stretch across his face. A face which is nostalgic of a previous happiness, now somehow lost. He has defined facial features that have been pulled and pushed and worn with age, leading to eyes that are an eternal abyss of darkness. A faint reflection of dim light was visible over the hazy pupils; eyelashes creating harsh strokes of ebony shadow throughout the reflections. Beneath his eyes sit asymmetrical eye bags, rough pillows on a bed of frail complexion. This puffiness has reasons unknown – perhaps his lack of sleep, perhaps his great age, perhaps his many addictions. But they show he is still human, and that’s what matters to him. Human.
His nose is full of dirt: clogged dark pores with pervasive scarring. Scarring that came from anything – fights, accidents. It is broken in several places and appears like an ancient stone statue that wan weathered and eroded as time went by. His nostrils are not dissimilar to caves leading amidst the underworld, gloomy and cavernous. There is a small dot where a piercing once lay; in his younger years he led a very different life.
Tickling his nose is a sweeping forest of grey beard that provided habitat to wildlife of dandruff and acne. Each hair is as thick and weathered as a tree and splits at the ends like branches. Flakes of dandruff are lazily littered among the hairs and need nothing but a wash and moisturise. Dirt coats sections of his beard and prompted a large spread of this acne. It looks like rows upon rows of hills coloured with scarlet paint and splattered with scabs. The rail tracks of wrinkles run on through his forest of facial hair, and lead to an unknown place that he can barely imagine, but aches to visit.
Isaac H, Year 10:
On the western side of a battlefield, stood a forest filled with traps and bodies. In the middle of this forest was a clearing, possibly cleared by a stray shell, possibly natural. This clearing, surrounded by charred, blackened trees, invited in wounded soldiers for shelter and safety from the raging war going on in the near distance. The smell of warfare still lingered here, smokes and gasses plagued the air and caused new green, fresh vegetation to instantaneously turn brown and lifeless.
In this forest, stood an old, abandoned, beat up piano. Once a musical masterpiece, now abandoned and broken, the piano stood all alone, just yearning to be played as beautifully as it once was. Lacquer chipped and scratched, the piano still managed to look brand new in this dark, dingy, sombre opening. Still in pristine condition however were the keys, perfect white and black contrasting against the dinginess of the woods.
Isaac S, Year 10
The piano sat there, standing defiant in the face of the nearby destruction. It looked ancient, the wood on its exterior having begun to rot. Despite this, it still contained the passion of a thousand souls within every key and string. Every note it made sounded perfect, resonating through the air as if the notes were produced by the sun itself. The keys felt warm, worn and old as they were lightly pressed on, continuing to resonate their notes through the air as if they were almost magic.
………..
As the last notes from the piano floated off into the sky, the soldier looked onwards towards the path going through the forest. A smile was still on his face as he wiped the tears from his eyes. Going on, he had a renewed sense of determination and perseverance. The notes still echoed in his mind in beat with the crunch of his boots along the leaf-flooded path.
Jacob P, Year 10
Surrounded by debris and leaves, the piano stood silent, and despite its many dents and scratches, the polished mahogany still glistened in the sun. Only the crackling of leaves and soft whistling of the wind could be heard as he splayed his fingers over the cold keys. His fingers began to dance, releasing the sudden sound of sharp, successive staccato, slicing through the blackening smoke, dancing through the decay whilst the soldier played effortlessly, without hesitation, without a pause.
He could taste the bitter air, scratching down his throat. Echoing his grief, the piano continued – as if it were playing itself. His mud-splattered fingers were staining the piano, corrupting its joy - spreading his anguish. He slowed, and the music melted away, revealing the guttural groans of the trees as the wind shook them. Another note pierced the air as he sped up and despite the rifle on his back (a constant reminder of his pain and guilt) he began to forget why he was there.
The leaves subtly swayed in time to the music, as if in fear of falling down. He felt for the comforting feal of the cool pedals beneath his feat. Beneath his rough rubber boots. He felt a tear gliding across his face, falling onto the piano, leaving a bloody splatter. Still he played. He caught a glimpse of his reflection: it was distorted and smeared with dirt.
Mieja Y, Year 10
Bullets. That’s all he could hear- the swift strafes of the ongoing fire next to him, behind him, in front of him, surrounding him from all angles as if he was in a circle of inescapable death, the screaming jaws of hell beckoning him to return to the battle, the rifle on his back pulling him backwards. He almost did, the ashen trees crying out, begging him to stay, pleading him to stay safe, to take cover. Wind tumbled around him, pushing his body the other way. He dragged himself through it until he saw a lone piano, standing proudly in the middle of the clearing.
