A Bit of Poetry

Today, I was lucky enough to visit Dove Cottage in the Lake District, home of William Wordsworth. After a horrible journey there, where I may have fallen asleep about halfway through, me and the other students were greeted by two members of staff who answered all our questions and really helped us learn more about Wordsworth, a man that I don't think any of us knew much about. We then went into the Cottage itself. Despite being either freezing or boiling, and me almost cracking my skull on the low ceiling in the kitchen, the tour was informative and fun, giving us inspiration for some poems that we wrote immediately afterwards. We then had a talk with a poet and wrote another poem. The rest of the day was fun, with a workshop on reading and understand poetry, followed by a visit to the museum, where I wrote ekullbat.blogspot.co.uk using a quill. It was a great day over all, and it led to the production of two pieces of poetry, which you can find below.

No More

Silent at first, as eerie as the grave, when the cry of children pierces the air
Feet upon granite floor, the hurried pattering of chilled footsteps
met by the smell of smoke, it’s inferno source hidden by the smoke itself.
The room is cast in gloom, lit merely by the ember glow of burning coals.
Onwards, to the confinement of a boiling claustrophobia, lit merely by small
windows, a view to the freedom of the world outside.
Ticking guides our sight- Cuckoo! Cuckoo! It’s shrill cry showing us
the inky black hell pit offering food for the blaze and hosting writhing life
of despicable needs, and above an object of synecdoche
as solemn and as simple as the brass house key.
Steep steps, cut at rough angles, lead us up to the landing.
Where, upon the black circle burnt into the floor,

patiently waits a grandfather clock that ticks and tocks no more.

The Day the Mice Came Home

To bleak sky, the grey similar to the tiles of the house that obscures my view, I recite my whispered excitement.
There is something sad about the solemn scene before me, but a pleasing melancholy,
after all, as a wise woman once said, Sad is merely Happy for deep people.
It’s abandonment, it’s decrepitness, the way in which it seems to sight, entices me into wondering of it’s aim.
The gloom of it’s ruin, silent for the roar of motor cars, eerie as the grave,
until it becomes surrounded by the joy of young children, and the blur of red jumpers,
a shadow in the light.
It will never be restored, it’s fortunes never realised, but it carries it’s hope nonetheless.
And the day that hope is rewarded, I imagine, will be the Day the Mice Come Home.