The First & Last Failure of The Poet.

As you can no doubt see, this is the first time I have blogged in a while. It's not that i've been neglecting it as such, but have been quite busy on proper paying submissions of late, including a version of Graduation Day, the prototype parts of which first saw light here. It has now grown into something rather larger than originally intended, rather selfishly running away with itself and making independent demands of its own. Which is both exciting and nightmarish in equal measure.

Anyway, this week, it came to light that a competition submission I made way back in July last year was unsuccessful. I'm not massively surprised, not least because it was a poetry competition, and I am in no way a poet; if I'm being totally honest, I don't actually like poetry that much at all. I am a storyteller through and through, and more than happy to stay that way. I tried something new, it didn't work out. Meh.

So, to give a little, merciful outlet to an unloved idea, I thought I would share my failure of an entry here. Hope you enjoy my first and last foray into non-prize-winning poetry, but if not, don't worry, you'll not be troubled by it again.

Yours,

J. Swike

Miss Cigarette

I pick her, not quite deliberately, from a group of many.

She knows my hands, and fits my lips familiarly, as those who came before her did.

I arouse her. I feast on her scent, her poison, gorging on each intoxicating breath, until -

She is spent. No longer slender, beguiling beauty, but drained of all her worth,

and with no sentiment at all, despite what i have taken, i abandon her;

crushed, face down, amongst the dirt we made together, and the bodies of her former friends.

Graduation Day (Part 2)

I sat in the wicker chair, feet crossed and rested on the dressing table, and watched in the big round mirror, the reflection of myself doing nothing. I had no inclination to do anything much that day. I had smoked a cigarette, and watched the thin trail of bluish smoke dance among the dust that flew wildly about, shown up by the warm beam of sunlight that peeked through the edges of the shutters. I already felt tired watching it all.

I looked around me at the darkened room, at the two empty unmade beds, and felt a sudden pang of loss. I wondered how Blakey was getting on with his parents downstairs, surrounded by the mill and fuss of all the other boys and their excited families, as he battled to hide his enormous hangover from them and the ever-attendant masters. I smirked to myself, glad that for once I was excused the same fate. I wondered briefly why I couldn’t hear it all, or if anyone else wondered where I was, then instantly doubted they had noticed I wasn’t there.

I looked back at myself again, and realising I could no longer feel my feet, I stiffly pulled them down and leaned forward to scrutinise myself further in the giant round glass. The chair let out a loud creaking yelp as I moved, and at once my heavy, dead feet began to fizz with a thousand tiny pin pricks as the blood and the life rushed back into them both.

I threw my glasses on the dresser and rubbed my tired eyes; smoothing back the dark red hair from my face, I saw my father looking back at me. I was far slighter than him, but I had his same steely eyes and sharp nose; I had grown to become yet another of the ghosts of him that roamed this school.

It had been seven years since he had died, yet in being at Roegate, I had seen him or felt him with me almost every day; I walked everywhere in his footsteps. There were the grainy pictures of him with unknown friends that hung in the huge oak-panelled hallways; there was the Past Alumni plaque on the courtyard memorial that bore his name, which I had always avoided to spare myself tears in public. I had learnt early on that it could result in a beating at the hands of the older boys.

I hadn’t thought about him much for several weeks, but he was all I thought of as I sat alone in the dorm room, waiting for Blake and the others to come back. The last time I had seen him, he was so excited about the prospect of my coming to Roegate, following in the family tradition, seeing me graduate alongside all the other proud parents, taking his only boy home a man. In the years since his death, I had long reconciled that he would never see it happen, but that was then. Graduation day had seemed like a far off future that wouldn’t ever come, but knowing that the day had finally arrived brought reality crashing home, and as I stared at my imitating reflection of the only man I ever missed, my throat closed tightly and I cried, silently but uncontrollably, the tears making shiny tracks like snails across my cheeks.

Suddenly, the sound of voices echoed in the hallway. I leapt almost guiltily from the chair, sending it flying backwards off its feet. I grabbed my cigarettes from the dressing table, wiping frantically at my face and eyes with the thin black sleeve of my graduation gown.

