Tears

Oh, the elegant tears fell,
As the morning sun peaked from the horizon,
Shining its light from the edge of hell,
To the lands and seas of Poseidon.

Oh, the elegant tears fell,
As her screams returned with no avail,
words resounded like a ringing bell,
Forever she was bound to fail.

Oh, the elegant tears fell,
Forever she was trapped in a cage,
With no man to trust and no woman tell,
Eternally stuck on the same stage.

Oh the elegant tears fell,
Forever she continued to hum,
Endless stories the voice could tell,
But of course she knew, no help would come.

Firdavis Xireaili 10D

(yeah I’m into dark things)

Maths

It’s late in the holidays,

The sound of pen betrays,

The pain of the student race,

Going into year 11.

Do you want to hang out ?

I can’t because of a clout,

To my head, on the snout,

It’s called maths!

What an aberration,

I’m supposed to be on vacation,

Yet all around the nation,

We bash our head against a text.

Ah, you have so much time!

There’s no need to whine,

Just bend your spine,

And do the bloody work.

Maths is bad, I learn,

Oh mother, I yearn,

For a break from this turn,

Of horrid student fate.

Why?

Tragedy At a Wedding

Tragedy At a Wedding*

The sun shone, warm and butter-soft, on the pale face of Elinor Dorbach as she gracefully turned around to face her husband-to-be. The day was perfect; The sky the palest blue, with puffy clouds hanging at intervals across it, bits of cotton-wool made of the finest material. The ground was soft, inviting; the lake in the background glimmering with hidden diamonds. There was a celebratory, thankful presence in the air, and guests were apt to admire this view. It was as if the Lord had taken it upon himself, in the midst of all his duties, to make this day special.

A laugh, mellow and rich, sang through the morning air. The groom had arrived, his tie slightly askew, his face naive and childlike. He was smiling, with his eyes full of limitless love. With a stumble, he ambled toward Elinor, the smile becoming more hopeful and profound. This was an example of the attractiveness of the bride: men felt themselves, sometimes against their will and common sense, attracted towards her; her smile held the promise of prosperity and happiness, and her melodious voice, liquid gold, enticed so many more.

This was not the first, thought Elinor, as the groom approached. For the first time, a shiver rang through her body, and her smile momentarily became wooden and fixed, her eyes distant and unseeing. Instead of the present groom, she was seeing another, with the same childish demeanour, and unfaltering loyalty; dear Gordon! A year ago, she had met Gordon Corey, quite by accident, at a conference. He had set his eyes upon her, and had not been able to remove them. While this action is familiar amongst other men, what had really set Gordon apart was his moderate wealth, worthy connections, and loyalty to his wife; though her love for him had never truly existed, with her facade soon crumbling into nothingness, his had never dwindled or faded. Even when he must have been aware what his love meant to her, he was still undying in his, unwilling to accept the truth of their relationship.

That made it easier for her to remove the control of his money, and entice him to reconsider the will he proposed leaving behind. “Really”, she could remember herself saying without qualm, “do you think it  appropriate to leave the estate to those distant family relations, who had never attempted to connect with you, to appreciate you? Compare this to the wife who had held you high in her esteem, who had appreciated you for what you are worth, who can see you for who you truly are”. She had smiled then, a predatory smile, and her eyes gleamed dangerously. Gordon, however, had not noticed any of this.

Poor old, silly, bumbling, Gordon Corey. Really, it was a service that he had passed away a week before the marriage; he had not taken the news of the divorce well; the new marriage would have been unbearable, depressing. The true love he had for her, which was not returned in any shape, would have been brutally destroyed. Elinor had received a message from his sister, a week before, detailing the date and location of the funeral. It was a  pathetic and rambling letter, the sister heaving with sobs, her handwriting irregular and disjointed. But, Gordon had nothing more of value to give, so…

Why bother?

The indulging smile returned to her face, her eyes refocusing on the man in front of her.

The traditional, brazen notes of “Canon in D major” rang out from the organ; the guests, as one, turned toward the couple. It was then that the usher approached Elinor.

“Mrs Dorbach, if you please, I have been sent a bouquet, from your late husband, for this occasion. I would like you to have it now.”