He began to walk closer to it, the ancient piano, and its multitude of moss, ivy and small weeds growing around it. Upon closer inspection, he realised that in fact, the piano was rather clean and shiny, the centrepiece of the burnt, ashen forest around him. Singed trees looked down upon it, as if they were its proud parents. The piano held itself up on the uneven, messy ground, the leaves crawling up the side, unable to compete with the sheer size of it compared to their small, frail bodies, tossed and thrown by the violent gales. Pearlescent piano keys beamed up at him, smiling, bearing a shiny white smile, begging him to play them. He paused- just for a secondwondering what to play. Then he took another step and began.
Time seemed to stop- only his melody could be heard at first. Only him and the piano, a perfect pair, cutting through the smoke, fighting and gunfire. The whole world came to a stop in that second, the melancholy tune gently comforting the crying forest. His piano was the key to peace in that second, every chord, every note plastering the charred forest with joy, he played on, unable to stop, the gentle chirping of the birds softly singing along, nature’ beautiful orchestra. His fingers danced across the keys, the cold shocking his hands, but yet, he knew he felt at home here. The wind gently caressed his face, telling him he was doing a good job, that he was going to be okay, his comrades would be safe.
Leaves softly strolled with the breeze, the scent of smoke still rampant in the air. He felt it choking him, the toxicity strangling his breathing, he could feel it cutting off his air, he coughed, and the playing hindered for a split second- this was a reminder of where he truly was- but also of where he was not. Either way, in that second, he resumed playing...
Now, he had reached a crescendo, and he forced the keys down, a sense of anger and pure despondence driving his fingers down, pinning them to the bottom, the melody no longer one of peace and happiness, but one of hatred and sadness. Time resumed, the bubble he created popping, he was no longer alone with the piano, but back where he started. The forest resumed it’s crying, and the gunfire could be heard in the distance, so loud that he had to cover his ears.
Nina, Year 10
Sweet melodies whistled through the wind as the piano gently wept. A map for the ear to follow if to be heard over the chaos of the battlefield. The piano was exploding with the beauty of nature; flowers bloomed from where the lid once sat, winding their roots around the strings in an attempt to sustain the silence of the forest. But the piano played on, serenading the trees as they swayed along in time.
Alexander, Year 10
The trees towered over me like skyscrapers with their stained-glass leaves casting a green glow over the dense forest floor. Tendrils of vines emerged from piles of rocks; their tips flowered vibrant pink petals that enticed my eyes and captured my attention. Hints of crimson splashed over the floor from foliage hidden from sight. Various flowering plants weaved around trees and knitted themselves into the ever present ecosystem of the forest adding to the spirited atmosphere of the forest.
The light tinkle of water enveloped my ears as it flowed through the heart of the forest, splitting it in two. It ebbed, flowed and weaved through the various obstacles provided by nature. Crystal like in appearance and silky cool and serene in feel, but unbreaking and unbendable in stature.
Plumage and cries ripped through the air as birds, reptiles and mammals alike awoke from their slumber. The harmonious cacophony tearing through the blockade of trees like saws. The hissing and spitting of the reptiles sounded almost like the waterfall nearby which was dampened by the new various voices to be heard.
Alice, Year 10
The waterfall is running down as fast as a cheetah. The emerald green leaves are shining as bright as a ray of sunshine beaming onto my face. The rainforest gives off a calming feeling and a relaxing sense. I can see overgrown, green bushes and hear the water splashing against the rocks and I could smell the damp, warm smell of the rainforest. I could hear the water flowing peacefully and all the birds squeaking above me coming from the trees. The fingers of the ferns were reaching out and touching the arms of the branches of the tropical trees. As the wind gently rustles the leaves, the emerald plants whisper their secrets to each other like excited children.
The water flows rapidly past me and over the rocks, engulfing them like a powerful army. The water is so unstoppable and uncontrollably powerful. Soft white ripples of water twist and turn around the hard, black, glistening rocks amongst the water. I bend down to touch the clear water and sense its chilling strength and power as it rushes past my frail fingers. I felt the icy water which sent tingles down my spine. Delicate, soft plants are drinking at the waters edge like sugarcanes. At my side gentle ferns are growing bravely beside me whilst up above me, huge towering giants reach up to the rainforest canopy.
