August 28, 2006

A Way.

Writing about web page

It's been a while since I last posted, but I've begun writing regularly again, and here is a poem that was inspired by the news story given in the bbc link. Obviously, it isn't an acurate account, only inspired by how the story moved me. Enjoy.

  • * *

And there is always a way. A way in, a way out. A way.
Away – I flew from there like a swallow urged onward by the wind,
my feet pounding the pavement harder than necessary,
attempting to ground myself and prevent my weak knees from buckling.
I’d never
run so far
so fast
in all my life.

Master. It was his way of hoisting my white flag, allowing him victory:
“Master”, I call, tears automatically coursing down my cheeks at him command;
“Master”, the slow strangulation of will, the hard iron cuffs about my skinny
wrists, carving his mark: “Master” into the bark of my bone.
Every night
was yet

He found me on the way to school. It was as simple as “Hello”, as simple as
a handshake. A How–Do–You–Do. Simple, yet, as is the way with fate, that hand–
shake sealed a contract (I was not old enough to know about small–print)
and hand–in–hand his grip tightened and off he walked, trailing me behind, my
feet tripping
one another.
And the tears.

Ten years. Those words mean not a thing to me. What is eight years?
It is not 365 times eight. It is not twelve times eight. It is not measurable for me
except by the childhood I lost, how much I missed my mother, and the memories
I’ll never have; high school boys, the parties and a sweet sixteen. Sixteen was never

But there is always a way, a way in, a way out. There is a way to condense eight years
into an acorn, and

- 3 comments by 1 or more people Not publicly viewable

  1. Ghastly story, wasn't it?

    I really like the "tail" of each stanza (sure there's a proper word for that, but I like mine better), and I think the final stanza is beautiful. I think the main part of the others could probably do with a trim, images like "swallow urged onward by the wind" overplays your hand, and lines like "the slow strangulation of will, the hard iron cuffs about my skinny wrists" suffer from too much language choking them up. Love the "small print" image, though.

    28 Aug 2006, 19:20

  2. Love this poem, it’s probably my favourite of yours. Funny how stories that aren’t yours often bring out great things, eh?
    S2 L2 don’t you mean “his” command?
    I’m not a fan of the penultimate stanza, it feels unnecessary and a tad cliche. I love love love the rest of it though. the third stanza describes the kidnapping so beautifully, i especially like “It was as simple as “Hello”” and the play on away, beautiful sound.

    30 Aug 2006, 18:11

  3. I don’t know much about poetry but I thought I’d say a few things from a layman’s point of view. Plus, I enjoyed reading some of these tonight, so I felt compelled to mention it :-)

    I couldn’t follow the flow of the swallow because it then mentioned feet, and I came crashing back down. Birds imply a certain freedom to me, I think.

    ‘bark of my bone’... love it.

    365 is a number, but the other numbers are words – is this on purpose? I actually like the penultimate stanza – but I think that’s because I’m a maths teacher.

    What do the dot and stars at the top mean?

    Hehe, you seem to love punctuation. You should check out those punctuation, grammar and spelling groups on Facebook. How about writing a silly poem about silly punctuation?

    04 Nov 2006, 20:25

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