It is of no great wonder It is of no great wonder on an August day that you should find me out at play. Or is it? This is not your usual haunt My, my, you are looking thin and gaunt. I'm fine I say or so I think, Teetering on that rusty brink Of Charon's boat all on its own: Am I to ascend to my throne? I doubt it for that could never be; It would all be done so easily If I never had to aspire. Never had the throes of desire. Never felt the synapses' fire. We each take our place on the softing silk, Scarce aware of the serpent's milk Waiting right beside me. And still waiting. The minutes pass, we laugh and cheer Towards the blondied babe we leer (I didn't wish to be so base I am not of that Neanderthal race) And take our solace in the fact that we all share a common pact. Or do we? The eyes turn round on me and stare Those vicious vessels of verisimilitude. I stop. Dead. I cannot succumb to your purgatorial passion 'Tis not in my nature, it's not of my fashion. At last the truth is finally out The gutless'd shirker, the courageless lout. I stay awhile alas forsooth Who can argue with the whitened truth? Those sunny days so now pass true Endevilled by the forks of you.
I Wed Myself to Promise Oh, there, see that nothing weights lighter than glass. I first saw him walking the straight, cold road From frit to flint; though I thought, hoped he might pass, His cool hand slipped round my heart and he slowed. A man made from glass, blown to reality By the warm, sweet breath of unknown spirits, Molten beads of heat swelled to vitality Worth all care brittle perfection merits.
the owlet issue 1, michaelmas 2010 email: theblindowls@live.co.uk blog: www.theblindowls.blogspot.com
But take care: resting all your hopes on one scale Can cause a splinter of pressure to trace A path through it, a fissure of stress through frail Frosted touch. For his lips pressed to my face With the hard certainty of truth, a false trail To only bitter shards now in his place
In Michaelmas 2010, a creative writing society called The Blind Owls was founded in Pembroke. This, The Owlet, is a selection of some of the best writing produced by Blind Owls members. Happy Michaelmas (and Happy Christmas!): we hope you enjoy reading The Owlet as much as we enjoyed putting it together.
Madeleine Stottor
Map to You
Scholar if you read upon
He wasn’t there She couldn’t think why But she missed him she missed him Her room seemed empty the moment He left Despite the bed, the books, the bright Light of day stroking their surface
Scholar if you read upon The darkest archives of my mind, Would you recoil? And like a stone, Cast me upon the wastes behind? A tablet scored with fertile text, That feeds the thinker’s thirsting tongue, Tells not the fault with its ore mixed, Until the heart’s with its lore’s stung.
He wasn’t there And she didn’t know what to do To fill the hours till he’d be back He would he promised so so soon but Till then She couldn’t rest couldn’t sit still couldn’t Focus because
The serpent hissing world’s undone Beguiles a woman to his bed. He speaks the script of which no-one Could know, ‘til he’s the Bible read.
He wasn’t there So she missed him she missed him She found an old map of the city And walked the streets with her fingertips Until she reached Where he would be And she could stop since
Alexandra Paddock
Alex Fisher
He was there She closed her eyes Breathed slow Measured breaths And wasted watches Waiting for him to return 4
1
Madeleine Stottor
A Tree The weathered oak grows and stretches, Leans down the slope, and straddles the wall, Heaves the weight of years, And grips a stone between each root. He plucks and casts the fragments, Wailing, tumbling, down the slope. The wall was built in a long hot summer, And torn away in the flash of an age. An old tree writhes in the wreck, And his roots are distinctly moreish. William Bond