Suddenly the gentle sound of the bubbling brook is disturbed by sharp screeching and screaming of parrots. The peaceful backdrop of green was broken by a rush of colourful flapping feathers from the parrots. The piercing, shrieking noise fills the air which scared me. Monkeys were leaping joyfully from branch to branch and I was then reminded, I am not alone.
There’s a door on the hills. It’s locked with an ancient padlock and leads nowhere, and no one has ever managed to open it. It’s dilapidated, and yet an axe has no effect; the lock is rusted, and yet a bolt cutter is useless. Completely unopenable.
So why is it open now?
I see it at the top of the towering, verdant hill, door flung open on its hinges, barely clinging to the wooden frame. It calls to me – I hear it filling my skull, overwhelming my senses with its song. I go to it. Plants reach up out of the ground and curl around the frame into what lies on the other side.
A new land. Cold, blue light falls out of the doorframe, and an old wooden path begins just within and navigates through unearthly plants to find a ghostly rotunda hidden amongst the trees.
It calls to me.
I go to it.
The door closes behind me.
Peace can be quiet
Peace can be loud
Peace is everywhere all around.
Peace brings happiness
Peace brings joy
Peace is wanted by every girl and boy.
Peace can mean calm
Peace can mean proud
Peace is something that can be allowed.
Peace brings silence
Peace brings thoughts
Peace is something that cannot be taught.
I can hear bombs and gunfire outside, I am really scared, Helicopters fly above my head, There are soldiers roaming the streets with machine guns, I shed a tear.
Where is my friend? Has he really gone? I look at the playground; nobody there, I look at the field; nobody there, I shed a tear.
The sound of the dictator's evil voice whirls around in my head, I think of my father out there, fighting for our freedom, I wonder if he is alive, I shed a tear.
I am stuck at home, it's too dangerous to go out, I pray with my family for peace, When will this end? I shed a tear.
A flag flies in the wind overhead, A stripe of yellow and blue, I salute it, I shed a tear.
I stared at the apartment block opposite, Bang!
A bomb sails through the air, bricks scattering everywhere, I shed a tear.
We have little food, water and electricity to survive, Bombs are destroying airports and bridges, I have to face it, there is no escape, I shed a tear.
The world is watching their every move, The man in green appeals for help so that, The dictator will soon be defeated and peace will return, I shed a tear.
Peace means life can go back to normal, Peace is craved by so many, Peace is everything we deserve, I break down.
Earth is a place for peace, Where trees and leaves flow through the wind, Not where politicians are fighting, And workers going on strike.
Peace is about love, Spending time with your family, Supporting family members and friends.
The world is a place that accepts you. The world is one big family, Whether we support different football teams, Or different religions, Earth is a place for peace.
Peace on Earth.
Peace we achieve When we do not expect anything From the world. But we only give and give Unconditionally What we have and what we are.
I once could study and learn I could run freely, fast and proud I could walk outside without getting shot I'd speak my thoughts no matter what
I dreamed of peace and what I found Were broken fragments on the ground My dreams were shattered, lost in dust I found my hopes were killed and lost
And now I find I'm all alone
The sounds of drones, of guns and bombs I wish I was who I used to be Please one day, let me be free
Peace feels like a friend comforting you when you are worried, Peace is like a flower opening and the beauty is shared with everyone, Peace gives ocean colour like no other, Peace and harmony brightens up your day. Peace is like drinking hot chocolate after a cold day, Peace feels like a cosy fire on a winter’s night, Peace is like a innocent old man, Peace and happiness is all the world desires.
Peace. It can mean so many different things. It can mean no wars. It can mean saving the Earth. It can mean better politics. Yet, they all link. Perhaps if war did not exist, we would be one step closer to saving the Earth. And if we had better politics, the problem would be being solved right now.
When I say peace, what comes to mind? For me, I think of luscious green grass, with trees everywhere. I see less housing, and more vegetation. I don’t see deforestation and mile after mile of dead land waiting to be used for building.
Imagine a world that isn’t damaged. One where there was more nature, less man made factories that kill the Earth and us by the minute.
If only people could realize the damage they have done, and realize that nothing is going to change if they don’t. If everyone in the world could start to take action by reducing the amount of plastic they use, recycling more. That would make peace.
Do you think that wars contribute to the lack of peace in this world? Perhaps if war did not exist, and all countries got along, there would be more peace.
Perhaps, if politics could realize that climate change is so much bigger than they think it is. Remember when it reached 40 degrees in England? That was climate change.
