My Life In Words

What am I doing again

2010-02-10T12:19:00.000-08:00

Shit, fuck and arseholes. Those are all some words I can use to describe today, although those words aren't really describing anything. My blue days are thankfully getting farther and farther in between, but you see it's my mother's birthday on Friday. And Mother and I don't exactly see eye to eye. To be frank, she's a manipulator. Not only did my other blog and the naughty poetry on there get read out to an entire class today, which made me want to disappear into the chair I was sitting on, but mother decided to phone and remind me that it was her birthday on friday and that if I was going to send her a card, that it should contain some of the money nanna Pierce left me. Yeah mum whatever.

The fact that you've drunk most of what you've earned is no longer my problem.

The fact that you never remembered any of my birthdays unless you wanted anything, imperative.

The fact that you want me to forgive you again after the last time. Debatable. There's always a next time.

So if you do happen to meander by my blog, like you used to read my diaries, journals poetry wtc before you set alight to them. I hope you know there is no gift coming for you from London. No card. No money for you to go out and get more inebriated and shag the brains out of any old tramp.

As far as I'm concerned it should be you where nanna is now.

You never wanted me.

I never had a choice.

Goodbye Year and All That Jazz

2010-01-04T06:26:00.000-08:00

Ahhh..a new year and still blogging, well sort of as I seem to be getting a bit laid back with this blogging business. I wanted to write something prolific, the last year has been surprisingly good for me. I moved out of home, became free of a dogma, and that's possibly the best word for it; went to Uni, passed my exams as history repeats itself quite often I'm awaiting the results of my first year exams as we speak and with a profound lack of anything special or important to do, I decided to pay a tribute to last year. 2009, what a good year. My highlights well, meeting and keeping Alistair, for keeps I hope, finding freedom, developing my writing style and getting to know who I am a little better. Time and tide waits for no man.

2010, what will this bring? Well so far snow, and lots of it and ice, I have the bruise on my bum to prove it! Also 2010 brings time for a bit of reflection, and with that for me, comes a new batch of poetry. I hope that you enjoy! :)

Goodbye

Observe in silence.

Watch stonily as the room fills with smoky ghosts.

Your memories shattered and broken

like the shards of glass around your feet.

Amuse yourself as the dust settles in sheets around the room

on the flames of your long forgotten photographs.

Your eyes focus hazily on the morning light

Pouring through the drawn shutters.

The faces smile, nameless in their frames,

They once laughed, cried,

As you now do.

-----

Look within.

Mend the part that is broken.

Fix the cog that fails to keep time.

Dance to the rhythm of life ticking in front of you

Keep it from escaping.

Erase all your demons,

the ones who keep you grounded in the same spot.

Until there is nothing more

But empty words

and notions.

------

As you sit with your pondering,

Listen to your echoes,

The ticking of the clock as time passes.

You get no younger, it pauses for no-one.

Let the ghosts walk around you, for now

feeding the flames of your deadened brain,

Mingle with them, stroke the ashes, feel their pain

of remembrance. The bite of reverence.

Re-fuel your desire to begin, once again.

Whole,

Clean,

Meaningful.

-----

Let is pass, finally,

Washing over your thoughts like spring rain

Waking that dead broken part,

That dead year and its embers.

Stand up, in the light of the morning,

as the new year dawns before you

Face it as the spirits now fade

Those memories that YOU made

Foundations YOU laid.

Move on and wipe that dust off your familiar faces,

Let it go,

Goodbye.

Eternal

Look over your shoulders

take care of the fear

it will make you mad.

Don't run from security

Don't run from the fight

Face up to the things that

Give you bad dreams at night.

Hold on to the precious,

Fight on for your sanity,

Your battle precarious

don't loose your humanity.

It's worth battling forward,

with each little step

Is a move towards freedom

A change in the season.

So hold eternity in the palm of your hand,

happiness awaits, like the turning of sand

in the timer of life, you know how to be strong

Life waits for no one,

You know I'm not wrong.

And although the road less travelled seems the harder path

Take risks, cry, laugh,

become the one person you've wanted to be

Find your strength and your eternity

In me.

Detail

I let my finger follow the curve of your lip,

That bow, cupid arched for me, the pout

of the small bridge of your lips,

with which you smile and make laughter.

The small pink buds that make me tingle

when your voice escapes them.

I've studied their art, long and hard;

small lines at their edges in deep

happy creases,

The warmth of the thin skin on mine,

the tenderness of their angles.

-----

I follow up to your eyes,

Again following the shallow lines that form,

and small shadows from your endeavours.

I am mesmerised by the deep chocolate warmth

smiling as you look at me with the same intrigue

Looking at the kaleidoscope of patterns that swallow me

whole, and hypnotise me to them.

They envelope me, caress me without touching

Such sensitivity; rare in most, apparent in those eyes.

------

Under my fingers, the smoothness

and finesse of your skin,

warm against my coolness

reciprocating my touch with it's goose flesh

small hairs raising to my touch as I explore

wanting to know more.

Goodbye To You

2009-10-19T12:48:00.000-07:00

In all the time I've been keeping this blog I've realised how little people actually know about me. The fact that I seem all sweetness and light, or witty and satirical, or sometimes down right stupid when tweeting is, I suppose, nice in it's own right. In truth, things have never been easy for me. I don't want to air my grievances over blogger, because that's life, right? You have to plug on and get on with things no matter what happens, no matter what is thrown at you. It goes on.

I've just been slapped in the face again.

My nan died in the early hours of Friday morning. There is a story to tell here, but now is not the time or the place. Nan and I were close. I spent three weeks living with her before moving down to Central London in September. She took me in. She always took me in. She always looked out for me. The one person I could depend upon for guidance, cuddles, even stupid things like girlie advice, what to do with my hair. That was my nan. She was sixty nine. Not old. So back to Wales. No one wants to take responsibility for organising a funeral, being 19, I don't want to either. But I owed this woman so, so much. She was my role model in life, she cared when no one else wanted to know.

I'm still breathing, still surviving, I'm doing this for her.

So this is for you Nan, I raise my glass of diet coke to you. I hope you enjoy it, you were awesome.

For Nana Pierce, I love you.

Ave Maria

Encompass us in your light,

Your safety, and energy, so bright.

Although your time with us was spirited away

I know your free and will sing one day

Ave Maria, Full of Grace

I smile and remember the lines of your face.

Ave Maria.

An honest heart, a precious soul,

Your eyes sparkled daily, your smile was like gold,

Your hands were so gentle, and always serene

So many things that you leave here with me,

So many memories, The Lord is with thee,

Ave Maria, Full of grace

Ave Maria.

You gave me a reason to live every day,

You taught me to love, you taught me to play.

I know that your watching, please don't fade away

You'll be remembered in the sun's final ray.

Ave Maria, blessed are thou

Ave Maria.

A white feather falls from your wings,

As you unfold them and the choir sings,

The whitest of flutters, falls to the Earth,

Whispering, waiting for the hour of rebirth.

I'll love you always, My saviour

My Grace,

Ave Maria.

Even the deepest blues are black

2009-10-14T10:22:00.000-07:00

Friends, the people in our lives we most take for granted. This is for you.

Masque

How did we get here when the road ahead is black?

Turning in circles too scared to look back,

Moving ever onwards into the great unknown,

Afraid of becoming stagnant, of turning to stone.

Unsure of how I found you

Too scared to let you go,

Petrified of your newness

My head keeps saying no.

-----

How did you see me behind my careful mask?

Was it some kind of kinship, or some kind of task?

Why do I doubt your motives, and push you away?

Instead of cherishing what I've been given, please stay.

Unsure of who I am,

Too scared to find the answer,

My heart beats in my throat

It eats me up like cancer.

-----

I hold your hand too tightly, constricting, breathing,

Still turning in blue circles and hating what I'm feeling.

I want to let you be free of me, to carry on alone,

You'd be better off without me, the girl without a home.

But I've loved you forever,

You know who I am,

So onwards were moving,

I don't give a damn.

-----

Your eyes haunt me, as red as the blood in my veins,

But kindness is all I see behind them, I work, I strain.

I doubt my own instincts, you carry me along,

I'm weak in this journey, your the one who's strong,

You don't have to,

But you continue,

You carry me,

We're almost free.

------

How to move forwards of the chains that have bound me?

To look at the scars that stain and surround my skin, for all to see?

Will I ever be able to move along the path, with your hand in mine?

Is it just a matter of love, or a matter of time?

I'm broken,

A token,

Afraid to leap

Afraid to speak.

-----

Without you there is no path, no where for me to go.

Without you there I loose my way I'm running to and fro.

I learn therefore to ask for help, when I am most in need,

And then I know your more than that, you are a friend indeed.

We dance to a masque

Try to forget our past,

Step by step,

Never looking back.

Getting on with it

2009-10-10T07:04:00.000-07:00

This blog has been used as an online diary for far too long! I've been quite productive in the last few days. To think that they hardly give us enough time to think creatively on this course never mind write creatively! Here are two of my latest works.

A bit random but enjoy...

Ode To a Dead Bird

She holds the carcass in her hands

As gently as a child,

He sang her morning reverie

When he was young and wild,

A teardrop forming at her eye,

She holds him to her breast;

He was the only one she loved,

The one who knew her best

-----

She strokes the feather of his wing

His crumpled downy chest,

And holds his coolness to her cheek

The final morbid test,

The teardrops form and finally roll

In tracks down both her cheeks

When she was ill his sorrow song

Comforted her for weeks.

-----

The patch of down upon his chest

Is crumpled white and grey.

The little heart is still within

His soul has flown away.

His tiny dark exotic eyes

She closes with a kiss.

She prays for absolution-

A better place than this.

-----

How she grieves this little girl

For something so contrite,

She wraps him up, puts him to rest

Before the day meets night.

She’s lost him to the otherworld

He sings a different song,

Stolen from her loving hand

It all seems very wrong.

-----

She prays the Lord his Soul to keep

To steer him on his path

The bird who kept her company

The one who made her laugh,

She places him in to the ground,

And covers him with earth

“goodbye my love” she whispers

“You’ll never know your worth”

-----x-----

Loner

I don’t know where to turn

Who to run to

Where to learn?

I don’t know who wants to know

Where to hide?

Where to go?

-----

Unsure, I slip and fall

To my knees I cannot crawl

I can’t move forwards,

Can’t move back,

There’s too much weight

Upon my back.

-----

I turn on the spot,

I need to hide,

From all the bitterness inside.

I feel so empty

I’m incomplete,

But still I cannot find my feet.

-----

I panic for a little while

Thinking of that extra mile

I push and pull

With all my might

And work too hard

Into the night.

-----

And then the darkness

Takes a hold,

I lost my heart

I lost my soul.

I never found that open door,

Just fell over on the floor.

-----

If I move on and loose my way

Will there ever be a day

Where I stand tall?

And through it all

Become who I want to be?

The really “real” me.

My Love
You're the first thing I think of
Each morning when I rise.
You're the last thing I think of
Each night when I close my eyes.
------
You're in each thought I have
And every breath I take.
My feelings are growing stronger
With every move I make.
------
I want to prove I love you
But that's the hardest part.
So, I'm giving all I have to give
To you... I give my heart.

Dreamer
You have come to me from a distant land,
Dreamer of dreams, to fill my hearts desire,
Sweet music flowing from your nimble hand
That plays within... to light my passion's fire.
-----
A symphony of word and thought you bring.
Excitement builds upon crescendo's sound,
Brought forth in tones to make my light heart sing
For all the beauty that, with you, I've found.
-----
A life is changed in just an instant's time,
All darkness fled before that brillaint sun
That shines from spoken words of softest rhyme
And speaks of treasures, only just begun.
-----
This mystic meeting gives my heart a glow
That few have seen and only you will know.
-----x------
I awake each day with a smile
And greet it with a laugh;
The world is a treasure to me
Because of you.
Every time I think of something sad,
I replace the thought- with you.
My mind is instantly changed
And my heart is filled with gladness.
Every breath I take is meant for you,
I live this life surrounded in joy
And I bathe in the promise of your love,
My soul belongs to you.
Each time I see something beautiful
I want to take it and bring it to you;
My life has so much meaning now
All because of you.

Life and Stuff...

2009-10-07T03:16:00.000-07:00

Why does everything that seems so easy for other people have to be so complicated for me? Is it perhaps, that I have the most spectacular bad luck in the world? I'm not going to over analyse things too much, but I've been thinking about this for a while. Things that other people find so easy or seemingly easy to do i.e. getting on a train and heading to a friends house, all become a comedy of errors with me. It's farcical it really is. Not even a phone works when I want it to. It develops "Beth's touch of doom" syndrome and conks out.

Ok, take a step back. I've been in London now for two weeks, loving the atmosphere, feeling a little shaky and still finding my feet. I left home under very bad circumstances. My last proper conversation was with a police officer. That's my business and I don't really want to discuss it in a public forum.

I fit in well with the other eccentrics at my new Student House, which is good. Most of them are older, wiser and have worked in media/writing for a few years. Two of us are fresh out of school. My course is the same, I am the youngest person on it. I ask myself the question straight away, should I have taken a year out and gained some life experience? Yes? Well the dirty little secret is that I had plenty of "life" experience before I got to London. But that's another matter entirely.

I become obsessed with getting work in on time. Nothing new there then. But at what cost?

Anyway still feeling a little lost and with no one at home to talk to apart from my nan who has plenty of worries of her own at the moment I don't want to burden her with mine. I suppose that's understandable.

I love my course, I love where I live, I also adore the Uni. The problem therefore must be me. I have adopted this solitary pose like Greta Garbo . I keep beating myself up thinking I'm never going to be good enough. One of the girls on my course drives an Audi TT has already written numerous screenplays and lives in Kensington. What is this I'm feeling? Is it jealousy? Or inferiority? All I know is that I'm putting myself under enormous pressure. I'm succeeding thus far, but being two weeks in and having so much to do and carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders, I'm feeling the burn! On this course, because there are so few of us were all in competition to be the best of the best. It really is like an episode of the apprentice. Who gets the contract for so and so and who makes the highest quality writing. Ugrh, I blog, write poems and have half a novel-ish. Help!

Also, I keep asking the question, what am I sacrificing here to be the "best of the best"? My sanity, well that's a given, but also something else. Friendship, relationship, my social staple. It seems that I am to surround myself only with the clique that I live, eat and play and work with. I've had no time for anyone else whatsoever.

Apart from feeling a little lost, I'm also a little anxious. Wales--->London= Hellufachange. I've gone from a one train stop tourist trap to living near a one tube every 5 minutes and the map is so confusing I haven't got a clue where I'm going kind of place. I wouldn't change it for the world. I'm happier here, but perhaps feeling a little...vulnerable. That's the word I've been searching for the whole of this blog post and I've only just "got it". Another good one is "exposed". Maybe surrounded by so many and known by so few I can learn to become more social. Well at least learn not to blush so epically when someone new says hello. Maybe learn to stand tall and not run away.

We'll see. I'll keep you posted.

XBX

Trying to make sense of things

2009-10-06T08:50:00.000-07:00

I'm a bit ecclectic. Well, more than a bit. I'm also a stroppy mardy and moody cow when I want to be. But, hey I'm an artist I'm allowed to be. One thing I tend to do a lot is analyse. It's a trait of quiet people, we tend to just sit there and watch the world go by, noticing people's traits but never commenting on them.

I got hurt today, just because I wasn't brave enough to stand up for myself a few months ago. I found out that someone I had trusted had lied to me. I felt a fool. I still feel like a fool.

I won't go into details, but I know what you did now. I don't like it, and I think your head is fucked. You made me feel like I was the one with all the problems, when actually, it was you all along.

I hope you're happy.

That is all.

My first Uni assignment

2009-09-22T13:18:00.001-07:00

Discuss, factually, an important change in your life over the summer. This could be an event/person/loss.

My life is always tumultuous. This is a fact. Most people would argue that a change in circumstances ie. Moving from a Welsh village in the middle of nowhere to the largest city in England would be enough of a life changing event to write factually about. I, on the other hand, having had one of the best summers of my life so far, have decided upon another life changing event. This summer I met someone exceptionally special.

Feeling a little like I’m writing a back to school story in primary here, I would like to give you a little insight into my life before I met this person. Bare with me, I will get to make my point soon enough.