With some surprise, Elinor accepted the large bouquet; it comprised of a profusion of colours, that seemed to gleam with a polished beauty. She saw large, blooming tulips, amongst the anemone and amaryllis and, above all, the roses. By far, they were the most attractive; she found herself attracted, wordlessly, toward the largest of them, red and comforting, in the centre of the bouquet. It eclipsed the others, and was of a deep blood-red.

The paper holding the bouquet together crackled slightly, and Elinor shifted it towards her other hand. She had only then realised how heavy it was, along with Gordon’s appreciation of her; his love for her had not stopped, not even for death. It was not brittle, but warm and malleable. She suddenly found herself thinking of his blind affection, which she had eventually returned with coldness and distaste. But that didn’t matter, she told herself quickly. He’s already dead, and I am beginning a new relationship, with a new husband. It is not worthwhile to think of it.

The paper crackled again, and the weight of the bouquet suddenly seemed heavier and more daunting. The sounds of laughter and merry conversation began to seem unrealistic. It began to, slowly, fade into the background, repressed by a sudden draught of coldness from the past:

“Compare this to the wife who had held you high in her esteem, who had appreciated you for what you are worth, who can see you for who you truly are.”

Said not earnestly, nor truthfully, but for another, terrible, motive. Her eyes became unseeing, and she noticed, for the first time, a thin, pale sheet of paper lodged within the bouquet, missed by the usher’s eyes. It was in a familiar, sloped handwriting, black against white, almost profoundly so.

“They shall seek you tomorrow, and you shall not be”.

Elinor stared, uncomprehending, at the message, which she unconsciously had crumpled in her hand. How unlike Gordon! To think that he will be selfish enough to ruin her joy on this momentous day! Feeling a slight twinge of anger, she tore her eyes away from the remains of the note, and toward the bouquet once more. She suddenly hated it, and what it represented.

The usher approached her cautiously, sensing a change in atmosphere; the guests noticed this too, and stopped their conversations. The champagne stopped flowing, and curious faces were turned toward the bride. Elinor felt, briefly, a sense of dread. She felt a sudden desire to be somewhere, anywhere, else. Anywhere but here.

The bouquet suddenly tilted in her hands; the paper crackled more violently. It seemed the bride wanted to discard it; but, only the bride knew the truth.

There was something in the centre of the bouquet, hidden amongst the multitude of flowers. It was slowly, inevitably, working its way up.

The bouquet shook again and again; Elinor felt her hands begin to shake; blood drained from her face, and she uttered a low groan. But she could not bring herself to drop the bouquet.

The largest rose shook most of all. It was bending under the weight of the thing inside; she thought she could hear the tapping, quick and methodical, of many legs.

They shall seek you tomorrow…

Slowly, the thing came into view; she stared into herself, reflected in the bulbous eyes. Slowly, the spider, brownish and unearthly, emerged from the stem of the rose. Slowly, it clambered up the arm of the bride. It was unbearably large, the size of a plate. She felt the guests shout and exclaim, but it seemed distorted and distant. They cannot help me, she thought.

…and you shall not be.

The last thing she remembered was a stinging pain as the stinger pierced her arm.

Addendum:

*I have placed this here, because this would possibly serve to make some details of the plot explicit; this work is based on the brilliant tale of “The Ash Tree”, by M.R. James; some plot details are similar, and would undoubtedly strike a reminiscent chord amongst some readers. If you have found this story worthwhile, I recommend you to consider reading his works.  

The Dark Side

The familiar suffocating buzz you listen to day and night.

Provoking fights,
stealing rights,
creating unneeded sights,
whispering in your ear that you are at unreachable heights.

All lies,
deliberately told to earn them the profit,
with no man, no soul,
attempting to even stop it.

Telling you relentless,
no matter if you are penniless,
to point your spears at those who are homeless,
Those who experienced the shadow of humanity,
Those who lost their former lives and left friendless.

You fail to notice,
The vicious thorns that entangle your heart each time their empty, lifeless words enter your ear.
Slowly corroding your mind and soul, until you are no more than a disposable puppet,
Whose only worth is to preach the words of the true culprit .