Perhaps if people could wake up and see what happens every day. From the millions of trees cut down to the lack of freedom in Iran.
So please, for the sake of the Earth and the nature on it, start to take action. And maybe, just maybe, change could start.
I’ve always wondered what the meaning of ‘Peace’ is.
Some will tell you it’s a world without humans, some a world without war and that one drunk person who thinks you meant ‘piece’ and tries to teach you how to play piano for an hour.
It’s strange how everyone thinks ‘Peace’ is something different. Maybe ‘Peace’ is something different for everyone. What’s my peace?
I had enough of waiting for my peace to find me. It wasn’t that life was too stressful, it was just that there were no breaks in it. I got promoted and had to spend extra hours proving I deserved it, then it was my friend’s birthday, and then our other friend’s and our other, my mum got sick for a few months and I had to spend that time looking after her pets and my younger sister who still lives at home. Yes, I was very tired.
Suddenly, I was on a flight to Australia of all places. I’m not sure why I chose to go downunder, but it seemed like the right choice. I spent three weeks there mostly just staring at the Sydney Opera House, but I didn’t feel peace. I felt like I was one degree off dying of heatstroke.
Canada was nice. I actually liked Canada. However, everything was expensive; I had to do quadruple takes at every price tag. Also, about half of the people I spoke to, knew French and I felt bad as I only know one word in French. Bonjour.
Everything was crowded in Spain.
I spoke no Japanese in Japan. Switzerland was boring. And I was hospitalised from dehydration in Argentina.
Nothing slowed down. Things went by like a blur and by the time I’d packed my bags, I hadn’t found anything. These places were supposed to be calm. By the time I moved on to Finland, I had all but given up on finding my peace.
Everyone else was lucky. They managed to find a place where time stood still, a place where they could forget the world, a time where nothing mattered, a time of peace.
I flew home one morning, cancelling a flight to Indiana on the way. It had only been eight months, but everyone had changed so much.
My sister hugged me the moment I opened the front door; she cried and claimed she waited all day for me to return. My parents made me a nice meal and even my cat gave me attention, although she probably just wanted food.
That night, my sister and I went on a walk to the lake. We had been doing that since she was seven, and on that walk, she was eagerly awaiting her sixteenth birthday next month.
When I looked out on the lake between the leaves of the trees and saw sunlight warm the current I felt happy. Not peaceful, but content. In that moment I understood, this was my peace.
It wasn’t in another country away from all I knew, and it wasn’t a moment where I could forget about the world and be true to myself.
I love my family, I love my job, I love my house, I love what I have. I can find beauty in even the most stressful parts. I guess, in a way, life is my peace.
Skin as white as apple, Crouched in the shadows, Three ancient Crones.
One single snipSo much pain. One single snip a life can end.
One single snip, They hear the shrieks. One single snip, The guilt lies with them forever.
Skin like folded leather, Hidden in the gloom, Three ancient Crones.
The city shares many a secret Along the empty alleys
All hidden and rewritten Among the city valleys
Berry beer, strong and pure One sip enough to lure
Sharing things that shouldn’t be heard Will be spoken of no more
The night is a dangerous place That you should be ready to face Everyone one speaks with little care Even among the midnight air
Rumours and stories instead of lights And drink and murmurs replace the frights a city of secrets and nights
The writer of this poem
Is as tall as a crane
She dances like the wind
Her eyes sparkle like the rain.
As social as a butterfly
As lazy as a sloth
Jumps as high as the clouds
And is as mad as a moth.
As loud as a cars horn
As fast as a cheetah
Hair like silk
And as tough as a lion when you try to beat her.
Still. Silent. Solemn. The dust hung above the charred earth like a scared child to their parent, obscuring the horizon in a brown haze. But there were no children here, not anymore. This world had been purged in fire decades ago, and since then remained silent.
Silent that is, except for one noise. Alone in this hellscape, the cockroach scurried between spots of shade, avoiding the searing heat of the midday. It will not find salvation. Even in this corner of the cursed world, it isn’t safe. It scuttles past the corpse of another, now a driedout husk, as it tumbles in the feeble zephyr that fails to alleviate the wrath of the sun, all powerful in its domination of the sky. This monochrome reality is absolute in its horror, the land of the damned, and all who stumble into these parts perishes.