Living in Wales has never been an issue for me. I’m quiet, I enjoyed school, and I participated in school activities, up to a point. I have always known what I have wanted to do with my life. And known that I had to work hard to achieve my goals. So, life was full of schoolwork, occasional visits to London and Cardiff to see friends in University, and not a lot else.

I’ve never fitted in at home for one reason or another. Having lost one of my parents last year I retreated into the safety of myself, not allowing anyone near in fear of becoming hurt. Developing depression, which in itself is debilitating and soul sapping. To be as frank as I can, this was a bleak time. Although studying for AS and A levels. My life was barren. Trying to have some fun was an effort in itself. It was easier to be alone, in my own little world without the issues of having anyone too close to me.

But that was the past.

In April of this year I decided to try Twitter.

Not sure if I was interesting enough to converse with anyone for a length of time, perhaps too shy to initiate a chat. At first I almost gave up on making friends online. But somehow, I met some lovely people from all over the world. And then along came *him*.

Neither of us can quite remember how it happened. I’m sure I must have tweeted him first. But, anyone who knows me would vouch for this; I must have been extremely confident or possessed on that particular day. I assume it was an F1 day, as we have that interest in common, and I must have responded to one of his comments on the race. Very uncharacteristic of me, a girl who has so many defence mechanisms.

Soon after, I found that he was studying in London, close to the University I had chosen for myself. He was attending a course in writing (English and Journalism). He was also a quiet soul, shy, but gentle. Our shared interests grew; we swapped our respective Facebook accounts and MSN. Since that moment we have hardly been apart a full day without speaking to one another; but that is beside the point.

At first, when we began chatting on the IM, I was very weary. But as soon as we started to talk, there were no awkward silences, no regrets from giving him my IM address. We talked about everything, mostly menial things; that meant a lot to both of us. I chatted to him before an exam once when I was studying in the library. I sat that particular exam with a huge smile on my face. Soon we were texting and talking. Something was happening here.

We had shared this friendship for around a month and a half when he went away and I found full time employment. This was probably the turning point in our relationship. He went on a weeklong karting holiday in Le Mans, France. Unable to talk to him via text or MSN I found myself really missing his company. In fact; I hate to admit this as it makes me look very bad; I reverted to staring at his facebook photos for far too long at work. Wishing that he were home. I looked within me to try and grab a piece of reality. This could never work. Could it?

I did what I normally do when I feel angsty, I wrote about it and blogged about it and tried to decipher exactly what was going on in my head. The poetry that I produced all seemed to be about him or about how I was feeling. It was a bit absurd; after all, I’d never met him.

I began to discuss him openly with my friends. Showed them his facebook profile, gained an opinion. Most of them seemed to opt with “go for it”. I felt in the first time in a while, dare I say it, happy. The next big question was how did he feel about me? And should I let him through the barbed wire fence I’d constructed around myself all these years.

Again I think it was I who initiated the discussion upon his return. I knew he read my blog and I was, perhaps hoping is too weak a word, that he would associate one of the poems in particular with the way I was feeling about him. Would he perhaps think that I was writing about someone at home or someone I had met last weekend? I asked him.

The rest is history.

I can without a shadow of a doubt say, that *he* has changed me for the better. I can also add that this summer was possibly the best summer of my life. To summarise, the change in my life was the ability to let someone love me, and above all else, love him back in return. That someone was *him*. Thank you.

Mush is good?

2009-09-06T09:27:00.000-07:00

So I hope that I can do short stories to add to my repetoire of new and interesting things!! But I'm returning to my first love for this post, no, not Alistair or F1; poetry!

A few things have happened recently that have made me re-think life. I'm not so much of a pessimist about things any more and it's easier just to go with things sometimes. The willingness to change has come from doing well in my A-Levels, learning more in general about people and the way they react, and God forbid, breaking down the walls that I've protected myself with for so long. I've never trusted anyone to be fair, always doubted motives, and actions. But I've been taught a lesson recently that what you give out, you get back in return.

I feel fortunate to have had a great support network when I've needed someone to cry on. I've come to the conclusion, tears aren't worth wasting on those who never mattered to begin with. I've decided in all honest mush can be good. Here are a few poems I've written in the last dew weeks. Take from them what you will but above all enjoy them!

One Look

My eyes close as you stroke my brow,

I don't know why, I don't know how

this came to be,

This safe warm place called you and me.

You talk to me, your dulcet tones,

They make me drift, for I am home

When your near me and we are free.

-----

I rest my head upon your chest

The time of day that I love best

When we become Us,

We laugh, we talk there's no fuss.

All it took was one look at you

To know all that I felt was true

It was reciprocated in those eyes.

------

I smile a secret little grin

But know that this smile is also within,

Just for you,

These feelings strong and new

They overtook me claimed my heart

Like tiny little works of art

That I hang within my soul.

-----

So take my weary heart with yours.

It may be bruised from closing doors

on my past,

Knowing Us will be at last.

My eyes they look upon yours now

And in my soul I know somehow,

That one look-was all it took

To find the missing half of me.

-----x-----

Meeting

Is it over my sweet friend?
Is it over for goodbye,
Change, the moving change clasped in your hand….
That’s how should it all end?
Is it how we all will be?
Inside we understand…
We stay, pray, cry, love..
Outside we kiss goodbyes..
Ready to jump off the cliff….
Then we are one.

Is it just the interaction this much, in
This life…my sweet friend.
Or must we stretch beyond..
Will you remember me as I should be?
As we were near the start.
We stay pray, cry, love
Outside we kiss good byes
Ready to jump off the cliff..
Then we are one.

This world provided,
Now that I have found you…
From above, we are part….
We are one…
We are some….
We look around,
Bound by the threads….
Tugging each for truth…
We break some, make some.
And take some.

We stay pray, cry, love
Outside we kiss good byes
Ready to jump off the cliff..
Then we are one.

-----x------

Muse

Promise me this,

Nothing is ever to difficult,

No mountain to hard to climb,

No goal too hard too acheive,

No dream too hard to make real.

Work hard

As hard as you can.

You'll get there.

-----

Promise me this,

Walk every road,

take every step

Analyse every day and smile.

Try all things new

Work hard,

As hard as you can.

You'll get there.

-----

Promise yourself,

Live every day to learn,

And learn every day you live.

Believe in yourself,

Be true to you.

Listen to your heart.

Work hard,

As hard as you can.

You'll get there.

-----

So when the dark clouds accumulate

Think of all those steps you take

Never let them get in your way.

You will succeed and have your day

If you've worked hard.

As hard as you can.

You'll get there.

-----x------

Some nice mush, and dare I say it optimism there for you!

The End :'(

2009-09-06T09:08:00.000-07:00

'I will sweep away everything in your land' Said the Lord

Zephaniah 1:2

Despair has come quickly upon London. There is nothing more than we can do but watch, helplessly. I sit at what has become my resting place, by the window. A very different scene plays before me now. It is as if the gloomy grey of the watery sky has fallen on the desolate streets before me. The small stone built dwellings look deserted; doors are closed; small un-paned windows draped in black material. Their small doors have been marked with white chalk crosses. These are the houses of ghosts now, or the soon to pass over. No stray dogs or cats wander the streets any more searching for their rare scraps. They were mostly culled a few weeks ago killed as carriers of this plague. It only seems that the hand of God has redeemed their deaths by taking that of their murderers. He has exalted his wrath in a fiery vengeance. The King himself has fled to the countryside taking his folly court with him. The City gates are all closed, no one leaves, and no one enters. All doomed to the same fate. Waiting for their deaths to greet them.

I hear the bells a daily toll being chimed to the shout of 'bring out yer dead!'. I hear his echoing shouts before the macabre body collector comes into view. His booming voice and bell reverberates around the empty streets his words carried upon the wind, echoing from the stone. He appears; veiled from head to toe in a black robe. Hooded, the heavy cloak covers his feet. Upon his face he wears a farcical white clay mask. It covers all his features reminding me somewhat of the marionettes of my homeland. His nose is elongated and curled over, almost to his chin. Some of the womenfolk were discussing that he may cover his face because he is a leper. The lepers, who never entered the city before, are who I now spot scavenging in the houses of the dead for wares or even new dwellings. Isn't it funny how the tables turn.

I observe as he shuffles his way slowly and painfully towards the small well in the centre of the square, the wind blowing his robed figure, never quite whipping it up and exposing his feet. The large bell he rings in one hand. His booming voice is thick with a London accent. He lays the bell down on the cart. The cart is wooden and ancient almost full to the brim with bloated bodies. Arms, legs, some parts indescribable; hanging stiffly from the sides. Where he takes them Lord only knows. They are not burning bodies on pyres here. I can only imagine that they must be laid to rest together in a large lime lined hole in the ground. An unmarked mass grave for the uncared for.

I look away feeling suddenly sick and disorientated. A wave of nausea hits me and I have to place my head in my hands for a second. I stand and try to compose myself, placing both my hands on my waist and inhaling deeply, blowing through my lips. I say a little prayer in my head. Could this be the beginning of my end? Feeling the blood rushing and pounding in my head I decide to try a tonic of some sort just to give me some strength for the next few hours. I walk slowly over to the herbs and preserve shelf. I grab a pewter mug, pouring a goodish amount of honey into it, I add ginger, and some lemon rind from Marseilles and pour warm water over everything from the small hearth kettle. I then sit on the bench by the kitchen table and sit to stir the mixture. I let my mind drift a little.

I have been a married woman for all of three days. Our wedding was rushed, small but well meant and to me it was beautiful. Even through the noise of the dead collector in the background, our vows were meant and heartfelt. I cannot imagine my life with anyone else but him. Francoise looked like he had gone to heaven, although my dress was ill fitting and simple. In the eyes of our Lord we promised ourselves to one another for life, although feeling this nauseous I am unsure for how long my life will now be. It seems like the death has come calling for me. I shake myself away from the thought as I hear the floorboards creak upstairs.

I listen intently to the tone of the talking upstairs. It sounds very sombre. Papa took himself to his chamber yesterday. I know he has been unwell for a few days. I know he has not got 'the death'. I don't know what is wrong but he seems to be breaking his heart. Being unable to remedy this plague, and then the affront of London has broken him. Francoise says that his heart has broken, that he is a broken man. Looking into Papa's old tired eyes I see a shift in him but I am selfish and do not want him to give up on life. I weep silently into my drink and say another prayer-that this hell will soon be over. And that we will all live in peace.

The old has passed away; behold, the new has come.

Corinthians 5:17

I close my eyes and dream. Dream of a time when I was free to do as I pleased. To run around bare foot in the warm sunshine of my home, my skirts flying behind me the golden sun beating down on my skin; warm soft earth beneath my bare feet. Although I know it was only a false freedom. A glimmer. I hear a soft voice calling me but it seems so very far away. Distant but familiar, the girl in my dream recognises it and stops. I decide to ignore it and bask in the glorious scenario in my head. Somewhere on the outside, a cold soft cloth is pressed to my face. This pulls me a little further into reality, clouds cover the sun and it becomes darker, cold and grey.

I shiver uncontrollably as the sun seems to have lost it's friendly warmth. And then as I look down towards the port town of Marseilles, I see then and feel the vibration of their marching beneath my feet. Walking up the hill towards me is an army. Not an army of men, but an army of the dead. I can't help myself but to look at them and study. Some of them are merely walking skeletons, the others; the newly dead, hands and fingers bloated, reaching out for me. They moan my name. Some of the women hold their dead children to their breasts. All their eyes are vacant and grey. I scream, although what I hear myself doing it moan loudly, and turn to run away. But I am stuck. I look down at my feet and I am shackled, I cannot move. So I observe the hideous hoard coming for me, arms outstretched begging for me to join their number. In the dream I struggle against my shackles as the crowd approach me. I swear that I can smell their decomposing. Their fingers are all over my face, I scream and beat my arms wildly against them. Again I hear the voice call my name, and then two strong arms are around me. Thinking it is one of the zombies I struggle against them and scream once more, until they softly rock me. I am pulled quickly from the dream. My eyes flicker open.

I am in the upstairs room, Francoise sits next to me on the bed, rocking me gently in his arms. I look at him, his big brown eyes full of concern. I throw my arms around him fully aware that I am soaked in sweat feeling no need to hide away any shame from him. He kisses me gently on the cheek. We both know that there is something wrong. In some unspoken communications between us, we convey both our worries and I inspect my inner arms, and my calves. Breathing a large sigh of relief, when I find nothing there to indicate that I am infected. He takes my face in his hand and kisses me gently. Still holding me as if I am about to disappear he speaks.

'I don't know if it's exhaustion that's causing you to dream so vividly, or feel so unwell. I'm relieved every morning when you wake up. But I really don't know what's causing you to be so sick Hannah, my heart'

I see that in his eyes he thinks that he has failed. Just as stoic an apothecary as my father ever was.

Suddenly I feel another wave of nausea roll over me and I run over to to the small chamber bucket under the window and release my stomach into it. I really have no idea why I am clear of the plague. I do not vomit blood, only the contents of my now hungry stomach. Looking out of the window the sun is trying to fight with some watery grey cloud very low in the sky. There is no warmth in this sun, no consolation to be taken from it. I guess the time as being very early in the morning.

I turn to look at Francoise, who has already brought me a chamomile infusion.

'How is Papa' I ask hesitantly knowing the answer already in my mind, praying to myself silently that it will be different to what I anticipate. He shakes his head slowly.

'Weak Hannah, he has called for you. That is why I came to wake you, and for once I am glad I did. You look so peaceful when you sleep deeply. This morning though it looked like you were facing demons in your dreams'

I rejoin him on the small pallet bed, he looks warn tired and old. This man I call my husband, all of eighteen years and the weight of the world on his shoulders. He hands me the infusion which I drink readily, and a small oat biscuit which he has prepared himself during my illness. Poor Francoise. Always trying to do his utmost for others, so unselfish. I finish my meagre meal placing my cold hand on his warm skin. I will some strength into myself for him. He smiles at me and I grab my clothes from the small stool by the bed, tidying myself up to farewell with my father.

Before I enter the small room, Francoise places his hands on my shoulders to steady me and I draw a big breath from this comfort. I turn to look at him and he kisses me softly on the lips. It is time. I open the door and see him there. The scene is perfectly still and serene. The grey light of the morning seeps in through the open window casting long shadows from the bed down to my feet. There he lays, perfectly still. My saviour, my idol, my father. I run to the bedside and fall to my knees taking his hand cold and colourless in mine, kissing his fingers and gently running it on my cheek. Willing it to warm up and become strong as it once was. It is in vain. As I look up at his gentle face I see the shadow of death around his lips and nose. He has given up. His warm brown eyes have lost their dance and now look dull. He studies my face smiles weakly. We both know we are here to say goodbye.

'My beautiful daughter' he whispers softly. The effort required for this soft breath evident in his eyes. He inhales deeply.

'Life will change for you now, for the better. Know this before I face my Lord and God. You have always been more than a daughter to me. You have also been my pupil, my friend Hannah. Forget not who you are and where you came from. Who your people are. And know that your father loved you dearly, you and your choice of husband. Goodbye by heart, my Hannah. I am ready.' He smiles quietly and resting his head on the pillow. He motions to Francoise and whispers into his ear, before taking a final long breath and exhaling it deeply.

Francoise lays his arm gently on my shoulder. The other around my waist to support me as I stand on weary legs.

Papa is gone.

The morning is then a blur. I have no time to grieve. I sew him into fine linen sheets and talk softly to him as I used to, telling him my symptoms. Trying to control my nausea whilst Francoise prepares a small hole in the back of the tenure. We will bury him here, I do not wish for my father to become one of the faceless, nameless hoard in a mass grave pit. He will rest behind this small house. I am both sad and relieved. It is me and my Francoise now only. The two of us to face life together, and whatever it may throw at us.

As Francoise buries my father I sing a Piyyt a poem I remember from my scant Hebrew learnings. I sing quietly although all our neighbours have either left or are dead. Francoise pats the remainder of the cold, hard earth with a makeshift shovel and holds my hands as I finish. The plague has taken from me, but it has also given back. He looks down at me gauging my reaction. As I look into his eyes, he looks more at ease than he has in months. Turning to me he kisses my head, and places his hand on my stomach. As he does this I feel a fluttering there. I frown and think back, piecing the puzzle together. Nausea, vivid dreams....

