Theoretical Laboratory

Brilliant or pathetic? Neither? Both?

Humans, just figures in headlights and rear-view mirrors:

targets, possessions, poisons.

Trading familiarity for quantity,

no purpose, no own route,

no added aroma. 

Weighed down, heavy and hard as metal.


Design the new cycle –

Job? Serve, embrace, listen.


This is what I call fun! Although I ended up with a rather dystopian poem.

I would love to do this in the proper cut-words-our-of-newspapars way but I don’t have any at hand. Instead I used a book (no scissors were called into action). I bought this book about three years ago and is still pristine as the day it came home with me. It is called ‘Periodic Tales: The Curious Lives of the Elements‘ by Hugh Aldersay-Williams. And I have no idea why I haven’t read it yet. I don’t have an explanation.




Writing 201: Landscape



I dream about you at night – 

about your secrets and treasures and lies 

I spy on you, I plan. 


The day I touched you,

caressed you, probed you the very first time –

the overwhelming desire to posses you  

has consumed my mind.

You act as nothing happened, unmoved 

hiding behind walls and locks.

Your silence mocking my efforts –

no squeak, no creak, not even whine

to my desperate break-in tries. 

My knees are chaffed, my fingers bleed

Oh how I wish to know where is your key. 



Phew…I was really struggling with this one.


Writing 201: Drawer



The earth is soft, dark and damp

ants clim over my mountainous fingers 

I feel a bite – I’m trespassing. 

I brush the soil, gently first,

but I can’t resist the urge.

My fist intrudes the cradle of life –

cold, kissed by the morning dew,

dirt hides behind my fingernails.

I dig deeper but the earth is fighting back

my fingers sting and burn and

I can’t stand the pain anymore.

I withdraw. 

My hand is red and black, the hand

that disturbs the earth. 

Earth is fighting back.


I was very torn whether or not to include a comment on this poem or not. Especially because instead of talking about the environmental crisis we are in and which I’ve tried to express in my poem – I actually wanted to mention fingers as tools for communication. I did a writing course few year back and there was a girl (whose name I don’t remember and it is driving me absolutely crazy) who was and I guess still is a puppeteer. She also was and I hope still is an amazingly talented poet. I loved her poems. I will never forget a line she wrote ‘my hand is a naked puppet’ and it was the first thing that popped in my head when I read the assignment for today. I’m sure you know someone who ‘talks with their hands’, use them to emphasise emotion and when you are in different country and don’t speak the language – how many times have you used the pointing technique? Fingers have their own voice – whether it is the official sign language or one that we use without even realising.

Writing: Fingers

I am a Hero!

I jumped on the busy train to Brighton

Gatwick airport – finally got seat

Mildly lost my way to hostel

But not too lost to hurt my feet


The bunk bed squeaked with every turn

Scared to move, just wished for sleep

My bed fellow’s and mine ears burned

Both nervous about  – BEEP BEEP BEEP


I was up at six, pretty ready if you ask

Changed into my running gear

Mind focussed to task

Made my porridge and my tea


The morning was frosty but sunny

And the Brighton beach serene

Crowds started to gather quickly

Soon the pens resembled sardines


Ten, nine, eight and so on till start

The elite sprinted – we not so much

Four minutes when we finally crossed the start

Off we went with James, our 2hours pacers lad


First mile, damn it’s crowded –

kept following the purple flag

Mile two and the ascend started

And didn’t finish till 4 and half


Narrow routes and elbows fights

Everyone wanted to go downhill fast

I said good bye to the pacer group

found a gap and zigzagged past


I chose my pace and stuck to it

Mile five, the gel was out

Mile six – almost half way there

Seventh came and went


I chose my pace and stuck to it

Except when the cold wind bit

My wind jacket’s bound too tight

Round my waist, had to stop to clear the mess


Mile eight I felt bit bored

Water station after ninth

Sipped and sucked another gel

Blackcurrant! What was I thinking?


Mile ten, just three too go

Mile eleven, almost home

Mile twelve when I saw the purple flag

So I sped up


Mile thirteen and my lugs now hurt

I could see the finish line

Few more steps and I’ll have my medal

Here I go – my first sub 2 half!


Ok, I admit I lost the ballad-y feel pretty early on and I am very much distracted and happy about my first sub two hours half marathon – that was yesterday 1:58:42 in Brighton so please forgive me 🙂

This is happy me 🙂




I seek the sadness in the crowd of seven faces

I’m surprised by so many.

I stand inside this dead house honouring my father.


As a child I prayed every night

I asked God for forgiveness that only I could give

– but how do you forgive fear?


I stand inside this dead house sheltering my heart

colder than the frigid limbs hidden in the coffin

Maybe one day I will forgive

but not today. The dead body will not change it. 

Then I remember.


You are still alive. 


Firstly, I have to leave a note to my sister – I am perfectly fine, I am happy, this little scribble is just something I have been working on for a while and is absolutely not a reflection of my current mood or state of mind.

Ok that’s it, sorry – last time I published something similar I think I got her little worried 🙂

Secondly, I have to say – I’m having so much fun attending this writing class – I’m looking forward to the weekend just to read some of the other poems and meet new people. I have only managed a fraction so far and I am impressed by the talent that is here. Well done you folks!


Writing 201: Fog

Homo (genus) H. partius (species) of Animalia (kingdom)

You make me laugh! Thursday, the new

Friday? Oh, hun that is so last centu

ry. Monday is the new Sund

ay and Tuesday is the

warm up to

the we







r, glass of wine or two


gets you ready for the date

night – Wednesday if you

must ask – love hidden in

a cocktail bar. Thursday’s

when the real fun starts;

office meeting in a pub e

nding in the 80’s bar. Fri

day? Who cares my dear

? Friday doesn’t count.

No one remembers it

anyway!Wake up w

hen the sun goes do

wn greeting Saturd

ay’s night – and

greet it all nigh

t long! There

‘s no other w

ay! Kicked

out of the

club? S

top for
















he game is lost. Or won. In

which case we just go on!


Oh sweetie, Thursday, the new Friday? That is so last century.


This was exhausting! I’m going to bed.

Writing 201: Animal




Roy, the Toxic Boy by Tim Burton

Roy the toxic boy
To those of us who knew him
– his friends –
we called him Roy.
To others he was known
as that horrible Toxic Boy.
He loved ammonia and asbestos,
and lots of cigarette smoke.
What he breathed in for air
would make most people choke!
His very favorite toy
was a can of aerosol spray;
he’d sit quietly and shake it,
and spray it all the day.
He’d stand inside of the garage
in the early-morning frost,
waiting for the car to start
and fill him with exhaust.
The one and only time
I ever saw Toxic Boy cry
was when some sodium chloride
got into his eye.
One day for fresh air
they put him in the garden.
His face went deathly pale
and his body began to harden.
The final gasp of his short life
was sickly with despair.
Whoever thought that you could die
from breathing outdoor air?
As Roy’s soul left his body,
we all said a silent prayer.
It drifted up to heaven
and left a hole in the ozone layer.

The search by Barbara Marsh


I questioned everything alive –

beetles, daddy longleg spiders,

the crayfish at the bottom of the yard

in Mr Sampson’s pond, the pond

that appeared and disappeared

with the rain and provided frogspawn

for my bucket. I kept it in the garage,

watching as it became small-tailed beings,

before the squatter bodies, their struggles

to evolve and survive without being

eaten by their own kind. The harm

lay in forgetfulness and I don’t remember

that they died; I can’t recall what I did

with them. Perhaps I put them back

in the pond, or took them to school,

poor little black dots of anxiety,

their only world red plastic, seconds wide.


From To The Boneyard