But far away, a reality entirely juxtaposed to this exists. Flowers bloom at the shore of a sparkling river, under the graceful boughs of mighty trees, ancient and permanent in this world of change. Birds squawk and monkeys holler as life thrives. Here, mankind’s bane was never wrought, and it has outlasted their abhorrent curse. Over in the shade, the graceful jaguar stalks in the darkness, its matt hide masking it perfectly. Here, the hummingbird’s wings buzz, as it leisurely drinks from the ample reserves of nectar to be found. Here, life, in all its glory, is omnipresent and will forever be. Here, mankind has never trod.
A poem written in response to Lovelace’s ‘The Scrutiny’ and Rochester’s ‘Absent from Thee’.
A tedious twelve hours – less what you swore to me
My minde is tainted with odious imagery
Of tender skin wrapping, folding and stroking another ‘Twas twelve hours ago I was your devout lover
Though absence makes the heart grow fonder, My heart blackens, my blood thickens as I ponder I wish to reminisce upon a love once blessed
Now your gene imprinted upon the lips of a temptress’
Thy yearns to become such as a skilful mineralist: Plaguing mine fondness with beauties; as if an atheist
Purpl’d stains upon one’s sheets
A ghost of allegiance lives to haunt me
Return to thee? I think most doubtfully
As thy severed a love not so innocently
Scour for treasures, fortunes and riches
For time will prove - with crimson soiled stitches –Thy love belongs to another seductress
Though, I never find mine salty dew of perspiration
Thirsting for other wretched souls but thee
As the glitters of time never limit me, They will show my devotion and enrapture thee As mine embraces are thieved but delightedly
‘Tis through wicked and fiendish affairs
One must explore the fairest of hairs, Enhancing one’s most true loves and cares, Though poisoning a once chaste and sinless love affair.
You swore to stay with me –not mingle like blood in a flea Sir, a vow lasts, longer than one night.
Thou will leave, And thou will return To an empty bed, And have nothing, but variety.
How many more, Sir, how many more Have heard your promise, do you not grow bored? Were they black, brown or fair of hair When poisoned by your futile air? Do you recall the colour of their eyes Oh, your desire has made you blind!
I will not beg for your return, Nor for your body will I yearn. Thine lips are fatal to a lover’s ears, A tedious twelve hours twist into tears.
Tick, goes the clock, now morn has come, It is time to taunt thee, says the cruel sun. Your honey-glazed lyrics shift at the dawn, And your sweet touch I am left to mourn.
Now the lies that slip off your sharp tongue, Fool only the mind from which they come. For gems don’t love he who gazes once, And throws them out when he is done.
Deserted- the ancient piano stood in the middle of the silent forest. The gaping cracks and shattered splinters flaking off the mahogany wood, like the shrapnel from a blitz of bombs silencing the surroundings; the piano observing the calm yet disturbed forest. Gentle touch from fingers, cracked, worn and blood-stained fingers.
The melancholy atmosphere broken by the harmony of the music dancing, entwined into the piercing wind. The metallic taste of bloodthirsty gunpowder lingering... hungry for death. Choking gas surrounds. Edging ever closer to the piano, gas viciously engulfing anything that stands in its way. Corruption sneaking around like a sly snake, greedy for war. Cowardly trees trembling treacherously in the sight of the fatal, destructive, and lethal war; their bark- the trees’ wrinkled skin-, stale from the everlasting war. Viscous sap exudes down the tree like the oozing crimson red blood of dying soldiers. Crackling, like a cacophony, the trees sway in the howling wind, struggling to ignore the gruesome, decaying bodies.
Fatigued, a lone solider settled solemnly, relying on the sturdy piano to support his exhausted frame. Guilty conscience stalking him. The fallen thousand lurk just behind, reminding him of the severity of war. An impenetrable layer of decomposing bodies suffocated the soldier, coating his mouth, leaving an unpleasant taste. His bear-skin uniform protected him from the spine-chilling bitter winter air.
Squelching of the dead underfoot drowned out by the beautiful sound of the elegant orchestra of gentle keys working in harmony, contrasting to the harsh realities of war. Shellshock, coursing through his veins like adrenaline; flashbacks of previous violent engagement waiting to return in the back of his head as soon as the stupendous music finalises into a crescendo.
Gloomy skies cloud overhead, circling like a pack of ravenous vultures, preying on the weak of war. Rain thumped like the cumbersome footsteps of an enemy solider walking with precision on patrol. Northern winds sting the distorted face of the lifeless solider. Burdensome, his fatal gun commanding him to return to combat.