Everything now falls into place. Papa had whispered to Francoise with his last breath. Life will now change for us. It is no longer me and Francoise, but our family. I am with child. How did I miss this?

Francoise takes my face in both his hands and kisses my lips tenderly and warmly. He smiles at me holding me close to him. We turn our backs on the grave site. Ready for a new life.

A new beginning.

chapter 8

2009-08-27T03:56:00.000-07:00

viii
Blessed are those pure of heart, for they will be loved

1665

I wrap my woollen shawl around me hugging my freezing fingers as close as I can under my arms for more warmth. I sit on the window sill in the small tenement in St Giles The Field. We have now been here for ten months. It took us quite a while to get this tenure, but the small house is ideal for us. Small but comfortable and we have made it home. It is a very poor part of London, just outside the City gates. The parish is rather overcrowded, but it has a good Christian Community. We have been accepted into their flock as a part of "them" even attending their Christian worshiping on a Sunday. Ah, he is the same God after all. Papa has established himself as a healer with Francoise at his side, quite the dashing apprentice. I am more than satisfied to stay and watch after the duties of the home. I'm hardly a spinstress at fifteen after all! Father and Francoise have been called out this day to attend to a fever victim. Nothing untoward. All in a day's work. Having finished my duties for the time being I can afford a little time to dream.

I watch the children through the bottle glass windows, playing in the streets without a care in the world. I sit and daydream watching the small white flakes fall from the grey clouds as if they are shedding their own skins! The children, poor things they must be cold; are throwing balls of the powdered stuff at each other. They slip and slide and laugh, their faces pinched and reddened by the cold. It was not so long ago that I was like they are now. Playing my day away under an altogether warmer sky. It seems so far away now, another world entirely. I giggle to myself feeling quite the grown up, getting up to stoke the fire and put the pewter kettle on to boil. I survey my handy work. Bread baked, broth boiled. The rooms are swept and matted with straw liners. All I have to do now is await the arrival of my father and his apprentice.
As if summoned from the thoughts in my head the latch of the front door clicks steadily it is Francoise. I smile happily, but then as I take a step towards him I stop dead in my tracks. He is flushed from walking in the freezing temperatures but his face is the epitome of worry. His dark brows are knitted together, his eyes look as me seriously. I have seen this look before and I sit on the bench by the huge hearth to await the news I know is coming.

"It's back Mon petite Fleur" he rushes to my side and takes me in his arms. I know what he's talking about. It's followed us here. I shake my head uncontrollably

"Non, Non! We left it behind in France, it has been ten months! How can it be here too? All these people? Good God fearing people" He does not let me finish.

"It will take them as it took La France, you know this" He takes both my hands in his.

"Papa?" I look up at him trying to read his face. This morning that started so normally breaking into a million pieces."He is with the patient. A man of very little wealth. He will surely be dead by morning."

I try with all my heart and soul take this new information in. The petulance has followed us to London. The pale rider and his white horse are upon us. We all face death once again with a heavy heart.

"Anything in the whisperings of the people? Are there any more dying?" He looks at me trying to gauge his answer

"Non, nothing yet. Hannah? I wanted to talk to you this day. We have lived through this in France, both of us. We can do it again"Unable to see where this conversation is headed I sit on the bench pleating the starched white of my apron listening to the crackle of the fire.

He hesitates and this is more worrying to me than his concern.

"Little Hannah, you know that I love you and my life would not be the same without you in it" I frown. This was most unexpected. A declaration of an unspoken love broken after the news of the return of the death? He takes a seat next to me again taking my hands in his.

"Your Papa has consented for you to be my wife. I want you to be my wife. Will you have me? I know I am not good enough for you, you deserve much more after all that you have seen. How hard you have worked"My breath catches in my throat and I am completely unable to give him an answer. I swallow hard and answer him honestly but quietly

"I love you, from the first moment I saw you. I am so scared" He grips my hands tighter, one of his hands gently travelling up my own to my face.

"You have no need to fear my angel" And with that I move towards him and place both my arms around him. Dying a little in the depth of his eyes I close mine and kiss him. I kiss him for the first time, and what feels like the last time. Our lips, firm but soft, move together in harmony and my heart sings for him, and him only. Lost in his embrace, I know that I never want to be without him. I break for a moment.

"Please, listen to me for one moment" I regain my composure and think about how I'm going to approach this delicate of subjects, but this is no time to be scared when something far larger is beating at the door.

"Francoise, I will marry you tomorrow if you will have me and if I am alive and well" He now looks confused, as if I am about to change my mind and refuse him.

"What if I die?" He still looks bemused I sigh sometimes we need to be blunt with men. Those were mama's words.

"I do not want to die un..untouched" I try and read his reactions. He will not die, as he is remarkably immune to this disease.

Silently he presses his finger to my lips, and I close my eyes. His hands lower gently to my neck. We do not need words. Our lips brush gently against one another and a chill runs down my spine as he opens the lacing on the front of my smock dress. Responding to his touch I slip off his long coat and begin unbuttoning his shirt. His hands move swiftly, causing goose flesh on my skin. The heat of the fire on our bare skin. I study his tanned chest, muscular but slim running my fingers slowly along his shoulders. He he is learning the curves of mine and touching with the lightest of fingers. I sigh at his caress.

We look at each other.

Not one word is uttered.

We give ourselves over exchanging our bodies and souls, for fear of death.

Chapter 7!!

2009-08-25T12:14:00.001-07:00

Vii

Be still in the presence of the LORD, and wait patiently for him to act. Don't worry about evil people who prosper or fret about their wicked schemes.

Psalm 37:7

London

1664

It is all that I can do not to kiss the floor as we depart the ship in which we have been cooped up in for almost a week. I do not turn my head to watch the crew bringing out the numerous dead on their stretchers. It is a blessed relief to see the sunlight again, even though the sun here is weak and cold compared to that of home. The sky is a pale grey. Almost watery. Such a stark contrast to La France.

As I stand here, I feel utterly lost. The great port of London is alive and thoroughly bustling with energy. People are running to and fro, unloading and loading cargo with ropes that have seen better days, shouting in heavy accents at one another. Small market stalls litter the port itself and the adjoining alleyways leading away to the main town. Here they sell a menagerie of goods: everything from ale and French cheeses to unusually shaped purses and protection trinkets.The City itself seems to be surrounded in high stone walls. Perhaps some protection measure? There are so many people here, faces of all colours, speaking a variety of different languages. I smile internally knowing all of a sudden that we will not have much trouble disappearing into the droves. I look over to Papa who is standing tall by my side, staring and cataloguing, almost as wide eyed as I am. He looks aged and exhausted. I try to remember if we have even eaten in the last few days. I know for a fact that I was almost confined to my one corner of the dark hull. I offer him my hand and give him a small smile. His eyes tell me that all is well and everything will be fine.

The great river Thames flows behind us. Unlike our great rivers it is brown and littered with small punting boats and livestock carriers to market. There is even a barge in the distance flying the Royal flag. It smells very different here. I think I have become accustomed to the smell of the funeral pyre laced with the strong scent of burning incense. Here although I can smell the slops and animals and people the air is almost fresh. At this I shiver slightly. Even though it is mid March, there is a thick layer of fresh snow on the ground which is crisp, white and clean. My Marseilles fashion winter dress and my thin shawl is far from adequate for this uncharted territory. Taking another quick look around I notice a gaggle of vocal prostitutes by the unloaded cargo heckling some sailors. They are drinking some beverage directly from the bottles and I notice that even they have furs and have not bared their shoulders. The prostitutes in London must be rich indeed.

Francoise returns to my father. He also looks tired and older, also pale and contemplative. He has found an inn a few streets down for us to stay tonight. We can look for lodgings from there, somewhere more suitable.I feel the need to remove myself as quickly as possible from this bustling port. Too many people always make me uncomfortable and nervous. I urge my father to grab his travelling pouch and to hide his purse. Francoise grabs my arms and directs me to move.

He leads us quickly up one alleyway then another one. This City is like a rabbits warren of tiny cobbled alleyways. His hand holds onto mine as if he is afraid to loose me, he directs Papa with his swift French and expressive eyes. We pass countless taverns with their rowdy drunks rolling in the snow in front of their open doors. And finally we come to the one we are looking for. The buildings here are also very different to the ones back home. They are mostly towering, grey structures. Bland and unwelcoming. Even the alleyways are different to the large open straw strewed roads of Marseilles. Here is is all bland, cold looking. This building looks more like a goal. The stone outside is neither welcoming nor hospitable. As if sensing my hesitance Francoise puts his arm around my waist urging me forwards. I look up to my father doubtfully. He is watching the both of us silently: his eyes almost approving. I look to the other eyes I crave for, they are cool deep and brown. Calm but reassuring. We enter the inn together. Inside is dark, but warm, lit slightly by a huge fire roaring in the hearth. It is a heartwarming welcome from the cold.The interior is hardly decorated but strewn with wood, benches, tables, floorboards and all strewn with coarse straw matting. But it is at least clean. Papa takes the seats by the fire, orders cheese, broth, bread and warm mead. He talks about his great plans to find lodgings, to Francoise mostly, ignoring me.

I watch the people in the gloomy room. There are a few whores here too clucking about some men in the corner. Plying their trade, spending their earned pennies on ale. There are three or four solemn looking men in the opposite corner tutting and laughing at them, and then becoming engrossed in their backgammon. Occasionally a spatter of laughter comes from them.

My eyes drift lazily to a corner of the inn which is much darker than the others. I squint into the gloom, sure that I can see something there shifting in the shadows. My eyes adjust to the darkness and fix on his eyes. They are almost as dark as his surroundings, although the whites of his eyes make him noticeable. Suddenly before I get to grips with this connection we have in the eyes, he is stalking across the floor, heavily across the floorboards. He grabs me roughly by the throat with his dirty hands stifling my scream as it raises from my lungs. My heart beats like a caged animal beneath my ribs. I am stunned, my hands grab for assistance while my legs involuntarily flail in the air. My eyes stare pleadingly at Francoise and Papa who are dumbstruck half standing watching the man's every move. I can smell his dirty fingers on me, and his foul obnoxious breath against my cheek. He sneers into my ear

" I know what you are, little French whore. I know..." and he squeezes a little harder to emphasise his point. I let out an involuntary gag.

"Let her go...NOW" Francoise grabs the cheese knife and brandishes it at him like a weapon. but this only makes his hold on my tighten making me see small white stars.

"She your whore boy" he laughs and chokes as he throws me to the floor by Francoises' feet. Within seconds Francoise is also on his knees by my side, still pointing the weapon at the man. I take stock and look at my assailant. He is filthy, stocky and pointing at the three of us. He decides to take the floor, growling:

"You scum bring in the dark with you.....you Bastards of France. You will be the death of this Country I swear to you all this day! Get rid of the lot of 'em!! Them and their whoring ways will send us all to HELL" he hocks up from the back of his throat and spits in my face. Quickly retreating as Papa chases him from the inn. Unable to control the disgust and horror I feel I begin to weep silently into my own hands. I feel Francoise raising me back to the bench wiping my face and pressing a warm cup of mead to my lips. I open my eyes. The inn is silent. All eyes are on me.

I burn with shame.

Welcome to London.

So, what's going on?

2009-08-23T07:54:00.001-07:00

I interrupt the story, which I have almost finished now but still to type up just to say hello! I'm going to be moving out soon, which for anyone is a big step. I got my grades, something that I am very proud of myself for doing. I had some doubts, but some people had more faith in me than I had in myself. I'm in an exceedingly good place at the moment a lot more positive than I have been in a long while and I feel that things are moving on. Days are better and more bearable than they were.

London is going to be a big move, the pace of life is faster and more suitable to my personality. The University I'm attending is a music and arts University and quite elitist. I learnt on Friday that they would not even accept anyone through clearing even though they had open places. The course I'm on is small. 10 people in my class . I feel very privileged to have been accepted at all.

So if I go quiet for a while-you know why now right? Forgive me I will be around I promise!!

2009-08-23T07:47:00.000-07:00

Against Babylon the sea Rises, she is overwhelmed by roaring waves

Jeremiah 51:24

May 1662

I have had no sleep in almost three days. my arms ache heavy and numb, my fingers are cold and calloused. I look at the poor sweet lady in front of me, Marguerite, she is a friend of my mothers. It pains me to see her in this delirium. I am beginning to grow accustomed to the workings of this dreaded disease. It it so infuriating watching it work it's way into each life, into their souls. Yesterday, when papa Francoise and I arrived she was sitting in her chair in the ladies parlour, her hands over her ears, mortified. She was otherwise fine, in good health, no symptoms whatsoever. Her husband on the other hand lay writhing in pain on the small chaise, waistcoat unbuttoned, shirt drenched in sweat. I have learnt that it always begin thus. Fever to start, a ferocious burning that causes great agitation and dare I say it, great pain to the poorly. No amount of cold compress, bleeding nor physic can abate it. I look in pity upon the ravaged face of my mothers closest friend as she moans in discomfort a lavender compress on her forehead on her forehead. She is opaque, dense dark circles between her eyes and cheekbones. Her skin is porcelain, with high crimson coloured spots on her cheeks. Her undergarments stuck to her through sweat. I place a sheet gently under her arms, to cover her modesty more than anything. I feel so helpless.

Her husband , the poor man is upstairs with papa and Francoise. He is now much farther along, nearer to the icy hands of death. To see such an illness first hand is like truly seeing the Hand of God in action, and watching it as it plays at gambling. I have been afraid, so scared that this Hand may pick upon one of those whom I love. It too Sylvie last week. And I cried, hot saline tears of remorse for the only friend I had throughout my short life. I am too scared to aid upstairs. I know from the noises I attempt to drown out with singing that he is very ill at ease indeed: that he is vomiting his humours. I also know that by now he will have very little of his life force left to continue, so he will be vomiting blood and innards.

I shake my head and notice that my Lady is in a semi-restful state of slumber. Her eyes move under her bruised eyelids. I pray that she dreams sweetly and that both her and her husband are there together in good health, not suffering here on the mortal plane as their bodies wither and die. I place the back of my hand on her cheek, she still burns ferociously. In a few hours perhaps, the fever will break and she will feel well enough for a short conversation with me, maybe make some polite conversation. She will think that she has taken some steps towards recovery. Ah, how cruel I think. To feel like oneself again before facing certain death. I steady myself on the back of the old wooden chair and will my heavy legs to work. I walk slowly and unsure how to put one foot in front of another. The sun is setting on Marseilles. It burns deeply crimson, low in the sky. It colours the sea a blood red burgundy creeping in the shade of death onto eat hut and house. The port itself is closed indefinitely. Down the hills by the quayside burn two huge pyres. Thick black smoke billow from them joining with the ominous darkness swirling like beautiful white clouds of the daytime. I laugh bitterly. This foul pungent smoke is the burning of the wretched and grateful dead. A smell that will haunt me until the day that I die. The plague only hit Marseilles two months ago. For a while we thought our prayers had been answered and our little town of zealots had been spared. Or so we though. In the middle of February: a storm hit us from the sea. A ship, an enormous galleon came drifting silently to port. It was a ghost ship if there is such a thing. No man was alive on that ship: only her rats scurried to the land to tell their tale. And so it begun, sweeping in waves. Taking the rich merchants and the poor fishermen. Always the same pattern, family after family. Always with the same hour of reprieve before facing their final hours. And papa, Francoise and I have tended to them all, all writhing and screaming, some even clutching their crucifixes for divine intervention, some shouting profanities at some unseen ghosts. We continue onwards, unharmed and untouched. Papa swears it is the sanitation pomanders that we wear. Francoise believes it is because we have developed some barrier against the pestilence. He calls it "Resistance". In his brief time with us he has become very wise in the physic. Papa is very taken with his natural gift and ability for it. For my sins I am taken with other things.... I light the oil lamp and the candles on the mantelpiece as the last chink of sunlight disappears from view and the long night draws in. I hear a sudden ghastly scream a deathly howl and a final struggled gasp.It falls eerily silent but for the soft laboured breathing of my lady behind me. I turn to take a look at her. Two black bruise like blisters have raised either side of her throat. Bulboes my father calls them. He usually lances them as they appear, placing a draining bowl underneath them. They seem to be full of foul smelling thick bloody puss. Lancing them does not cure the patient, but it seemingly makes them more comfortable, easing their delirium for a short while. I hear two sets of laboured footsteps on the wooden floor and some soft gentle talking. They are cleaning. I know the routine. The bedchamber will have to be sanitised. The body will be covered. It will be up to me to stitch the corpse in his blood spattered bed sheets. Lord knows what will happen to him then. The body collector died in the street yesterday. Down the winding streets to the port, there are dozens of corpses awaiting to be burned on the pyres. They almost lay on top of one another. I am startled by a loud thumping on the door and bought back to my dismal reality with a jolt. I run to answer'Oui?' I need no more formalities as this is certainly a call to another house, another dying person.'Your Father child? Is he here?' I immediately recognise the man. He is the less than gentleman we met a few months ago in our own home. This time he is much changed. There is a wild panic in his eyes. The blue eyes dart from left to right in his swollen face. He has ridden all the way here from Paris; I am sure of it. In one moment I go from distrust to almost admiration.'Entre Monsieur' I run upstairs for papa, knocking softly on the bedchamber door. He nods quickly motioning for me to stay here with Francoise. This is the first moment we have had together, solely alone for almost three weeks.
I survey the room quickly. There are bowls of bile, blood and leaches scattered around the wooden floor. The gentleman has already been stripped and lay in his bloody sheet. 'This is no place for you Hannah, I'm so sorry you have to see this' Francoise speaks softly shaking his head. The passion in his deep voice makes my heart melt. He hesitated slightly as he said my name...I'm sure of it. I nod at him but continue to clean and sanitise. It's routine: it must be done quickly and efficiently as papa has taught us.

