Literature

JHS Lit: Austen and Hemingway – Masters of the Frame

From manners to machismo, here are two writers who hold the key to great dialogue… Jane Austen. Ernest Hemingway. At first glance these two writers could not appear more disparate. But within their masterpieces ‘For Whom the Bell Tolls’ and…

Wednesday Washing

On Wednesdays I do my washing; In my basket is routine. As the machine gently spins And gurgles satisfaction I do some work at the table Or read a book on the sofa And quietly pretend that I’m living with…

Upon Waking Up Too Early

Gaaah. What? Hrrrrnf. Stir weightless against inkblack and mist. I’ll go, I’ll go. But pushed down into mush by warm slop. Do I do this every time when this rock whips round the hot and the clock clicks this time?…

Falling asleep

The drowsiness takes over and I sink back It calls and I cannot fight back Slumber has dug its claws and pulls I sleepily resist, but the world dulls.   Just as I give in, it is out of reach…

Watching Weirdo

I watched a man waiting at a bus stop. He was smoking a cigarette. With one hand in his coat pocket he blew clouds into the cold evening air. His cigarette between his first two fingers glowed at its tip…

Would you like it back?

We’re left sitting In silence In confusion In frustration In this broken love Soaked in the curdled hearts we’ve shred like confetti The blood stains like the lipstick you liked so much I could never tell when you wanted to…

Milky Way

It was perfectly nighttime. There was a sloping tangle of layers of deep green thickly weaved. Short trees and stout bushes crowded together and collaged the earth with twisting limbs and smothered it with leaves. The green was painted in…

Monsoon

I fell asleep all too soon Lulled by the quietening monsoon Pattering away on the roofs A thousand pairs of thundering hooves Down and down poured the sheets of rain Enough to render me insane The world seemed to fade…

HS2: Sixty Thousand Exhumed at St James Gardens, Euston

It startles the skin when people dare to ask it, the timeless binary that binds us: rot or burn? To settle on the mantel as dust in the urn, or rattle to the soil, supine in the casket? Though it’s…

Bye Bye Birdie

The magpie feels the chalk morning’s sun, and knows another day begun. Missing the refuge of the downy birch she glides between buses and billboards in search of a sunlit, solitary perch. Quite far from greenery and white-barked trees she…

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