By the time Blake pushed into the room, I was standing with my back to the door. I made serious efforts to be smoking nonchalantly as I peered out through the shutters into the courtyard below, but my hands trembled every time I brought the fag to my lips; I didn’t dare turn around in case I gave away that I was upset. Not that Blake would have done anything, but habit was habit, and this defence had been ingrained to a degree seldom found outside school-boarders and soldiers. I watched Mr. Robins, the school’s elderly caretaker, slowly laying out meticulous rows of fold-up chairs on the lawn below. They looked like the chapel pews, liberated in the hot July sun.

I stabbed out my drained cigarette into one of the many discarded beer bottle caps. Blake let out a huge groan as I heard his great wide frame fall heavily onto his bed; he had the voice of a broken man, crackled and hoarse.

“God, I feel like utter shit,” he said. “How’s your head?”

Before I could smugly lie that I felt fine, he was already speaking again; he did that all the time. It irritated other boys, and most of the masters, but I had grown to quite like it; at least it saved me the effort of idle chatter when he was prepared to do it for us both.

“ You want to be careful smoking in here. I could easily have been Robins coming through that door, or Cathersides, or anyone!”

“I knew it was you,” I replied. “Besides, I can see both Robins and Cathersides from here anyway. “

“Oh.” He sounded almost disappointed, but in an attempt to avoid his perceived defeat added: “Well you should still be careful anyway.”

“Thanks for the concern, Blake. Duly noted. How was it? With your parents I mean.”

I continued watching the caretaker and headmaster busying about, as he groaned another gravelled groan and creakily adjusted his position.

“It was fine,” he said flatly. “I think Father knew I was hung over though.”

Blake snorted through his nose; one of those contemptuous little smirks that so often got him into trouble whenever the masters caught it.

“He didn’t say anything though. Canny old bugger. Anyway, they’re all having some sort of tea reception with Cathersides and the others soon, I think.” He flopped back against the bed. “Christ I think I’m dying.”

Convinced that my tears would now be too far in the past to be noticed, I let the shutter fall back into place and turned to look at Blake. The immediate contrast from the bright summer sunshine to the darkened bedroom dazzled me; kaleidoscopic green shapes darted across my field of vision, and I stumbled clumsily to my own bed.

Blake eyed me wearily from across the room, his one open eye making all the effort he was capable of that morning, the other remaining tightly screwed up as if it were hanging on to something for dear life. He looked like he was really suffering. His normally flushed cheeks had an almost purple tinge to them, and the thick white-blond mop of hair, which he usually took such pains to make look effortlessly tousled, instead sat lank and bedraggled across his head. I very nearly felt sorry for him. He sighed heavily, screwing shut his other eye again.

“You don’t look good at all,” I told him, feigning a tone of surprise. “Your parents are going to be so pleased with your graduation photograph!”

“Edward, sarcasm does not become you,” he retorted, in a mock fit of haughtiness. He clapped a lethargic hand to his face, made a strangely girlish high-pitched whimper, then exasperatedly added: “Oh well, sod it. Not much I can do about that now, is there?”

I gazed up at the grubby beige woodchip above my head and laughed to myself, imagining the picture of him staring pale and corpse-like in his gown and mortarboard, and the puzzled mixture of admiration and disappointment on his parents’ faces whenever they looked at it. I shamefully admired the way he took his parents for granted.

“No, not really.” I said, eyes still fixed on the wall.

Blake opened his one good eye again, and peered at me across the room, as if he were weighing me up.

“So…” he started warily. “Do you suppose your mother will come today?”

I felt myself visibly squirm; my faced flushed with fire and my heartbeat quickened suddenly.

“No! God, no!” I blurted.

Blake sprang open his other eye and gawped in astonishment at my reaction. Immediately I tried to compensate:

“Sorry. No. She won’t be here. Definitely not. God no!”

I was panicked and bumbling, and unsuccessfully trying to appear otherwise. Embarrassed, I rolled in the bed, turning my back to Blake’s side of the room, and with the arm that dangled from the edge, began plucking furiously at the threadbare old carpet.