'Hannah?' I look at him and there are tears in his eyes. He sits on the edge of the straw mattress with his head in his hands and he sobs. And my heart breaks. So far he has been the strong one, solid as any rock. I walk over to him sitting next to him. Almost afraid to touch him, but I sigh, and take both his tear soaked hands in mine. I tell him how petrified I am, how brave he has been, how this is hell on earth and no one should have to see it lest endure it. All that we can do is attempt to aid the suffering and the passing of the inflicted. He looks at me with those eyes, seeing deep into my soul, understanding that I am as lost as he is. He takes my face in his hands, never looking away from my eyes. He leans in closer to me, so close I can feel his breath on my lips, smell his familiarity enveloping me. I almost want to pout my lips a little to search for his. I need nothing more than their reassurance at the moment. I realise that I am instinctively holding my breath. He is moving closer, I feel the heat radiating off his skin on mine. I close my eyes. 'Francoise? Hannah? Come here at once' Papa shouts walking up the stairs. We jump apart on the bed once more, he standing on his feet hands in his pockets, I sat on the end of the bed playing with my skirts blushing deeply. The time has come. Marseilles is condemned. We must go to Paris to treat the court.

that you will spare the lives of my father and mother, my brothers and sisters, and all who belong to them, and that you will save us from death. " Joshua 2:13

Paris December 1663

Today is my birthday. I am finally 14. Old enough to run my own home, to take a husband if I so wish, to do everything expected of a middle class lady. I am finally beginning to understand and fully realise the drawbacks of my fathers' life. The responsibility that comes with being an "adult".

Paris with all it's finery and grandiose is all but taken. Houses are being looted, burning to the ground, empty, dead and dying. It's eerie sitting here in the small dingy rented apartment listening to the black rats shuffle their way along the shadows. In the darkness of the city there are stray dogs howling to the now full moon. Their owners gone, either fortunate enough to have escaped to the countryside of inner France, or laying dead in their blood soaked bedclothes in the street. There is no one left to burn them, even though the numerous pyres still burn. It is a shell of a city. Common people, well, they have flocked together int eh churches, only to fall before Him, their God on their knees and die.

I am so cold. Oblivious to all that is going on around me. I have work to do. I listen a moment to the sound of the whistling in the ash filled grate and a chill runs down my spine. I may be old enough to take my own husband and home, but am I mature enough to say goodbye?
I turn to look at the small bed and the smaller broken body upon it.My heart feels like a block of marble. I am so angry I want to scream; so utterly exhausted I could sleep for a week; and so disgusted with my faith and my pitiful god that I could swear allegiance with any stray demon. Above all I am...empty.

I sit on the small wicker stool by the cot bed. I reach down for the bottle of lavender water by my feet and pour it into a delicate glass bowl full of warmed water. I begin to wash the body before me, asking myself why I bothered to warm the water. I look at the hands first, barely larger than mine, nails cleanly cut and manicured. No hard work ever done by them. The hand is stiff in mine, the rigor has set in. I take a small piece of cloth torn from the bed sheet and wash gently between each slim finger. Moving slowly from the palm and up the arm I stop to take a look at the bulboe. It looks like a black bruise, slightly raised. I trace around it with my finger. It looks so out of place on this slim white arm.The arm resists my movements all the while, but I continue washing around, underneath. Treating her with dignity all the while.

I pull down the bed sheet slightly, it is still damp with stale sweat. I adjust her bodice, tying her laces at the top tightly and neatly. I move to my feet and expose the small feet, they are turning a shade of purple which is both disturbing and beautiful at the same time. I stop and stare ashamedly above the knee. Here I can see an open wound of a lanced pit. Papa said not to touch, but I care not any more. I reach out my hand to clean the open bulboe. She deserves better than to be left with a monstrosity like that.

I sit down again, my legs quivering slightly. I gently and tenderly unbraid her hair and brush it through. It feels alive and soft in my hands almost like wound silk. I gag involuntarily as the smell of her hair fills my nostrils. It smells of olive groves and cornfields; the warm sun. The smell of home. I look down to her neck and straighten her crucifix so it falls on her collarbone where she liked to wear it.. She suffered silently with her God.

I run my fingers slowly and gently along her dark silky brows, the skin there soft and delicate but cold as stone: down to the arch of her nose, to her full lips. I sigh and close her dark staring eyes. She looks at peace.

I get the instinct to place my head for one last time on her stomach. It is the child within me that needs comforting.I bend over her body and place my hand and head there.
"Hannah" she groans softly
Stifling a scream I jump up knocking the bowl shattering it into a thousand pieces on the floor, sending the chair flying across the room. I close my eyes and sink to my knees. I feel two strong arms around me and I sob uncontrollably. I have no tears. Only anger, resentment and hatred. He pulls me up to my feet and cradles me to his chest allowing me to vent my tumult at him. He kisses the top of my head and lays his cheek gently on my crown, all the time holding me close and stroking my hair.
We stand in the debris, Francoise and I for what seems like hours. I sob, he silently comforts.

This is my final memory of France.

This is my final memory of my mother.

Chapter 4

2009-08-07T14:40:00.000-07:00

I will give you peace and quietness

Genesis 21:22

I feel as though I have not seen daylight in months. So standing here in the humble grounds of my family home my eyes scream at me and burn in the unforgiving sun. It is late summer. I still see the same bright blue sky, the same patterns in the clouds but it also seems to me that the days of all my childish dreaming are well and truly over. I sit quietly in the kissing chair in front of the parlour window and extend my hands so that they are level with my eyes. I stare at my hands. So much change in so little time. My small child like hands are both red raw, chapped and covered in calluses of hard skin produced of course by hard endeavour. I haven't even had the courage to look at myself in a mirror. I know that I will have dark circles and pits underneath my eyes and that I will look years older than my few years. I close my eyes a second and the heat of the day makes me drift a little.
It is two months now since Francoise joined us here. Since he was adopted by my father as his ward.I must admit I was more than taken with him that day of his arrival. I drift further back thinking of that day...It was early morning at the beginning of July, warm with a light breeze rolling in off the sea. I remember smelling the saline in the air that morning whilst collecting lavender from the garden. The dew was still on the floor and I had just rejoined my father in the laboratory. A small plain black cab had rolled up onto our drive and stopped outside the door. Sylvie burst into papa's laboratory like a woman possessed and announced the arrival of the cab to my father who seemed to know automatically who it was. Papa and I had been hard at work since the break of dawn: we were still making the magic sanitising powder. I looked to Papa his face is virtually aglow with excitement, it is all that he can do to politely push Sylvie to one side and dash up the old stairs. I still have a cold marble pestle and mortar in my hands. I lay these down on the workbench before me, tying the golden headscarf that I have holding my hair out of my eyes tightly against my forehead and tiding any loose strands of hair I have hanging over my shoulders. I brush myself down hurriedly with my raw hands and try to make myself look more like a young lady than a servant. I wash my hands hurriedly and dip them in the rosewater bowl inhaling sharply as the sting burns through my skin. I follow my father up the stairs followed hotly on the heels by Sylvie who is dying to see who the 'visitor' is. I remember at the very top step that my work apron is still tied around my waste, so I fumble with the knot around the back and hand it to Sylvie who makes a small ball of it and places it in her huge apron pocket.It must have been very daunting for him to see us all there lined up in the doorway waiting to greet him. If he was nervous then he did not show it at all. He walked silently towards my father who kissed him on each cheek as was the custom and gave him the warmest of hugs. I studied his features; perhaps a little too hard, as he came closer. He gave me a shy smile from underneath his long dark eyelashes. He was built very slim, but muscular; slightly taller than I. He was perhaps fifteen or sixteen. His eyes are what caught me, deep brown, drawing a person into them, hypnotising you. It was obvious to anyone at that point that he had been quite seriously ill as his skin had the pale slightly translucent edge to it. My breath caught somewhere in between my lungs and my throat, I was taken from the first moment that I saw him. I felt the familiar faint blush rising upwards from my chest up my neck and creeping into my cheeks. I tried to maintain dignity by thinking that it was preparation time for us all, inclusive of Francoise. He was here to be studied, anatomically and physically.
Papa extended his arm around Francoise guiding him Masterfully down the line introducing him to mama, and then the house staff finally reaching me at the very end of the line. I felt the blush deepen as he once again gave me the same awkward smile. I noticed a sincerity about him, a serenity and kindness. I curtsied appropriately and laid my hand out before him, suddenly jerking my arm to a stop remembering the state of my nails and rough appearance of my fingers and hands. He read my reactions perfectly, taking my hand gently but firmly in his and bringing it up to his soft full lips. My heart beating wildly in my chest, trying to escape, beating so loud I'm sure all in line could hear it. I was getting more and more crimson.
'Hannah, meet Francoise, who has kindly offered to be an aid in these dark times. Francoise this is my daughter Hannah' we stared at each other a little too long. Eyes locked together, reading each other. Father turned on his heel almost dragging Francoise away with him forcing him to let go of my hand. Papa of course excited to get his work underway and study his newest subject, noticing nothing of what had passed in unspoken words underneath his nose.That was our first meeting. Francoise and I have only had a few stolen moments since that first meeting.The last outbreak of the death was only but five miles away. We expect Marseilles to be inflicted any day now.
I am brought back to reality by my father calling my name I stand up rubbing the slumber from my eyes. I shake off the warmth of the day and run down to the cool laboratory flushed. I resume position by the worktable. We have done as much as we can in the past months in the way of preparation, hundreds of pomanders, even handed small favours, or packets of the lilac powder for sanitation, to the local people, so that they can wash their floors and their linen. I have never been more exhausted. I stifle a yawn as I prepare yet more of the linen squares. Francoise stands the other side of the worktable from me. We are now having to use twine instead of ribbon and muslin. On the heavy workbench before me everything is laid out. I reach out lazily for a square of material, and feel the warmth of a hand there. I stop in my tracks. I feel some strange energy emanating from his fingers as I look down and skirt the outline of his fingers and ruffled shirt hungrily with my eyes. Following the line of his arm up to his neck, his jawbone and finally lingering on his eyes. I do not blush, but give him a small knowing smile which his lips reciprocates; neither of us pulling our hands away until papa walks towards the bench startling us back into action.I'm stuck in the daydream again and I think back to the day I spent looking and watching the clouds go by. It seems so far away. In the last few weeks I have mostly felt apprehensive. Dark times lay ahead for us, like a dark wave creeping it's way along the outskirts of mt home. I am scared out of my whits. I know that we all may die. I will certainly loose people that I love. But those eyes, those eyes with that light within them drives me on.Foolishness perhaps, that he gives me some hope.

2009-08-04T08:35:00.000-07:00

iii

His soul draws near to the pit, and his life to the messengers of death.

Job 33:22

Mama stares at me with a mixture of adoration and sadness, she raises her hands and sweeps her slim pale fingers over her cheeks.
'I have been equally blessed and cursed with an intelligent daughter' she smiles
'I have failed by some peoples measures my darling girl, but believe me I am prouder of you today than I could ever imagine. Your father is stronger than I, and he needs you at the moment. Dear Hannah, learn from him and use what you can. These will be difficult times'
These words make my heart want to break, especially coming from my docile, beautiful mother. All that I can do is to nod in recognition. I stand silently and lean into her kissing both her cheeks. In that moment I know that she understands the frustration I feel at being merely a girl. As she pulls her embroidery table towards her and starts to hum quietly, I memorise these words of wisdom. Still wishing that this is another time, perhaps another place. Wandering in a daydream again would life be so different if we had more rights than we do now.

I follow the old winding corridor down to the kitchen and reach the door that leads to the cellar, which is now converted to my fathers laboratory. I follow the old narrow stairs down running my fingers against the rough sandstone walls. The first thing that strikes me on my now familiar visits down here underneath the house is the change in temperature. It is refreshing from the searing summer heat and mugginess of the upper rooms. The second is the smell. It is a familiar beloved smell of herbs and the earth which always reminds me of my father. It is the aroma of physic, burning herbs, distilling alcohol and my fathers hard work.I come to the lowest step, now in gloomy darkness I unlatch the tattered wooden door.

The worktable here is as always cluttered with papers, fathers new writing and drawings. Most of them are anatomical drawings, some are recipes for a new remedy or draft that he is brewing. Manuscripts are piled on the side benches along with pestles, mortars and bottles packed full of herbs, dead animals, precious metals: all tools of the modern apothecary. Papa himself sits at the back of the laboratory with his small lamp, the parchment from upstairs still in his hands. He is reading and re-reading it. As I re-latch the door, he turns to me and places the letter on his desk.
'Now Hannah, we have work to do.' With this he produces a vast quantity of poor quality hemp linen cloth from the desk drawer, unfolding it lightly and passing me one of his sharp, scalpel knives.
'Prevention my dear, will be the key in this fight. And it will be a fight, perhaps to the death. Now, I would like you, if you please to cut out the linen into little squares, like this' his own knife and deft hands makes easy work of producing a square roughly the size of a floor tile. 'We will require all of this linen I fear. I have concocted a new sanitising powder for this attack' he is making it sound as if we already at war. He turns on his slipper to a pestle which is full to the brim of a glorious smelling pale purple powder.
'It's a new mixture Hannah, smell it! I'm very excited about it. 2 parts Lilac, 1 part powdered Mercury and 5 parts Lyme and a good pinch of Oregano for good measure. With any luck it should sanitise the air before you inhale it, you see? So, think back to your readings now, what are we making here? Do you remember?'I scour back through virtually all the papers I have read and memorised in the last two years.
Ah, I remember:
'A pomander, for the sanitation of virulent airborne diseases of the cholera!' he smiles at me proudly and places his hand on my shoulder squeezing gently. Obviously the right answer. He shows me how to fill the linen squares with a spoonful of powder, carefully gathering it as not to spill any, or touch any part of my skin with it. He then shows me how to twist it into a package and tie it securely with a ribbon. He places the first pomander under my nose tying it firmly behind my head.
'Et Voila! Sanitary air is no longer a problem! I must teach you later how to press the ingredients together. Your assistance will be invaluable to me over the coming months! Let's see how much of an apothecaries life you remember daughter'So, we stand in the cool laboratory, making our pomanders to hand out to the poorer residents of Marseilles. There are dozens upon dozens of them mounting up on the table. We talk of medicine and new developments he has made. He tells me again of the humours, the essential elements of life and quizzes me to make sure I have learnt. I describe them back to him simply and what basic ailments an over-balance causes. The hot choleric, bringing with it anger and indigestion, the cool Sanguine, with her lethargy and fever; the dry Melancholic causing low mood and sleep: and the wet Phlegmatic, causing irritation and coughing. He determinedly wraps each pomander and I ask about balancing each humour, which can be achieved quite easily through diet, drafts and phlebotomy. I then turn to ask him about the "death" and it's treatment. Suddenly his face becomes taut and I can see that for the first time today he is struggling to find the words: or in which order they should come in. He drops his hands to the table and places both palms to the worn wood, leaning forwards and taking deep breaths.
'That is indeed an intelligent question and I would not expect anything less of you my darling. I am rather afraid to tell you dear heart, that even the finest scholars in the University de Paris have not found an answer to the riddle. It spreads in a wave, and once it has begun it does not abate until it has devoured the life and soul of whomever it chooses. It is like the hand of God itself Hannah. I shall tell you of my patient in Provence. Please do not repeat this to your Mama, she would be very upset indeed.
''I was summoned there to treat an old friend of mine, a merchant. He took ill quite suddenly after a trip to Florence. Upon his return he had a fever and was flushed. He took to his bed. His manservant sent for me directly reporting this. I set off immediately for the days ride to get there by morning. I thought it a straightforward case of imbalance of the choleric.' He looks down dismayed in himself. I put my small hand on his, which seems to give him strength to continue. He looks at me from under his unkempt hair and cups my face in his palm, stroking my cheek with his thumb.
'Merci, my good, good girl. By the time I got to him he was in agony. Writhing on the bed, vomiting green bile. I was taken aback not expecting to find him in such a state. I made my draft of chamomile, recommending that we should try to keep up his fluid balance. Not even my most potent draft of chamomile would stop the sickness. And it was made with the finest chamomile, remember the flowers we picked? When dark bile and blood filled blisters started to lift up his skin, the fever broke and I thought for a foolish moment that I had won. He was lucid, we discussed times gone by and his recent trip to Italy. I lanced the blisters with my leeches and with my scalpel into a bowl and recommended more chamomile infusion. By that afternoon he was dead Hannah. He had vomited all that was vital to him on the inside. There was nothing at all I could do. It spread to his wife, his two daughters, even the servants. I treated them all and they all perished. Francoise, his son was the only one to survive. He caught the disease but by some miracle he survived. You see what I mean about the Hand of God Hannah? Francoise will be joining us here before the weeks end so I can study him closer. He will live with us' Not knowing what to say to someone when he is devastated is possibly the worst thing in the world. This is my first encounter with the plague, with anything that sounds so worryingly vile and unforgiving. The description my father left me with echoes in my head. How my thoughts and dreams can be turned into such nightmares in the space of one day is quite beyond me. I feel totally unprepared for what lays ahead. All I can do is try to make this man proud of me.

