The Course - September 2004

There's going to be a mixture of topics in this section. Most were written as homework assignments while we were on the creative writing courses.

I Remember - Lisa Davies

I remember
pieces of my childhood.
There is no complete picture anymore,
but out of the many-coloured, time-muted tapestry,
golden-threaded memories shine.

Can this be me?
Head beneath the level of the counter top.
Cold smooth kitchen floor,
rough warm blanket.
Game of boo around cupboard doors.
Shrieks of delight!
Mother's face, first memory.

Cindy!
Next door's dog.
Big and spotted, black on white,
even bigger in our kitchen.
Nails clatter on tiled floor,
tail beats on cupboard doors.
Sharing my marmite.

Playpen in the garden, two bars broken.
Deliciously soft grass,
happy sun.
giant sky.
And now there is no toddler here,
but a fierce lion.
Roaring.

A trip to London.
I am told I was four.
Streets of matching, stuck-together houses.
In our street,
in our house,
a stairway.
On the stairs,
a home-made wooden slide, made by our Dad.
And under the stairs,
a secret cupboard.
Or a cave.

Playing in the garden,
with a hose
and a lot of mud.
Engineering great dams, waterfalls, and farmlands.
Water frothing and churning,
rich and brown and foaming,
coffee and cream.

First day of school.
It was called Class One.
Clothes laid out in readiness, days before.
Brown dress, white socks, brown shoes,
big brown school knickers.
Long black tarred driveway, the worst kind for grazing your knees on.
Mothers and children.
Laughing and crying.
So many new faces,
and a new desk,
and new crayons,
and a picture to colour, of an elephant holding an umbrella.
And Mrs Collinson,
the oldest person I'd ever met,
with a stick,
and a bun,
and a glass cube through which she squinted at our writing.

Long afternoons,
playing at home.
No extra activities, then.
Sitting in my tree,
watching the ants on their endless journeys along the branches.
Feeding them breadcrumbs.
Watching each breadcrumb as it travelled along the branch,
transported by a dozen little bodies,
finally disappearing
into a hole into the branch,
and down to their little ant homes.

And so it goes on.
So many memories,
but so many more days, unremembered.
The days were all mine,
yet not the memories.
Not anymore.

I have three children of my own now.
And I think
that it's in watching them discover their own magic,
that the yearning for my own
childhood memories
grows.

I Remember - Rosanne Hurly

I edge slowly onto the pavement
  Just near the exit gate
I obey the explit intructions
  That have been issued to me……
    ‘Don’t park too close to the quad, my friends will think I’m a nerd’
    ‘Don’t get out of the car, my friends will think I’m a nerd’
Is this my same little person
Who only a year or so ago
Would be in tears
If I was a few minutes late

I see him move slowly
Up to line up with his buds..
His head moves ‘discreetly’ towards me
And he gives me a ‘cool dude’ wave
Then moves on

Bag slung over his shoulder
This strange ‘cool dude’ walks towards the car..
Remember that tiny boy dragging the school bag nearly as
Heavy as him…

Then I see that grubby face I love so much
Notice the socks that never stay up
He jumps in the car
‘Hi angel’ I say
‘Hmm...what are these? he says
Desert Roses…for us to plant…’ I say
Freaky’ he says
Yes it’s the same kid I remember

Beginning To End - Luke O' Gorman

Two empty cylinders,
One, the shell of comfort,
The other, the inner of wisdom,

One is gripping soft and comfortable,
The other filled with night, and a ball of
Knowledge added.
Combined together and ready for anything.

Transported, packed bought and opened.
Creating, spelling, writing,
Doodling in the tools of an artist.
Serving its purpose, enjoying its life.

Round and round it goes.
Knowing what, when and how to do it.
Lent out chewed on, sucked on and even lost,
It never gives up hope knowing it has a task
To perform.

But as it was created so it must die.
Running low, exhausted, fading in and out,
Leaving its indented scar on what was once living,
It passes on to a better place, knowing it has done well.

Dropped on the path to some ones haven.
Stood on by a horde of adolescence.
Scratched. Kicked. Cracked. Rolled.
And one final step by a shoe number five
Shatters it to millions of tiny shards
Killing it one final time.

I bent down to take a closer look,
But all I could see was the almost dried knight,
Seeping out of it like the blood of a hunt.

From beginning to end,
With its life so brief.
It has served its purpose.