The exaggerated headlines,
Claiming the biggest threat is a small group capable of bringing insignificant terror,
But not mentioning the cruel dictator with his arsenals of war is their crucial error.

You convince yourself that you control your own hands and knee,
just as a bird trapped in a birdcage thinks it is free.

You’ve been taught in your youth that they speak only the truth,
that they have all the knowledge in the world in their grasp.
They fool you into believing they take no sides,
but hiding under the wall of text are their secret agendas.

they do whatever is necessary to earn them the sums,
Diverting attention from the cries of the slums,
Whilst exaggerating the war on violence and guns.

People are blinded by what is presented to them,
Trusting every word without a doubt,
Not even questioning the bull they spout.

They, who have no real power strike not with weapons, but with words,
As ‘It is not power that corrupts but fear.’

I wish to see a day and age where humanity stand side-by-side,
Not in conflict but United.
But in an era where THEY dominate,
Such dreams can only be dreams.

We are surrounded by darkness,
no light in sight and nothing bright to guide us through the eternal night.

But with us all standing together with conflict left far behind,
just maybe, we will live to once again witness the rise of a new ever-lasting dawn.

 

Firdavis Xireaili 9H

2am

Staring aimlessly at the flickering light
The night’s illumination.
Isolated and cold in this prison,
Bracing myself for the dawn
Hoping it never comes because
I’ll have to face what I did, what I’ve lost and
The realisation that you’re gone,
Gone from my life
And I was the cause
And that I’m the reason I’ll never wake up beside you again
I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

I still remember our first date.
The way the corners of your mouth rose
And you laughed at my jokes.
And laughed at me.
But it was okay, because I laughed at myself too.
I remember the way you cut your steak.
How you used your left hand to hold the knife-
The knife…

Four years we lasted, together, as one.
One body,
One spirit,
One mind. Four years until I found
You unclothed in my bed
With another
With your feeble excuses
Desperately scrambling for your clothes
And I stormed out.

Alcohol fuelled my rage
Head was spinning
Wasn’t thinking straight
Anger bursting like a wine casket
With anger
With anger
Brandishing a knife
Blade piercing your soft pale skin,
You hit me, desperate to escape my wrath
It was all over in an instant

I still hear your laughing
I still hear your screams
I still taste your lips
I still taste the booze
I still smell your perfume
I still smell your blood
I still remember you. I still remember us.

Tomorrow when the dawn comes I’ll face the music
Face the courtroom and face reporters
And journalists. They see me as a monster.
I am a monster.
I deserve this. I accept this.
I’ll plead guilty
For your sake
In memory of you.
In memory of us.

Bernard Tso 9L

Poem: “Hikari”

To you, I write “happy birthday”.
On this day, October 20, 2016,
You are eighteen, with stars
In your eyes and the same fire
In your chest that you had when I
First met you, and you walked into
A room not knowing quite what to expect,
But illuminating us nonetheless.
And now, after so short a time,
You will soon have left
To light up rooms so far from home
As we miss the warmth you gave,
Gleaming up there on stage
Or through headphones, like candles
Late at night, in grim places that
Needed a little glow when we couldn’t
Find the beam of your smile
Because it was shining somewhere else.
Eighteen now, you’re a flame in the dark,
A star in cold space, and I know
You will defy physics, and grow,
Not collapse, even as the universe
Changes around you.
You’ll be dazzling all the same.

Ode to an Oat Flake

The following poem is adapted from Robert Burn’s Ode to a Haggis.

 

God bless, your honeyed, sweetened flakes,

Great king of the breakfast race,

Broon is your form at your face,

Oats, Wheat, Rice and Sugar,

Forever have a place,

As food before dinner,

 

The whitend bowl that you fill,

Your flakes above milk like a great hill,

Heralding from the distant mill,

When I go to feed,

My stomach won’t sit still,

As my appetite feels the greed,

 

The spoon, silver and narrow,

Inserts itself inside the barrow,

Of golden goodness, sweet as marrow,

Lift you up and up,

From the bowl, like an arrow,

Crisp and crunchy, that’s good, yup!

 

 

I am sorry I made you read this.

Alex Joshi, 10D.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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