“Sorry, Ed. I didn’t mean…” Blake began.

“It’s fine, I’m sorry,“ I shrugged.

I didn’t turn around, but I was beginning to calm down, and had started feeling guilty for making Blake feel bad, however unintentionally I had managed it. I trusted him implicitly with the things I had considered personal demons; I had shared a room with the gentle giant since I was twelve. I was disappointed at my reaction to a question doubtlessly borne out of genuinely empathetic friendship; while we had been an unlikely pairing, thrown together in the beginning, we had stayed and grown up together out of choice.

The truth was, the mere mention of my mother had made my blood run cold. The thought that she could possibly turn up at school had been keeping me awake at night, steadily filling me with dread as the end of final year approached; I had vainly prayed that such a car crash would somehow be miraculously diverted, and in the few days before graduation, my prayers had been mercifully answered.

****(MF)****

Graduation Day (Part 1)

I will never forget the joyous excitement on my father's face as the post dropped through the door that morning.

We had all gathered around in the dining room to see him return from the hall, chest puffed out in a mixture of presumptuous pride and nervous bravado. He was frantically rifling through the small stack of envelopes, and when he came across the item we were all waiting for, he tossed the remaining circulars and advertisement catalogues on the dresser, clearly oblivious to the tutting reprimand of my mother's. His big kindly face turned to where i sat across the room. His cheeks had lost their usual ruddy glow, and I knew immediately that he was as nervous as I was about the contents of the letter he grasped so tightly in his thick fingers. The sudden realisation that we were now equals, even in such a small way, made me feel so uncomfortable, that for the first time in my life, I couldn't look my father in the eye. I looked to one side of him, then deeply into the dark shiny surface of the dining table. I felt positively sick.

"Are you ready, son?"

His voice was unusually soft, not the confident boom I was so used to. It was strange, and my sisters stopped giggling as if they recognised it too. Without looking up, I felt the expectant gaze of four sets of eyes fixed on the top of my head.

"Dad, can't I just open it myself? It is addressed to -"

"Edward, come on!" My mother cut me off. "Sorry. I know you're nervous, we all are. But it's tradition, your father's waited a long time for this."

I just nodded, eyes still fixed on the table top, and started picking at the loose threads of my jumper-sleeve. She was right, and nothing I could do would change it. I took a small consolation in telling myself that this tradition would die with me, and that when my own son was in my place, I would grant him the right to learn his fates in life in privacy.

I looked at the envelope still clasped in my father's hand, and although I couldn't properly read it without my glasses on, I recognised instantly the Roegate crest, stamped in thick navy ink, that peered out from under his thumb.

My father had indeed waited a long time for this day. I was destined to become the fifth generation of Simmonds sons to attend The Roegate School for Boys, and had been for the entire eleven years of my own life, not to mention the years of many lives before. In our family it was a big deal to be set on the path of becoming an Old Roegatian. The tradition decreed that on the day the admissions letters arrived, the father of the house would open it, and relay the result to son in the company of the whole family; so far it had always been good news. Grandad Simmonds had read my father's letter out this way, and my father said he had it on very good authority - on exactly whose I never found out - that his own grandfather had done the same, and as a reward had bought the eleven-year-old Grandad Simmonds cigars.

"I'm ready, Dad. You can open it now." I lied; I wasn't ready at all. I leant my forehead on my folded arms, purposely hiding my face, and felt my breath fogging on the tabletop with the tip of my nose.

A wave of prickly cold spread across my back as I listened to the envelope being torn open. My father practically fumbled the paper out of it; his nerves had made him clumsy handed. Labouriously unfolding the letter, he began scanning over the letter out loud. He spoke in hushed erratic syllables, and as they grew louder with each disconnected phrase, each one seemed to raise him slightly farther from his seat as if he were being invisibly winched out of it.

"Dear Master Simmonds... thank you for attending... am pleased to inform you... da-da-da-been ACCEPTED INTO ROEGATE SCHOOL FOR BOYS AS OF SEPTEMBER 1st 1961!"