More Story....

2009-08-04T06:15:00.000-07:00

As soon as I walk in through the front door I loose all sense of decorum and run straight for the small but perfectly adequate sitting room. I know that my father will be there having a medicinal cup of Burgundy. As I opened the traditional french shuttered door, I see my mother has pushed her embroidery stand full back against the wall:unusual for a mid morning for her not to be sewing even if my father is home. Then, the sight makes me stop in my tracks, I look at her face. She is pale, biting her lower lip and has red circles around her eyes. Both her hands fiddle anxiously in the creases of her dress, knitted fingers, knuckles taught and whitened. Her manner and demeanour is quite changed from the cool easy mother I left and kissed goodbye to this morning. I open the door further. My father is sitting clutching an opened piece of parchment on it a red seal. He is also gripping his knee tightly looking strained. They are not alone. As they turn to see the opening door, I see in the usually unoccupied wooden guest chair a huge man. Possibly the largest man I have ever seen before in my life. It is not only his size that takes me aback and makes me raise my hand to my chest to stop myself from rudely gasping: but his ferocious face. The anger and almost disgust in his eyes, the uneasiness in his stance. He obviously does not want to be here.
'Hannah' papa exclaims joyfully and gets up from his chair to greet me putting a warm large hand on the small of my back to comfort me no doubt. He looks at me intently with his caring brown eyes, urging me further into the room. All the traces of earlier stress and concern have all but disappeared.
'Monsieur Laraux, this is my daughter hannah' Papa pushes me gently towards the horrified stranger who for a second actually seems more frightened of me than I of him. The giant snorts loudly and gives me a look staring at me from my head to my toes. I being well versed in the etiquette and manners this buffoon is lacking, raise my hand towards him and give the smallest and shortest of courtesy's. What he does next is horrific in my eyes, he reaches into his jerkin and produces the hugest kerchief I have ever seen, and places it over his hand and then takes my hand and abruptly drops it. Very undignified indeed.
'Madamoiselle' he greets in a gruff voice. He steps back as if afraid to catch some disease from me. I dislike him intensely, and cannot help but emote this through my eyes. The heat of my stare on him makes him bow his head and stare at the floorboards, highly amusing. He stutters'Proffessor, I will take my leave, Adieu' he uses the same uncouth technique to take my fathers hands. He does not even bother to bow at him as he forces his way out of the sitting room out into the golden sun and the heat of Midday.Papa obviously seeing a mix of intense horror and confusion in my eyes guides me to sit in the guest chair. . I panic slightly as he takes seat in the high backed wooden chair next to mine, and gives my mother a meaningful but quick glance. She responds by nodding slowly, smiling sadly. I turn to look at pap's face, his eyes almost black, lines of dedication etched around them; the result of many nights without proper sleep. He does not posses any of the prominent Jewish traits in his face, he is fair, with dark eyes, like any other man of southern France. He places an understanding hand on my knee.'Hannah you must listen to all that I now tell you and understand it fully. You are old enough not to be deceived, and sharp enough not to believe the lie.'I nod at him in agreeance. I know of his work and the danger that he faces in doing it.'That :gentleman: if that's the word you want to use was a messenger of the Royal court. It seems like the end of days has come again to La France. You know what I mean don't you daughter?' I had read enough of my fathers work to know the turn of phrase was reserved for a disease everyone feared. A disease called the "black death". I nod again taking in every single word that he tells me.
"The messenger bought me a commission, on this parchment Hannah, the virulence has reached Provence, I had to treat it there. It will soon be on our doorstep. They are so desperate for for the best apothecaries they have summoned a Jew' he bursts into a fit of laughter. Personally I cannot find what makes this so funny. It makes perfect sense to me he is the finest apothecary in the South of France. All people in Marseilles know this. I am more concerned about the return of the death.
'We are to stay here for the time being Hannah, ,my sweet child. If and when the Court succumbs, and I am alive and well: we will be summons to Paris to give aid there. You have read all my writings on the illness of bulbous have you not?' Again all I can do is nod. I remember this illness most of all, because I remember thinking it was such a horrific way to die.'Hannah, three quarters of Marseilles will die before this is through: I need you my little aid in these times. Please come down to my laboratory when you have had time to recover from the news. I would very much like to start on work'He gets up and kisses both Mama and I on the top of the head and retires from the room. I sit in awe. Feeling like the young girl I truly am, unable to comprehend how serious the situation really is.

Doing something I said I wouldn't

2009-08-02T10:48:00.000-07:00

Hello again second blog in a day! I have a few pieces of poetry here I've written for someone in particular, as I've mentioned before he's made me smile again in the first time in a long time. He is a genius and at a neighbouring University in London.I'm posting this to thank him, Alistair Charlton, for helping me through a dark time. I'm stopping now I'm gushing!!

Enjoy

The Kiss

Anticipation fueling the fire a true wanting,

a deep desire heat rising up each spine

as arms slowly intertwine

eyes gazing deep into the others

faces moving close together

thoughts running through each mind

will this feel like the first time

a gentle hand takes a trembling chin

and lips move closer and closer in

flesh meets flesh soft and sweet

as gently each lip.. upper first..

then lower meet

tingling feelings move through out

and all inhibitions go free from doubt

tasting the moment not wanting it to stop

over and over climbing to the top

toes curl and bodies draw near

from a kiss each will hold dear

the embrace that follows

so gentle and sweet makes

the kiss shared complete

-----x-----

The bud of the rose

Blooms in the spring

A gentle caress

Lest the thorns prick and sting

Blood red petals

Make the bloom I hold

------

Filled with fiery passion

Displayed strong and bold

Velvet softness meets

My fingertip's brush

Excitement flows through me

With an unstoppable rush

------

Breath changes pace

Now shallow and fast

This first soft touch

Will not be the last.

-----

Senses become alert

Eyes wide, aroma sweet

Fiery rush on skin

Passion made complete

-------x------

EXPRESSIONS

A happy smile

A heartful laugh

A cheery grin

from a girl across the table

quiet, yet lively

full of expressions.

A strange frown

A suspicious stare

A queer look

as she noticed

the gaze from a silent stanger deep,

full of thoughts

.A peaceful image

An absent gaze

A satisfied impression

while she enjoys her meal t

his stranger describes the potrait,

on paper.

------x------

Ali

Waken to the sweet surrender of your melody

With each and every breath I take,

brings me to tears I dreamed you I

thought You carried my shoes back home

to me and kissed me gently upon my lips

I saw it in your eyes,your' heart

------

The time had come,it was to be

The path was our destiny

Cradled in your arms,

I longed for too long

I remembered time after time,

just as the same before,

Love lost no more

------

Hold this moment in suspend,

this I beg of you to never end

Awaken take me as I am,

listen to my heart trust me,

take hold of my hand

------

How beautiful is the melody,

You and I in harmony

As the blue lily sways,

time is so far away I surrender to you,

I surrender to my fate

------

Embraced in the black of night

I will your name as I took flight

You are as I am and I am you

Reflections of the soul

I see Bound together,

forever free

In my eyes it is you

Something a little bit different....

2009-08-02T04:47:00.000-07:00

I promised something a little different this time and I've been busy pottering about trying to write a short story. Please tell me what you think of it as I will add to it. I'm an old fashioned writer and commit everything to paper first and type it up when I get the time. So here you have the beginnings of something that has taken me over the last few weeks.
It's a way of developing a writing style. I don't really know what mine is yet but I know I can write poetry so I've been rather underconfident in exploring new horizons. I would like to thank two people for pushing me and overlooking my work. You know who you are. All I can do is thank you, I hope it's what you wanted to see from me :) So here we go, please comment I love reading what you think even if it's a critique.

The Apothecaries Daughter

And lo a pale horse; and he that sat on him was called Death

Rev 6:8

Prologue

1664-The English Channel

We are headed for London. This much I know. I have sat here as silently as I possibly can be; feeling the sensation of the waves rocking us from slumber. Sometimes as gentle as a whisper, sometimes fierce and uncontrollable. I struggle to keep myself breathing at a steady, even pace. Trying not to fall ill, praying I do not. I am petrified to this one spot. Huddled in this cramped little corner utterly surrounded by the overpowering reek of death. I sit here in the wooden belly of the beastly cargo hold, listening to the groaning and screaming of the dying, crescendo all around me. Lord knows how many will survive to shore. Andas for father, poor Papa tending to the needy. As usual the stoic apothecary reaching for his stock of leeches to bleed the patient, tending to their humours. My father is a hero to them; even though there is little he can do for them in the dark hold. They are all but lost to their makers when the bulbous appear, prepairing to face their uncaring God or whatever redemption they pray for.
So, we turn our backs fleeing our beloved, but dying France. Gentle gentile Marseilles is overrun. Father stayed as long as he could, drawing in quickly a sea of new patients as the virulence ebbed into homes of strangers and then friends. Soon ebven he could not cope with the new patients on his daily rounds. They took us hurriedly to Paris, commanded by the Royal Cout, and it followed us there. Papa was to help the gentry, but he soon became anxious and overrun: and then mama got ill. This bulbous sickness is the worst thing papa has ever had to deal with. It stole her from us.
So here I sit, motherless, fatherless, completely on my own with my lilac pomander securely fastened to my nose. Even still, I can smell the decay, the sweet acrid smell of putrid flesh.
We go to London. The air is clean there thus far, and papa has hopes of making a new life for us. I am fourteen, barely marrying age and my raven hair betrays us for our true lineage. We are Jews. Whether we will be welcome in the City of the Saxon we do not know, for our kind is being persecuted and laid to blame for this pestilence. Our fair skin is a grace, perhaps we will be able to hide, to blend in with the other commoners, although we are not of their kind. My father was a reputable medic; his ethic will not allow him to rest where there is suffering. My name is changed from Hannah, my given Hebrew name to Mary. A good solid English name. I wrap my arms tighter around my small frame. I have made myself as small as I can in my corner but these numerous dying hands keep clawing out for me. I wish I could go back to a time before. When I had more than just the ghosts for company.

When I was much more than just the apothecaries’ daughter.

Stands and lift your head redemption is drawing near

Luc 21:22

Marseilles 1661

'Hannah! Hannah!'I am aware as I lay on my back in the corn, the magnificent golden sun beating down on my flushed skin that far away, someone is calling my name. It reverberates around my head for a second as I question if it was reality or my imagination. I have been daydreaming again, watching the perfect white clouds in the azure sky forming their patterns. Creating animals, people I've known and those I am yet to meet: humming softly to myself the songs of Provence, the day lazily passing in reverie. I sit up urgently and frown, shaking my head out of the dream which keeps pulling me back to her safety. I look down at myself, my linen dress is covered in corn dust which I hurriedly sigh over and brush away from it's creases. I stand, rather unsteadily as I have been lying down for hours.

The sight of Marseilles always takes my breath away. From here in the golden field of corn I can see the grape and olive vines growing further up the rolling hill. Standing tall on the top is the Castille de Vaux le Vicante, the virgin protectors, built to guard us from attack from the North. An attack which has not yet come. Down from here is the port town and the magnificent Sapphire sea housing tiny wooden boats, some visiting to port: some making their way for the vast expanse before them.

'Hannah, Hannah, Ou est Vous?' The call comes again, snapping me away from another dream I was too ready to fall into. And then, I see her. Or rather I see her hair wrappings as she climbs the hill. It's only Sylvie our servant. She moves slowly through the corn, her hair wrapped in material of pure blood crimson, pulling up her heavy skirts almost to her ankles; obviously puffing and panting in her concern. I move towards her deftly, poor Sylvie, probably summoned by my mother to locate her way wood daughter-yet again.

'Sylvie, Comme ca?!' I skip towards her smiling as she comes into full view, sweat is dripping from her forehead, her cheeks flame red.

'Hannah, what on earth are you doing all the way up here on a day like today? What if THEY had decided that today was the day to invade Marseilles?'She looks at me genuinely distraught, taking stock of my light summer dress and fussing lightly over me like an old mother goose. The fact that she is only a few years older than me is irrelevant, I am her ward. She knows full well that I have been up here amusing myself with my stories and impossible dreams. She catches her breath and sighs an impossibly long winded sigh.

'One of these days Hannah, I'm going to be unable to climb up this old hill and if they do decide to invade they will surely steal you away from us and; Sacre Bleu, Lord knows what will become of you'I find this highly amusing and take her by the arm as we make our way home down the hill to the Jewish quarter of the old port town'What exactly do you dream of in that head of yours? Where do you go?

''That would be telling' I giggle. In truth most of my dreams are very menial. Escaping France, escaping the war. I have few friends of my own age. Young men of my age are sent to lessons to learn the Torah. Girls are taught to look pretty and prepared for marriage. I laugh at myself internally for thinking this, the dreams that I dare to dream are of independence, of carrying on my fathers' work.

'Bonne Hannah, ma petite Ceur: your papa has returned home this day'

'Papa? He is home from Provence?' I quicken my pace slightly to almost a skip. My father, my hero has returned.

'Mon petit Fleur, he's only been gone a week!'Yes, A short time I know but I am my fathers shadow. There is only me. A rarity for a Jewish family. One girl. I am aware that they all whisper of the poor apothecary, his barren wife and the simple child. But we are happy. Mama is content and papa is the most dedicated physician in the South of France. What he reads is mine to read. I devour his journals on medicine and his writing on physic, humours and mew illnesses. In a fairer world than this I would be free to follow in his footsteps. Instead I am shackled to a dress, made to look pretty and learn the newest dances until I become old enough to marry and bear children. The Jewish quarter is alive today, stalls of the finest clothes and gold, silks, traded goods, all easily accessible now from the new worlds by boat. The smells of leaven bread cooking the traditional way, on heated stones. Life is good. Papa is home.

Put on a serious face for a minute...please

2009-07-26T02:59:00.001-07:00

My next post is going to be "different" well for me anyway. I'm just collecting a few pieces together before committing it to blog. Plus that and I'm an enormous wimp and perfectionist who wants to get everything just so before she's happy with everything. So what I have for you is a few poems recently written. Enjoy for now and I promise the next post will be a little better reading than this!!