I looked up to see my father beaming at me across the room; flushed with obvious pride, the ruddy glow was back in his big cheeks, and his eyes twinkled like mad. For reasons I didn't understand at the time, it made me cry and laugh at once.

"I knew you could do it!" He began laughing hysterically. "I knew it!! Knew, knew, knew it!"

His dark red hair flapped wildly across his face as he beamed in turns at my mother and I. Normally it remained perfectly in place, combed back away from his face, but this letter had brought out an excited animation in him that my family had rarely, if ever, seen. It made my laughter overtake my tears. He span on his heels and ran from the room, his shoes echoing against the floorboards as he sprang up the hallway and back again, appearing in the doorway frenetically thrusting himself into his black overcoat. He looked like a giant startled chicken.

He swooped excitedly on my sisters, gathered them up in his arms, and theatrically planted a kiss on them both; they giggled coyly and buried their faces into either side of his neck.

"Girls, say well done to your brother. He has achieved a great thing today!" He turned to me; "I'm really proud of you, son." It embarrassed me, but knowing I had made my father so happy made my insides burn with pride.

Setting Charlotte and Lydia down, my father whisked a huge green scarf around his neck, and the girls scampered to my mother's side. She looked tiny. Her slight face was pale, and she smiled distractedly at them both and then at me. There was a strange sadness in her eyes, one that I had noticed a few times before but had no understanding of; her weak smile did little to betray it. She pulled her ever-present white gown tightly against herself, and stared into the garden, a shadow of the woman who had been so snappily forceful with me just moments before.

My father leant down to her and laid a kiss on her pallid cheek. Clapping and rubbing his hands together, he left for his surgery, whistling loudly as he went down the hallway.

"Today is going to be a good, good day!" he proclaimed, before swinging open the door, stepping outside and clattering it shut without looking back. I craned my neck around the doorway of the dining room to watch him go, but caught only the blurred glimpse of his burly silhouette through the frosted glass. I could almost feel the smile on his shadowy form as it slipped from view, and in the silent rush of cold air he left in his wake, I immediately missed this new vivacious side of him that had filled and enlivened the house that morning.

That was the last time I saw my father alive.

* * * *(MF)* * * *

OK, I'll do exactly what you tell me... not.

Today the world, or at least my little sceptered part of it, finally went insane. In an age where street violence, war, crime, unemployment, homelessness and corporate greed are ever more commonplace, you would be forgiven for thinking that at the very least, the festive period is a time for peace, goodwill and charity. In the most part you'd be right, at least I'd like to think so. Yet today saw the climax of one of the most distasteful and cynical pseudo-rebellions in my (admittedly rubbish) memory, and it has left in it's wake a horde of deluded plastic revolutionaries trumpeting about what a marvellous and oh-so-clever coup d'etat they have pulled off by sticking it to the man.

I am, of course, talking about the incredibly tedious Rage Against The Machine vs. X Factor battle for Xmas number one.

While I am no fan of the manufactured pop-pap karaoke "talent contest" that is the X Factor, I can't help feeling a little depressed at the thought of thousands upon thousands of British people seriously believing that an expletive-riddled Rage Against The Machine record is a more suitable choice for Christmas number one. Hardly the stuff of festive cheer.

However, the part of this crazy situation that disturbs me the most is that the super worthy charity Shelter is being almost hijacked and whored around as some sort of scapegoat by the RATM "fans", and thrown in the faces of those who oppose their views whenever they are challenged. Don't get me wrong, I'm ecstatic that Shelter has benefitted from extra cash, lord knows they need and deserve it. But I can't help wondering how many of these people would give them anything if it didn't give a convenient excuse for their unfortunately very see-through puerility. Call me cynical, but I am guessing far less than bought that teenager's tantrum of a record. And a sad state of affairs that is.

Rather than intelligently registering displeasure at the herd-like mentality of X Factor aficionados, the RATM camp has only served to show the world that they are equally akin to sheep, just a less sugary, more foul-mouthed flock. And if they really liked it that much, why have they not already owned it for the 17 years it's been out?