Bruised

Self inflicted damage,

It seeps under the skin

It's spreading like wildfire

Swirling ancient blood

Coagulating in a rainbow of colours.

Browns...purples...blues.

A Mosaic of pain

You produced upon yourself

-----

A constant reminder

of how fragile you really are.

A collection of burst veins

capillaries scream in agony

Don't do this to me again.

Leave me be.

Tortures hues of calligraphy

too tender to the touch.

-----

The heat radiates from it

the tears have come in

response to the pain.

Under the skin, the healing

process has already begun.

The damage brings blessed relief

But only for a short time.

-----

It will happen again

The process repeats all too often

the bruising, the pain, the relief.

A self inflicted torture,

A cycle unbroken

Asking for assistance,

But nothing comes

-----x------

Spiders

Down in ever decreasing circles,

Round and around their fragile webs they weave,

Skirting the edges

Never touching the centre

For it will snap and disintegrate

------

Breakable silk, smooth to the touch

We fill the holes, strengthening against the winds,

Anticipating deterioration

Awaiting some disaster

we prepare to stand.

------

We continue, maneuvering, building

Responding to some destruction

Renegotiating our positions

In this warfare,

Of keeping a safe sanctuary for ourselves.

------

One day, it is inevitable

we will all fall down and flounder

In the dust, above where we built

our tangled webs.

And we will begin, once more, afresh

-----x------

Lost in translation

Tell me what you mean!

I don't understand!

I'm not from your country

I'm not from YOUR land

Were on different continents

So very far apart

You'll never understand me

So don't you even start.

------

Don't tell me what I shouldn't do

Don't tell me what I should

I'd love to hit your stupid face

I know I never could

------

So you go on in ignorance

For ignorance is bliss

I will not argue, fight or disagree

It all comes down to this.

------

I don't want to understand you

And the fact your in my face

When you hardly even know me

Is such a disgrace.

-------

Go back to where you cam from

Leave me the fuck alone.

Exit my life now please

Crawl back under your stone

Written for my mothers ex-boyfriend just in case people start getting paranoid :)

Tweeter addict

Who wants to know what I'm doing today?

Who wants to hear me? Who wants to play?

All set down in very few words

A blog of some sorts, invented for nerds

And Geeks just like me

Who in fact, really really wants to see

What my friend in France is wearing to town

Sent in a twitpic, I'll music a blip

And hope that my tastes don't make people sick.

------

140 tiny little words can encompass a persona

Attract people or repel them if you're a loner

Follow him, follow her, oh, that's just a bot

Look at her face, she's really cool-NOT!

Hashtags I cry, how do I use these?

Now they are things of relative ease

And some of them stupid and some of them daft

Most of them really just make me laugh.

-------

My favourite is #speshal but I can't tell you why

It's a personal favourite I cannot lie,

This twitter is mental, your sharing your life

With someone somewhere who could be

well, #speshal if you let them in

But also quite random, or miserable as sin

So have fun with tweeting, just be true to you

Don't let others treat you like poo

(Some will if you let them bit you can just block

Or don't let them in and teach them to knock!)

I love my twitter, I wouldn't go without

I finally get myself heard

without having to shout

------x------

A ray of sunshine through the clouds

2009-07-11T11:20:00.000-07:00

This blog is meant to be all about coping with depression, but to be honest the last few weeks have seen very little to be depressive about. To be completely honest to call myself a Social Introvert isn't fair, I am introverted but more so over the last 16 months. I have a good Social life and good friends to be sure. I am suffering from a form of depression which means that I have to take a Serotonin enhancer as my brain does not produce enough of the happy stuff. I used to be very sure of where I stood on relationships, i.e. don't bother and get on with your life until either you get too old to bother about it or you end up living in a caravan with 15 cats. Please see the previous comments made about relationships. The last few weeks I haven't really felt depressed. It's been uncommonly good. I'm not sure if I am seeing a light at the end of a very long tunnel.

Imagine being in a dark room it is quiet and still but uncertain. This is depression. You don't know what's behind, what's in front and what's to the sides. Your stuck in a form of stasis. You can't move forward as it is warm and comfortable in the dark, and you're afraid of tripping over. You can't go back because you can never reclaim what has been. Sometimes it takes bravery to step forward into the unknown. Bravery and a touch of random stupidity can lead to a break in the darkness, some light through the cloud cover. Anyone who has known depression will understand how debilitating it is, it doesn't matter how old you are, it drags you down. I hope that continues, I've heard that people have relapses. That scares me.

I noticed this change when my poetry started changing, it wasn't as dark as previous poetry I had written and it's very strange seeing something almost light flowing from your pen. It was almost dare I say it...happy

My ray of sunshine came in the form of a very special person. Those of you who know me know of this person. I would just like to take the time and say thanks, as I said the night before I'm not sure what's going on here but I like it! I appreciate everything about you, from your acceptance of my random being to my random music. I'm glad you found me. Long may it continue.

Whispers

More is said in silence, Words are set in stone

Preparing ourselves for the great unknown

Future is a bright hope, roads are always long,

Thinking of a path, even though it may be wrong.

------

Smiling in the morning, once it was too hard,

Feeling almost nothing was on the daily cards,

Since words have come in whispers, and you have shone that light

Smiling comes so easily, the sun's not too bright.

------

Mulling on our choices,looking for reprieve,

then come silent whispers, words carry you to me,

Hoping once more, I dare to have a dream,

And step into reality, things are what they seem.

------

This rottenness which wore away the happiness in me

It's slowly coming to it's end and all around can see

The comfort in those whispered words, has healed a lot of pain

And from this moment on, things will rarely be the same.

------

For more is said in silence, words are set in stone

know this, and it is from the heart, your never quite alone,

Whenever darkness comes for you, I hope it never will,

I'll do my best to be there too, to help you through the mill.

------

When words can touch a tortured soul, release them from the dark

Then words that whisper on the breeze are truly works of heart.

-----x-----

Badawi

Amongst the rocks and ruined ravages

A life was almost lived,

the lonely days of Bedouins

the explorer, the traveller the thief.

The scavenger looks into the sun

He must be moving on

From these arid rocks and ruins

He hears a mountain song.

------

What journey there awaits him?

What brings him to his knees?

Amongst the rocks and ruins

He's no reason to believe

In anything, anyone a Deity

In anything bigger than

What he holds in his two hands

Sifting through his fingers,

Meaningless grains of sand

------

What stirs inside his memory

Under that blazing sun?

Something he lost or where he begun?

He raises his weathers worn hands to his face

His fingers are leathery and long.

There within the rocks and ruins

He sobs into the desert

Anger, yells, shudders he stops.

Here she lies. My lover. My friend.

The one who understood

She was me, she was my good

------

He raises slightly from his hunch

Whipped by the cruel sand fuelled winds

The bedouin stands, wipes his weary eyes

Protects himself from the onslaught.

Amongst the rocks and ruins

Lays his sanctity. Dry bones.

Now he leaves. He is truly alone.

-----x------

What?

You crept as silently as a spider

Into my life

Asking the questions, knowing me

And nothing about me

You dared to delve into the darkest of corners

You opened the door

-----

I wanted to explore

I trusted you, misled

I let you in

When I had kept "me" sheltered

Protected so long in my home made cocoon.

-----

I thought you stronger

But you are weak

And now you close the door

Left me feeling like I was wrong

I'm just angry

You lied to me

------

Was it easy to be false?

To promise everything and deliver nothing?

To promise friendship and then close the barrage?

Bring down your walls of self preservation.

-----

I doubt you were ever the one

You tried to be

The one who thought it funny to

deceive me

If this is what you wanted you

LOST

What did you want?

To brake me in some way?

You LOST

What did you want?

To make a fool of me?

YOU LOST

-----

What did you want from me?

To make me love you?

You LOST

In that mind, what turns?

As my last image of you burns

What sis you want?

I no longer care.

------x------

This last poem is written specifically at someone who was a part of my life until just recently and proved to be as you can read rather a disappointing friend. As this person will probably never read this blog, I would like to say have a nice life, don't come troubling me again. Your loss :)

It's too hot to be indoors.....

2009-07-04T05:40:00.000-07:00

That's my excuse, well no actually it's not. It's been too hot to sit indoors on the PC (still waiting for the safe return of my macbook the saga continues and will probably end up in the small claims court). But it hasn't stopped me from writing. Neither has full time employment which sucks by the way. There should always be a place for a trending topic on twitter #reallifesucks.

This week I have been walking up Snowdon in a random act of madness , on the phone to the computer company/roayl mail trying to find out where my Macbook IS, chucking a part time job at a well known chain of hand made sandwich shops and starting full time employment found by GAP recruitment. Thank you Gap, for allowing me to make enough money to survive a semester in University! I finished Jane Eyre, and P.S. I love you (read for the hundredth time and highly recommended to anyone!) and I wrote these. A bit mushy some of them but I wrote them whilst listening to SafetySuit which is my new obsessive music (thanks Elena by the way). Did you know that we have to download the album in the UK? Or import it from the US. No fair!! Anyway I digress.

NB> The first poem is a tribute to the slate quarries of wales Llechen Lâs-blue slate, swper chwarel-traditional welsh meal when the men returned from their jobs, grâs-grace, capel-chapel, cymuned-community.

Llechen Lâs

In the homestead the hearth is the heart

The fires burn daily,here in crimson colours

Red, golden, ochre,yellow

They sit and wait communing in a lost language

Whilst on the windows sleet is blown in torrent.

They wait in return for the men of the

Llechen Lâs

To eat swper chwarel

To break bread with the grâs

The kettle now hisses and whistles, reaching fever pitch

Awaiting the men to return

-----

The chatting, it ranges from children to war

All women together, the keepers of the home,

Laughing in the gloomy pewter room

talking of capel and cymuned

Giggling through their problems despite the gloom

Whilst the wind whistles and howls around the small cottage

Llechen Lâs

It binds them together

And now it seems they are lost forever

In the memories of their children

And their grandchildren who talk "proper" English

Attending Universities and Collages thanks to their sweat and tears

------

Collecting the best china one of them founders,

Placing it back in the dresser without a second glance

Outside the sleet sweeps the hillside

Covering lush green hills in blankets of white

He's not coming home tonight

Llechen Lâs

Took his life

And now she is a wife without a home

And four children to raise on her own

She will be proud, her man died to ship the slate

We forget, the forgotten hearth, now cold and ashen.

-----x-----

Insecure

Everyone needs somewhere to call a home

A comforter, a homestead where their not alone

A part of a sanctuary where they are free

Where they belong, where they see,

They are loved.

-----

What happens to those when the nests ripped to shreds?

Nowhere to run with the burden in their heads

No place to turn when they need a friend

Where they can rest, where they can mend,

Where is the love?

-----

Where do we turn when we feel insecure?

Do we move on? In search of acquaintances newer?

And what occurs if they're rejected?

Run into the ground and disrespected.

Where is my love?

-----

At the lowest of points, a bright light will shine,

When you will be found and you will be fine

And you will be taken back into the warmth

A safe place, a homestead, a hearth

Where there is love.

-----x-----

Fables

My hand reaches out for you

But your not there,

It shouldn't surprise me

You no longer care

It shouldn't enrage me

You left me alone

It shouldn't affect me

But as I've shown

It does

And always will

------

Are you there with her now?

In her open arms?

Is she more appealing?

Does she have more charms?

It shouldn't confound me

But you know that it does

It burns me so

You'll never know

It does

And always will

------

I close my eyes, breathing calming

controlling my heart

It's beating,erratic

Within it a dart

Of poison directly from your

ready gun.

Seeping through my ready veins

Into every cell, every part

It burns

And always will

-----

You hope I'll forget you

In time I will heal

What do you want me to do?

What do you want me to feel?

I'm fuming

I'm jealous

I'm dying inside

I miss you

But I will survive,

I always will

-----x------

Goodbye

Every touch could be the last,

All our hello's are goodbyes

Aching to touch you for one last time

The humanity in me says Stop

look further, dig deeper, work harder

------

Searching your soul for some sense of reprieve

when it doesn't come

will you still be with me?

Are you a part of some huge master plan?

Look further, dig deeper, work harder.

------

Thinking of things that my heart

is scared to touch

Thoughts of your arms around me

I want you too much

Look further dig deeper, work harder

-----

Reaching out, are you there?

Hear my call you must be somewhere?

Are you missing me?

Will it ever be?

Look further, dig deeper, work harder.

------

In the end it breaks me too

Waiting to get the whole of you

I want, I need, I despair

You breathe

Look further, dig deeper, work harder

------x-------

You

I don't know where to begin

For you the words don't come

You caught me unaware

And saw me in the light of the sun

Saw me, for who I am

And I you.

-----

The way you look at me,

That smile on your face

The pedestal you place me on

I'm falling from grace

You see me, for who I am

And I you

-----

The words you whisper

In my ear

Are comforting, warming me

I feel no fear

You see me, for what I am

And I you

-----

Your embrace around me

Making me feel sublime

You pull me closer

Give me more time

You see me, for the woman I am

and I you

-----

I'm falling-

Never fallen before

I don't want to stop

Of this fact I'm sure

You see ME, The Me that I am

And I thank you

-----x-----

Enough for now I think It's stopped raining and the dog needs a run!

Getting there....

2009-06-27T06:17:00.000-07:00

Trying to write some song lyrics for my friend who has started a band called Sparkey. Here's what I came up with and some of the rhymes are cringeworthy but I thought they were funny! Enjoy!!

Why?

Opened my heart to you

Thought you were true

Why do I try

When you turn 'round and lie

Why did you do it?

Blatant and twisted?

Why did you do it?

How did I miss it?

-----

Chorus:

Blind to the fact

You kept me on track

Why did you go?

Was I just too much work

for you?

Why did you lie?

Left me here to cry

On my own,

An empty home

Why did you lie?

-----

Where are you now

the man about town

spreading your words

and being absurd

How could you throw

What we had to the wall

Make me feel small

Did you need me at all?

-----

chorus

-----

Just turn it away

Save your lies for another day

All the trust is gone

I can't cary on

Why did you lie, lie, lie

Repeat verse one and chorus to end

Yup pretty cheesy stuff.

More? Oh God I'll never live it down...

Down

It's the choices that you make,

The drama you create brining you

down, down down

You won't make it on your own

Babe, your covers blown

Your going down down down

Chorus

Once upon a time

In a land of make believe

there was love, there was life

babe there was you and me

Once upon a time

As we live and breathe

There was you there was me

But now were going down

Going down babe, going down

--------

------

So when your playing your games,

Playing in your head

Your fucking with the enemy,

Your sleeping with the dead

Babe, your broken down

Your taking us down, down down

Bringing us down, down,down.

------

chorus

------

Stop bringing us down to hell

Stop chasing you will never find us

Chaos retreats back into it's shell

And we all turn to dust.

Ashes to ashes

Dust to dust

Repeat Chorus to fade

I don't understand....

2009-06-27T05:52:00.000-07:00

I don't get it.

Why don't people listen to each other?

Aren't we here solely for the purpous of communication

It's worth making that effort sometimes just to let your guard down and let someone listen to you. If you need an ear, even if it's something trivial, it's good to let someone in.

I don't understand people, people don't understand me. But it's always fun to try.

Music Rocks My World!

2009-06-20T16:05:00.000-07:00

I'm probably the first to admit that my taste in music is really bizzare. I listen to anything and everything, but like all other people I have my favourites. I'm a firm believer in music reciprocates a person's mood. Loud thrashy music helps you clear your angst, soulful rhytmic music makes you chill. Having a bit of a scoot about last night, I was going to write about cars today but decided instead to give everyone a music lesson and a bit of poetry from my RP blog. So here goes. Here's what you should listen to in chronological order:

Medieval: 1150:1400 AD

Should listen to some Landini if feeling really stressed. Any vocal chant or choral. WARNING gets repetitive on the ears after a while and you will feel like taking a cliff dive-not joking-.

Reneissance: 1400:1600 AD

Composing takes a turn for the adventurous. Music is still based around the secular as most composers compose for the Roman catholic church around this time. Composers start experimenting, goes hand in hand with the art and building of the period. Recommended composers and music here:

Byrd: Mass for 4 voices gives me chills!

Palestrina: Missa Papae Marcelli; Missa aeterna Christi munera

Lobo: Missa pro defunctis / Cardoso: Missa pro defunctis

Tallis: Mass for Four Voices; Motets I love love love Thomas Tallis!

Victoria: Missa O magnum mysterium; Missa O quam gloriosum / A. Lobo: Versa est in luctum

Again the madrigal feel can be a bit too secular for some. Use with caution!

Baroque 1600:1750 AD

This is when music starts to get sexy! Composers break from the church and start rocking the worlds socks off by doing their own thing! This is probably my favourite period in music as you can tell composers were excited about what they were writing and it was all new to them and the virgin ears of the common people. It must have been revolutionary like Elvis in the 50's!! Here lies the birthplace of the Symphony, the Sonata and the Opera as we know it.

I recommend

Handel-water music, the arrival of the queen of sheeba, Zadok the priest (footy fans will know this)

Bach-anything he's lush I was married to this moody man in a former life methinks

Scarlatti-special mentions for his Tocatta series

Henry Purcell-I love the fairy queen just because I wanted to be her

Vivaldi-the four seasons

Classical 1750-1830 AD

I only really like 2 composers from this era. Sorry I know there are droves and droves of classical composers, but only two of them make sense to my ears:

Mozart-Requiem, Jupiter symphony (wow is all I can say), All the piano concerti (And I mean all of them!!)

Haydn-Love his nocturnes, and opuses

If I was pushed I would also say Emmannuell but the afore named two just dominated the Classical Era.

Early Romantic 1830-1860 AD

This is where the drama kicks in. Great, great period for Music. And loads of composers you should recognise, some may sound a bit obscure but I bet that the music has been used in ad campaigns all over the world.

I recommend

Beethoven-Symphony no.5, Moonlight Sonata, Christ on the mountain of Olives, All the canons particularly Oh Tobias, and of course his Requiem

Schubert-can be a bit sickly but persevere!! Winterreise is my favourite incedentally here we so far have one deaf man and one man who died of Syphillis!

Mendlesohnn- Only because I have played so much of his work myself. All his piano/clavi Concerti are gorgeous.

Chopin-please listen to the préludes. Theyre amazing.

Late Romantic era 1860-1920 AD

Ok everyone went bonkers here. Great works, massive inspirational pieces and mostly soppy lovey stuff too!!

I love

Wagner-I <3 class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_45">Tristian and Isolde for ever!

Brahms: Symphony No. 2 ; Hungarian Dances

Brahms: Symphonies Nos. 1-4; Tragic Overture; Haydn Variations; Academic Festival Overture; Serenades Nos. 1 & 2

Dvořák: Slavonic Dances, Symphony No. 9 'New World'; Symphonic Variations

Grieg: Peer Gynt, Suites Nos. 1and 2

Holst: The Planets; Suite de Ballet

Puccini: Tosca

Ravel: Boléro; Daphnis et Chloé; Ma mère l'oye

Rachmaninov: Piano Concerto No. 2; Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini (powerful stuff)

Tchaikovsky: Capriccio Italien; 1812 Overture; Romeo and Juliet Overture; Marche Slave

Modern 1920-

Gershwin, Gershwin Gershwin and a bit of Elgar thrown in for good measure

Classical-done!

Modern-here is what I have on my MP3 at the moment

Alexisonfire, fivefinger death punch, Avenged sevenfold, Metallica, Foo fighters, Kings of Leon, the doors, the script, the editors, Franz ferdinand, the animals, The lost prophets, safetysuit, Kazabian, Adele, Spoon, Muse, Pendulum and finally the kaizer cheifs....random? Yes. That's right. That's just me!

Right poems. Taken off my RP blog:

Betrayal.......

I stand here, on my own,

Not moving, not blinking,

but alone.In a new City, I'm calling a home.

The truth I laid out there

For all too see,

too hard to bear

Burns under my skin.

-------

You think me a child,

That I have no clue

I accepted your lies, so cold

Expecting YOU to be true.

-------

I took every moment

and locked them away

Truth turned to ashes

In the cold light of day

I left for some Soul Searching

To know my own love

To return stronger than before

Only to return to ultimate betrayal

What did I do to deserve such heartbreak?

------

So now I stand where I began

I have no resilience

No more fight to battle

In this dalliance.

I cannot compete,

Or fall at your feet

The one who betrayed me so easily

-----

I won't let it break me

But I cannot heal

The ghosts you stirred in me

That day-they were real

You took what you wanted-what I would not give

With time, I would have been yours

-----

I look to the City,

And know your both there

Both happy together, you think I don't care?

Because I took time out to know my own heart

Your games and your tortures

It tore me apart

=====

What?

Through the darkness

And pain of despair,

Rejection engulfs me

When you are not there

The rivers of heartache

Grew dark with that loss

But rocks under water

They gather no moss

-----

It's onwards were moving

Away from my heart

Who ripped me to pieces

And tore me apart

It left me to gather

Those pieces alone

To keep myself worthy

My heart turned to stone

-----

And now in the twilight

Sun loosing the fight

I'll wait once again

For the weak breaking light

The stars dazzle gaily

Amidst the crisp air

The realisation-Will you ever be there?

-----

For you love another

So torn from the start

You dazzled me quickly

And ran with my heart

So now, I repair it

and try to be free

Here in the twilight

There is only me

-----

Taking without asking

Does my heart feel shame

My conscience full of guilt?

Like a friendship gone wrong

This pain is felt

No my love

Not the pain that brings sorrow

But the pain

That gives birth to all my tomorrows

-------

Shame for doubting love to be so true

Love had failed me

Until the day that I met you

Heartbreak, infidelity

An irreconcilable difference

Misconceptions, no trust

Happiness without the resemblance

Sorrow for all who do not know heart's satisfaction

Sharing a love that ignores this world's distractions

-----
Guilt like I have found a buried treasure

Or the fountain of youth

My future shines bright

And I am not in need of reproof

Each day reveals the idiosyncrasy of the need for love

Pure, without blemish

-----
The symbol of a flying white dove

I love who you are

Not who you feel you need to be

You are my guiding force

Forever my love’s destiny

Silence

Silence engulfs her once screaming night

She sits biting at the withered skin

that gathers around the edges of her nails

Shards of icy tingles haunt her spine

while she reflects upon her past

-----

Her legs shake when she gets nervous

so she digs her teeth hard into her tongue

to focus on something else.

Wet flesh rolling in a dumb stupor,

she knows what she wants to say
It is trying to claw its way out from inside her
but her lips remain padlocked
-----
No wetness softens her cheeks
She’s numbEyes wide
Pupils dilatedShe just stares,
at nothing she stares,
no story in her eyes just an etched in look of grief
-----
Motionless she sits,

doesn’t know how long she has been there
or how long until she can move again
She just sits paralysed by the
silence

=====

Had I known

Had I Known I would have loved you then.

Had I known, I would have asked less questions...

Followed my heart a little more.

Had I known one day you'd be gone,

and I couldn't show you anymore.

I'd have lived each moment as if it were the last.

Remember every word... not let time go by so fast.

But I was wrapped in my own image, afraid to let it show,

But now I wish I loved you.

-----

Why couldn't I know that you would leave me,

and I'd be caught in the past.

In the moments I could have changed,

the times that were your last.

I would have lived a lifetime in a few short days.

Instead I have a few brief moments, that I let my heart show.

Memories of a love that I refused to know,

until it was almost too late.

Then it was over, and I was all alone.

In a daze, I wonder......

Did you know I loved you all along?

=====

Paths

Would things have really been so different

Would the world really have been so shaken

If when I were a much younger

I had chosen the road not taken

-----

Would the days have been any the brighter

Or the nights darker than they are

Would I still have lived in such obscurity

Or shined brighter than any star

-----

It does little good to wonder

Of things that might have been

For who, and what I have become

I must live with in the end

Though life could have been much better

-----

All in all I do not feel forsaken

I count the blessings that I have

And cry not of the road not taken

Computers Make me go grrrr A LOT

2009-06-17T08:04:00.000-07:00

I try so hard to keep up with any new IT developments but since my Macbook has gone to get fixed and I'm using a PC again (and spending a fair few hours on it too blogging, playing and just generally making a nuisance of myself). I am an avid fan of all things Macintosh and since I have been using this darn PC (it's a Dell-hoorah for Dell) I have lost apps, have memory issues, loose photographs. In fact it's crap. I've been saying that word lots and lots this last week. Perhaps it's due to being spoilt to the point of never ever going back to a PC. Roll on getting my Mac back (see rhyming and not even trying) I miss you sleek little black one :(

Hurting Poetry

2009-06-15T11:42:00.000-07:00

Writing is a good way of dealing with depression. I suppose that there are billions of us out there under twenty and going through similar stuff, it's just I write things down. It's a good way of getting the thoughts out of my head. If any of this stuff touches you, or strikes a chord with you anywhere, then my work is done, my goal has been reached. If any of you would like to talk about it leave a comment or if you want to talk about any of your issues email me direct at bethanpyrs@gmail.com. I am not a councillor of any sorts but I know what it's like to hit bottom and not being able to pick up where you left off. If you just need an ear. Mail me. So here goes. More demony stuff for you.

Thousand Pieces

I'm on my knees, falling so raw

A thousand pieces of me fall to the floor

My heart in the corner just under the sink

My body is numb, I don't know what to think.

A moment ago I was lost in embrace

Just looking at kindness, a smile on your face

I'm trying to work out what happened from there

Trying to breathe now, I sit in the chair.

-----

Your sweeping the floor now, and laughing at me

Telling me what went on-that I didn't see

And all the while I'm listening, wandering, surreal

Is this the way it's really meant to feel?

My cheeks burn, My eyes wet

My legs want to run, I pray to forget

I'm trying to work out what happens from here

My ears are on fire, I'm not moving through fear.

------

You kiss the top of my head, it sincere as it feels

And talk about fresh starts and making deals

Another small part of me falls to the floor

I steady myself and I walk to the door

I don't understand what your doing to me-

I don't get what keeps me here I should be free.

But on and on the circle goes,

Where it stops no one knows

------

What keeps me bound as you pick me up

And glue me back together?

What makes you want to know as your

piecing me up like a jigsaw?

What makes you the master and

me the fuckup?

And why does no one see me cry

In a thousand little pieces?

-----x-----

Deceived

In a veil, sheltered so warm

Buffered in darkness, she weathers the storm

Crashing around her brings her to her knees

Not knowing who's honest she turns, she flees

And in that surrender she looses herself.

Turning, Running,

Grabbing, Grasping

Falling

------

Around her the world turns,She burns

Unknowing not throwing her caution to the wind,turns

Trusting, laying her life and soul on the line

To those who believe themselves better and fine

And in that surrender she cheats herself

Begging, Trusting

Telling, Learning

Falling

-----

Towards a friend she sees a bright hope

A way to release, a way she can cope.

But the friend is truly a foe in disguise

Who rips her to shreds, analytical eyes

Prying and probing so again she flees

Running, Sobbing

Hurting, Harming

Falling

-----

Enveloped between shelter and pain

She covers the hurt and walks through the rain

Stuck in between a group who seems false

She dances elegantly in the macabre waltz

Being double crossed as she goes

Tripping, Crying

Chained, Escaping

Falling

-----x-----

After reading some of this work you probably think I am really dark. I'm not I'm an ok person unfortunately when I write this is what comes from my pen-sorry!

Rules and Regulations

2009-06-15T03:36:00.000-07:00

Your waiting for me to say that rules are there for being broken, right? Well unfortunately I'm going to say the opposite about some rules. In general i.e. sports they are there to protect the individual and the team and to ensure fair play. In life some of them are there to burden us relentlessly but some of them are there to help us through. These are my golden 3 so to speak. I do try and stick by some of them most of the time but as everyone knows were only human.

1. Treat others as you want to be treated yourself

In other words be a bitch if you want to, but don't expect to be treated like a friend when you need something in return.There are plenty of people out there who seem to think they can step on people because they are quiet or shy. There are also plenty of people who enjoy the drama and want to be the centre of attention all the time. I'll settle for being in the supporting role and being the one who runs around after everyone else. See I'm already taking a back seat at things! I tend to shy away from the bitch big noise types, but I do try to get on with everyone. The other types of people who come under this rule to are the "enforcers" as I call them , the people who leech themselves onto other people and sneak around trying to get into other peoples good books (yes people?). I tend to avoid people like this too.Which leads to the second rule....

2. Never judge a book by it's cover

Were all different. Some people look and make judgements right away. Some people like to look a little deeper. Some people pick and pick till there's nothing left to pick at, and some people are a relentless onslaught on your emotions. I'm a step back kind of girl. I analyse and psychoanalyse and then some. But it's a matter here of be careful what you ask-do you really want to know everything about someone in the first five minutes that you meet, or would you rather get to know someone slowly?

3. If you can't be honest-shut the hell up

One of the things that really gets under my skin is people who try to make themselves out to be better than they are. I live in a terraced house, I'm not going to make it out to be a mansion somewhere, I am working class, in the fact that I live in a terraced house and that my parent earns less than a certain amount of money. I'm also a geek and a bit of a loser which I'm not afraid to broadcast to the world wide web. I read books rather than watch telly, I'd rather stay in than get hammered, but do get hammered occasionally. I'd rather people tell it straight and not hide anything. I have recently met one lady who said that I should "grow a pair". I thought it was the funniest thing I ever heard simply because she was very right.

So these are Beth's golden rules. I know I've just ranted again but I feel better for it! More poetry next time and thanks for reading :)

Relationships....Friends and more

2009-06-12T11:28:00.000-07:00

I am definitely NOT the best person to give relationship advice. I don't even bother any more. I've come the conclusion that I'm a train wreck waiting to happen when it comes to love so I don't bother. It doesn't stop me from writing about it though. Love is a really strange word. It means really little. I tell my friends I love them all the time in the sense that I would probably be crap without them. I love my mum, my home, some of my possesions, and to all extents and purposes my life. So I have come to the conclusion that you can use the word differently in hues of grey. Anyhoo before I give you my femenista versions of what love is then I want to give you some poetry to think about. Some of it is about one of my ex-es and a date we had a very long time ago. Some of it is just random thoughts (I am using the word random again and for this I apologise profusely). So here we go. All about love, finding it, keeping it and loosing it.

Ads and Fads

"Perfectionist ego, female seeks male"

Joyously singing

I and here-Someone must have noticed

by now

-----

Plump but perfection as God Created

Just another desperate Gill

Seeking her Jack, only in print,

Of Course

Obscure and silent, she twiddles her thumbs,

Where is he? Why hasn't he rung?

-----

Gazing he catches her eye

Love? No embarrassment over coffee

Fluttering false eyelashes

Stutters and Spittles

Then in a flash

Jack meets Gill,

In print?

No, over a pint in the pub,

Of course...

-----x-----

Freedom

Dedicated to Daf

The sun shines through the morning clouds,

The rain has cleared away

The summer wind plays through my hair

The birds are out to play

Your fingers intertwine with mine

Were listening to the sea

I'm laughing when you trip and smile

And lay the blame with me

------

The sand is wet under my feet

Were running on the beach

The footprints tract for miles and miles

Your always in my reach

We turn to head towards the car

Your squinting in the sun

I'm looking at your big brown eyes,

Relaxing, having fun

------

We stop and watch a cricket match

A little further down

You turn to me and kiss my cheek,

My head starts spinning round.

You lift me up upon your back

And sink into the sand

I giggle then and hold you tight

You run towards the band

------

The music, heady steady beats

Is playing in my head

And I'm still writing poetry whilst laying in my bed

The day we spent upon the beach

In childish reverie

It took me back and made me smile

As I felt truly free

-----x-----

Stranger

Encompass me

I know nothing of your cynical insecurities

Torture the thoughts that grow

Somewhere incomprehensible that

Only your virgin eyes touch

------

What do you know?

That no one else could possibly understand?

Which secrets do you hide?

Under that flaxen coat

And unshaven aftermath

------

Do you see me?

Before you pass unwavering?