If like me, you don't dig the X Factor, you don't HAVE to buy Killing In The Name: it's OK to think both are crap, however unpopular this view seems to make you. But if you must spend money on a cause this Christmas, why not give all the money to Shelter instead of buying either? Maybe if all those who honestly yearn for change did that, something genuinely amazing could happen. Just a thought. Merry Christmas.

Yours,

J Swike

Waiting Games

I took my seat upstairs in the empty coffee shop and watched across the soulless terminal, all scuffed white walls and industrial brushed steel, peppered with lit yellow signs that gave vague directions and sternly denied access at every turn. Sunday afternoon made the airport seem almost deserted, sleepy in the low, weak October light filtering across the runway through the giant tinted-glass windows. The air was different since the smoking ban; it smelt of stale espresso and disinfectant spray. A small grotto-like arcade entertained itself noisily in the corner, bursting with bright flashing lights and fairground noises that promised fun-filled distraction from the tedium of it's surroundings, but it was enticing no-one. Occasionally, it battled to be heard over announcements mumbled in several languages, all similarly unheard or ignored by the small crowd of people beginning to gather below. The coffee shop stirred as if woken by them all. Teaspoons and cups clattered and chimed on saucers like rain on discarded bottles, and the steamer spluttered into life, hissing and frothing like an erupting geyser with every order.

A line of people waited behind the steel barrier, leaning against it, necks craned in unison, all eyes fixed on the two small screens that relayed line after line of landing times. They looked like men in a bar watching the football. Some had bored children in tow, and they climbed and swung on the barrier railings, making the terminal their improvised playground. One small dark haired boy implored his father to watch him do cartwheels - "Watch this, Daddy, watch!" - and began flinging himself across the hard floor in a flurry of camouflage tracksuit and bright red shoes. His young but greying father nodded and approved, with distracted "Wows" and "Well Dones". He hadn't actually looked, he had remained fixed on the arrivals board along with all the others; but the boy hadn't noticed and he beamed with delight. Neither noticed the weary cleaner dressed in disposable plastic, who smiled, amused at their game as she trudged along the gallery above them, pushing her squeaking trolley laden with mop and yellow wet floor notices.

SSshhhh!!! Don't Tell the Pocket Book!!

So. I read today that no self-respecting writer should be without a blog. Luckily, I'm not particularly self-respecting; after all I know me, and it's not pretty, as many would probably testify. However, today I have finally decided that for a writer, a blog may be a good idea, so I am therefore stepping bravely into the modern world, and damn the consequences. Hell, I might even get a phone that does internet. But enough of the big-man talk.

The only problem I am having so far (and I do admit it's possibly a little early to be finding problems, even for a picky swine like me), is that i feel like I am cheating on my trusty little leather-bound pocket book. My scruffy brown companion has been with me everywhere over the last four months, helping document all my rambling thoughts, snippets of ideas and the records of the characters i have encountered then made snap judgements about on trains and in cafes. It has been soaked, scorched, dropped, thrown and shamefully even forgotten at times, but it has always been there, waiting for me like an obedient manservant. My Jeeves if you will. And now I've replaced him with a robot hoover.

He will never be truly replaced though (Great. I've personified it. I feel even guiltier now). What he lacks in modernism and readership numbers, he more than compensates in making writing actually feel like writing; he gives the unrivalled sense of pen on paper, the place where it all began for us as writers. Unless of course you are young enough to only remember writing on a computer, in which case, i have some shocking news: I spent 19 years of my life using a phone that had to stay plugged in to the wall. You kids don't know you are born. Anyway, I digress.

He will still keep safe all the little secrets and germs of ideas that I don't want anyone else to read, and best of all, he can't be beaten for portability. At least all the time I don't have a smartphone anyway. Maybe i'll hold off getting one of those for a while, actually. That way, I can have my literary cake and eat it after all. Which is good. Because I like cake.

So thats my first postcard posted then; and I enjoyed writing it every bit as much as the traditional way. Reading back, I have also discovered i may have a phone obsession, which I'm sure there is probably a perverted sounding word for somewhere out there, but that's a matter for another time.

Yours,

J. Swike.