Seeing everything those

Secrets of desire

crumble

------

Age old Innocent

Purer than the driven snow

Yes we knew each other once

We were a long time ago

Lost souls on the road to nowhere

Comprehending everything

Now,

We pass

Un-Acknowledging and cold

Suburban lovers

Urban strangers

------x-----

Safe

A little time to call my own

Not without company never alone

Hold me tight

Without the resilience

I put up no fight

-----

I'm safe when your near me

I'm falling no more

My place is familiar

I'm welcomed, secure

I turn in to kiss you

Your lips welcome mine

And shivers of laughter

Run, chilling my spine

------

Our lips locked together

Our bodies as one

Entwining our souls now,

We sing the same song

The harmony strengthens

Each moment with you

The chords that your striking

Are making me new

------

And melting my heart

Compose me a symphony

Respecting my art

Our souls are in unison

rhythmic and free

Encompass the bars that were

lost within me

-----

I feel your soul shudder

Crescendo, release

And smile as I'm certain

That I am at peace

I'm safe in your arms now

Forever awake,

Assured in the knowledge,

The music we make

-----

My home is within you

Your sanctity mine

Such blessed surrender

Together we shine

-----x-----

Erm....I really don't know where that last one came on. My demon is a naughty boy....

F1 Grand prix 2009

2009-06-11T07:05:00.001-07:00

Just a quick post-if you want tickets there are 1 day tickets available 19th-21st

https://tickets.silverstone-circuit.co.uk/EventSeatBlockPrices.aspx

See you next Friday!

On being random.....

2009-06-04T03:11:00.000-07:00

Random : Having no specific pattern, purpose, or objective: random movements. Also a mathematical probability or sequence of events

Why is it that random things always happen to me? I think when I was put together someone up there must have been having a laugh. I come out with the most prolifically stupid comments and feel the need to apologise for them, just because they were going through my mind at the time. I daydream a lot, mostly this is good and I go with it and then write whatever down. I sing descant to my i-pod unbeknown to me which makes people look at me in a strange way. I've had conversations having phoned friends mobile numbers only to find I was phoning and Emma or an Andy, but not the Emma or Andy that I was trying to phone.....I even ran over a cat on my driving test.....Do I possess the worst luck in the world? Although good things happen to random people some times.

To explain to you what this means I'll give you a synopsis of the last seven days.

Thursday: In London some old man started stroking my hair on the bus on the way to Nutford house Halls in Brown street. I jumped out of my skin and immediately swept up my hair. He laughs and asks me if I would sell my hair to him as it would make a lovely wig and there was lots of money in human hair. Luckily I had Mags there who is one of my loudest friends who told him to get off in some vernacular or another. Spent the next ten minutes hoping the guy didn't have a pair of scissors of any sort behind me.

Friday: After spending most of the day in bed which was amazing and maybe a bit lazy, I went to the hairdressers. Asked the hairdresser for a trim up to my elbows. Apparently the girl was in training and cut it in a line from the middle of my left arm to my right elbow (was thinking that perhaps she was also perhaps blind and standing on one leg at the time?). Got a free haircut out of it in the end but 7 inches gone-which means that Thursdays guy could have had his hair after all.

Saturday: Downloaded almost £40 of music on to an mp3 and put the mp3 on my keyring. Bent down to lace up my trainers. I must have left the keys on the floor. When I went to grab them they were gone. Looked everywhere for them. As I was on the way out ghost hunting I though hey hang on this is spooky! As I had almost given up my Labrador came bounding by with something in his mouth....no more tiny mp3 player....

Sunday: After a nights ghost hunting in Gainsborough I fell asleep on the bus on the way back. Unfortunately I was in the window seat and in a vest. Burnt the left half of my face and one arm and had to walk from the bus through Wrexham to the car :(

Monday: Spent the day studying mostly in the library so you would think I was safe there. Returned home and spent some time in the garden surrounded in books, and went for a run. As the sun went down my elbows turned red-who else burns their elbows?

Tuesday: Sitting in an English exam writing away. I forgot that I had put my mobile in my bra on silent for safe keeping. Almost jumped out of my skin when it vibrated half an hour before the end with a text message. I won't be doing that again in a hurry but I almost had a fit of giggles.

Wednesday: This one is my fault again but got random during an IM. Thinking what I was going to put on in the morning and actually typing it out. Oops-sorry to the person in question for my mental ineptitude!

So it's again Thursday and I've already been late for 1 tutorial this morning which is my bad because I was up late last night. This has just been a brilliant example of one of my weeks! No poetry today. Just a moan from me to you :) Things must improve soon!

Drunkuness

2009-05-28T10:33:00.000-07:00

Ugh, I guess that the title is self explanatory right? I don't need to go into details. I should also mention drunk twittering, it is certainly not advisable to drink and tweet and IM at the same time. Why? Complete mental inaptitude. Anyhoo, after spending a glorious day in London with my best friend Emma who is very clever indeed and doing medicine at Kings (sorry Em's had to get that in-and follow me FFS!!) we both fel into the trap of tweeting whilst inebriated. Following the trend for #threewords during/aftersex. Hmmm, say no more. Needless to say the replies we both received this morning were quite funny..... I know for a fact that my Australian ladies are hard asses at drunk tweeting and they do it with a flair and hilarity. I'm not that good....shamefully....

Another bad habit we all have it pyjama tweeting. I've quite happily spent the day with Mac on knee, in my PJ's tweeting away. Ooops....and I do have a life honest!

Drunk

I hear beats drone in my bones,

My world is alive with sparks

of neon colours floating and exploding

Spinning in easiness, happy,

More drink please.

-----

I love everyone around me,

Touching is easy when your liberated

Of the walls and rules that

Bind you to daylight

I don't feel shy, I shake my hair loose

And strands fly everywhere

More drink please.

-----

We are dancing arms flailing,

Minds and bodies coordinated

To the beat of the drum

Loosing my balance,

My feet have a life of their own.

I've lost me shoes?

More drink please

-----

Who's dancing there behind me?

I don't have a clue,

I don't really care,

My visions askew

Get your hands of my boy

If you value your life

More drink please.

-----

I'm pulled into a taxi

And given some....food?

Where did it come from?

Where are we.....going?

Who....am I again?

hmmmm...more drink please

-----

I wake in the morning

The place is a mess

My heads screaming at me

I'm still in my dress

I run to the bathroom

A date with the sink

Left asking the question

How much did I drink?

My twitter ladies.....

2009-05-24T11:52:00.000-07:00

Ok so something bad happened. For those who I've told you know and I don't need to be telling everyone. After that it was sort of limbo for me until I found twitter. On twitter I found some of the most brilliant and fantastic people I have ever met. People that I would gladly do favours for. Girls and boys you know who you are. This poetry and the poetry on my other blog has just come out of me since twitter. Bizarre? Yes, but I'm happy to have my poetry demon back again. Even though he keeps me up all night some nights-he's the only man that can!!

So some post tweeting poetry for you dedicated to all my girls and boys:

To and unknown soldier

I have been numb for so long,

Unfeeling, hard, stolen so young

Cold unwanted untouched and unloved,

Young but so old

Carrying the weight of so many

On my small shoulders

-----

I scream and no one hears

I cry and no one cares

I slip into her icy fingers

too readily, giving myself up forever

wanting to disappear

Willing myself into the black.

-----

Then you came

Erasing my doubt, my fears dissipating

In the morning light

You raised me up where I needed to be

Higher than I have ever been before

Letting me float in the breeze

And hope that somehow you

loved me.

------

Still I am doubtful

I ruin kindness and I run

from the unknown

Afraid to commit too much

Of a part of my heart that is closed

Afraid to uncap the hurt I have

to pour on another

The hurt that I have lived with

for a long time

-----

Patience and understanding

Is unknown to me thus far

As no one ever touched the me

I ruined from the start.

-----x-----

My Vampires

We talk in many languages

We never break the peace

We always see our solitude

As wonderful release

Were ancient as the monoliths

The burial mounds of old

------

Were glorious as the sunrises

And barley fields of Gold

We move in silent reverie

In whispers on the wind

Were many whom are virtuous

And many who have sinned.

We know of your distractions

The yearnings and the lust

You mortal men just live a while

Before you turn to dust

-----

You dare to think us lonely

Were One my dear you see

You think us passing nomads

But we are really free

Were called by many adjectives

For we have no true name

The truth in honest daylight

Is that we are all the same.

-----x-----

The Quiet One

You see my facade

The bright energetic reverence

You look at the mask

the daily application of face

heart on sleeve

No deeper

You laugh at the jokes

Naive but humorous

Happy, but dying inside

-----

Did you ever wander

Whatever lay beneath

what stirs in weeping willows

And shadows of the lush green trees

Did you bother looking

In the bright azure eyes?

For hopeful reassurance

Did you see the lies?

-----

Can you hear the quiet one?

Does she even speak?

My voice is lost in mono drone

A macabre dance

one step forwards and three steps back

Scratching the surface

Truth becomes your lie

Did you ask the questions of

the one in reverie?

What are you tomorrow?

What do you mean to me?

-----

For I am the quiet one

just longing to exist

My hands on either side of me

Just balled into a fist

I hide in many corners

I wait for peaceful times

He'll come and take my mask away

And ease me of my crimes

-----

Whilst others overlook me

And undermine and fear,

The quiet little country girl

Is getting very near

It's not a threat of anarchy

There will not be a fight

If you looked into my eyes

You would have seen I'm right

-----

I am the quiet one

You misunderstood

I took off my mask

And raised up my hood

YOU asked the wrong questions

I told you no lies

You thought that you knew me

So now it's goodbye.

-----x-----

Virtual Reality

I open my heart

On a regular basis

I uncover my soul

But I am in stasis

My life is laid out

In a few random bytes

For all to uncover

In monitor lights

------

Uncover too much

In this virtual world

A person in transit

All hopes are unfurled

But questions arise as to

Who's being "real"

Who's pushing the buttons

And making you feel?

------

And so it feels oddly

So lost on so few

It gives us an insight

Of who's really who

And if your already

A little confused

It feeds paranoia

And mayhem ensues

------

Because there are players

Apart from the game

And lurkers and Stalkers

And those with NO name

Who try to deceive you

And make you a fool

Who try to befriend you

And break every rule

------

This is the world

Of virtual reality

Soon trailing off

To sublime insanity

Where you could become

Someone your not

The world of the sleepless

The world of the bot

-----x------

Dad

Before I write a eulogy

To one who was so great

Allow me a few tears as I stand by your grave,

The flowers in my hands

Will soon turn to dust

The car that you left me will soon turn to rust

-----

You left me with something

More precious than these

So allow me please to shed some of my tears

I know that you loved me

Your one of the few

The grass on your graveside is covered in dew

------

The memories are golden

Your light was so bright

Even the few hours before you lost the fight

A short time I knew you

You were stolen away

In the heatwave last year in that bad month of May

-----

I remember your cuddles

I remember your laughs

I even remember how you cheated at cards,

You taught me of fast cars

You taught me respect,

You made me a person I hope is adept.

-----

But I miss you daddy

As I stand by your grave

The loss hits me harder that a gigantic wave

I fell so alone now

It feels very wrong

Without you to guide me I'm loosing my song

-----

So I lay the flowers

And kiss your headstone

And tell you I'm sorry to leave you alone

I take with me the memories

And lock them away

With the sound of your laughter I'll share it someday

------

I've failed to encompass

In these few odd lines

How fantastic my daddy was in his time

You left and a darkness

Surrounded my heart

I'm sorry to tel you it tore me apart

-----

I'm hoping your proud of me

Wherever you are

I still bring you flowers I now DRIVE the car

The darkness that came

Well, it's gradually lifting

And now when I talk I'm certain your listening

-----

If you are out there

Just know that I cared

I couldn't stay with you till you were not there

I wanted the laughter

To stay in my head

Not the dad that lay there in that hospital bed

-----

So I'll say adieu now

I love you so much

I'll carry you with me in writing and such

And please keep your music

And laughter, just near

Because these are the things that your beanie held dear.

-----x-----

So here goes......

2009-05-24T11:11:00.000-07:00

I used to write tonnes, but this time last year I had a bit of a hard time and I completely lost all incentive to get pen to paper. I'm now getting back to normal, and have started writing again. Some of my poems are dark, I've been told that they are heavy on imagery. Most of them are about coping with depression/relationships, some of them are comedy. Mostly it's just my life....in words.

oh legalities-don't copy paste and share these because some of them are printed and or pending copyright ok?

Hands

From birth she has been there

Clutching me to her bosom

Her immortal love too much to comprehend

She is the bearer of my grief

-----------

Tears have fallen

Of joy, loneliness, compassion

Unyielding icon of my dreams and fears,

Calling me with her logical wisdom

Hands caressing and loving

Increasing the white sheet of my short life

Cleansing my stains

Healing my wounds

Stitching the deep cuts of life's burden

-----------

Lovingly she rejoices

what she has produced flowers

she watches with pride,

Hands in lap, she smiles, knowingly

---------------------------------

Aliens

From Rhiannon and Matholwch

to this

Troubled fairy tales of a branded age.

Mabinogion and tradition disappear in

a seemingly modern time

"How quaint your accent sounds"

Thanks, my forefathers were slain unmercifully

for this quaint accent

"Gosh how very appropriate"

------------

Harsh to strangers unaccustomed ears

Crammed with consonants

Unregistered language-be gone with your traditions

Your jumping over broomsticks and dancing in clogs

Go, disappear into the mists of time

Like your Bendigeidfran like Your Matholwch

-------------

An Alien nation

A patch of putrid earth

The maggots have set in the foundations

Whilst untouched poppies waver in the breeze

Another undiscovered civilisation

Cultured to perfection

-------------------------

Exposed

Naked here

The clothes that God gave me

Here for everyone to stare

I am do different

Faltering and wavering

Enraptured in the harsh

reality that I have been placed here

Alone

----------

Knowing that I am the same

Yet different

Questioning-

why was I made

Like this?

Yearning for normality

Accepting nothing

Knowing all.

-------------

Fingers are pointing

I am as you willed me

Yet strange to others

Enchained for too long

by the hands that cherished

my being

The same

yet different

Some still love me

Even when exposed

Ok these are some of the oldies. A work in progress. I'll post some of the newer ones now. I have over 2000 pieces so I apologise in advance if there's a lot of scrolling involved.

oh I found a funny one I'll dedicate this one to Aimee because I love you and your twitter stalking!!

Love is

If this is love I'll scream and shout

This last kiss put the fires out

Your grumpy face and smelly socks

Mount Etna babe has lost her rocks.

----------------

If this is love I'll bawll and cry

I'll stick a needle in my eye

Your constant farts and drinking beer

These habits boy are very queer.

----------------

If this is love I'll wail and moan

I'd rather be just left alone

You pick your toes and eat the dirt

And expect me then to woo and flirt

----------------

If this is love I'll eat my hat

As you parade your rippling fat

And I'll just put my pj's on

for keeping warm is much more fun

---------------

If this is love, it's not for me

I'd rather watch f1 grand prix

Or watch the footy on tv

If this is love I'm running free

-----------x----------

Ok after reading that you can tell I haven't met the right person pmsl.

What is this all about?

2009-05-24T10:49:00.000-07:00

Ok, so I decided to start a poetry blog. Why? Because I thought it would be good for my mortal soul? Nah, I just wanted to be able to share a bit about my life with some of the people whom I've met on my twitter travels.

Who am I?

My name is Bethan, I'm 18 and I live in North Wales. I have wanted to be a writer since I was about 3 I can't remember ever wanting to do anything else. I write everything down. I have diaries from the age of 5 upwards. I'm a perfectionist when it comes to things and that is probably my greatest fault. I'm just finishing up my A levels at the moment. In this country Our finals are spread over two years in Units. Exams are usually taken in January and May/June. The subject I am taking are Music, English, Drama. I'm painfully shy, so God knows why I decided to do Drama. I do channel my characters quite often so it was scary in my final drama practical to channel Lady Macbeth. But hey it was fun while it lasted. I'm the youngest child I have an older sister who is 13 years older than me. I'm a twitter aholic. You can catch me at www.twitter.com/bethanpie or www.twitter.com/celticgirl1913. The latter address is a Twilight RPG page so expect me to be drinking blood, driving fast cars and being generally moody and vampy. This blog is for my twitter friends mainly, please feel free to leave comments or even your own poetry. I have been accepted to the Guild Hall University of the Performing Arts in London and depending on my grades I'm going there at the end of September, to study dramatic and creative writing and media.

What I like

Books, mad people, writing (obviously), keeping busy, creativity, art, music music music, F1 with a passion, clothes mainly jeans, twitter, toffee apples, horses, being a hippy, Singing, playing guitar, piano, flute, walking my stupid dog, tattoos, sarcasm,dreaming.

What I dislike

Dishonesty, fake people, control freaks, bullies, money, ignorance,