Muse |
Muse |
In the morning, crocuses spawn from the soil like coral on a reef; soon to bloom their lilac cups, where sparks fly as fireflies sitting in the tea leaves.
In the day, seagulls flash their white wings in a hush, a snow flurry heading towards the river, quivering in the breeze, swirling round as a fowl tornado. In the evening, the lights of houses twinkle like stars in the night sky, and before me they peek out from behind trees as I walk past, along the lamplit path through the park.
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All pladedge goes to pot, The faffith efur is lost. “Clattop,” goes the clock, Its eowy is in maletok. “Hakket-hakket, hakkat-hakkat,” The smub man is neromas, Watching the qubob as it climbs The tsattle to the jimblime. It takes everlasol efur to try, To even begin the almon mellorwy, Eessee the qubob, they would succicle, And fosdrol over whether to enqirricle. Where does the poddlewich come from? To toreeparry the almothon. Come back to the past, It is the almossiplom to last. Ask, to every stranger qubob, “seccus?” Only to receive a stinging swattle, plus, A rude return to the smube time, The “Clattop” of the jimblime. Hear the little metal sing high, And hear a lettle kettle sigh, No need to wonder why, Just watch the qubob as it climbs. All pladedge goes to pot, The faffith efur is lost. “Clattop,” goes the clock, Its eowy is in maletok. Key: Nonsense words and their meanings: Now read the poem again; does your interpretation change? Pladedge - Overly organised Faffith - Over thinking Efur - Pointless effort Clattop - Clunking noise Eowy - quiet singing Maletok - not really a tune (random sounds) Hakket/Hakkat - Coughing Smub - absent smugness Smube - contented smugness Neromas - Somewhere nearby, sitting down Qubob - Long-legged spider-like animal Tsattle - Swinging clock pendulum Jimblime - Clock face Everlasol - Everlasting ever so much Almon - challenging Almothon - long-lasting difficult challenge Almossiplom - Impossible problem Mellowrwy - difficult task Eessee - Whoever sees Succicle - Tinkling laugh/giggle Fosdrol - Internally debate Enquirricle - Enquire in disbelief Poddlewich - Odd idea/thought Toreeparry - To consider attempting at Seccuss - What gender are you? (Question) Swattle - Smack/Swat Lettle - Kindly borrowed Originally written in 2011, age 15
Which witch is which? Three times, they sing: A prophecy of Cawdor, Glamis and King. So here begins The war of mind; A battle lost and won, I find. Two friends are foes Not yet revealed, A force of fate for both is sealed. Macbeth is dressed In robes of Cawdor; He wishes, with the witches, he’d spoken more. He informs his Lady: A letter, she does read, And creates dark thoughts of a treacherous deed. The King is welcomed To the castle of Macbeth; Unknowingly, to his death. A warm celebration Is hosted and given, Where to his destination: hell or heaven? In the dead nature of night Macbeth does stir, A dagger he sees, it seems to lure. Pointing the way To the sleeping King Duncan; The guards too are drugged and drunken. Macbeth approaches And there rings a bell; “Duncan, do not rise, for it is a knell!” Investigation begins. Others are blamed. Those who flee: Malcolm and Donalbain. Macbeth gets his prize, He has achieved his ambition, But is losing his mind; something is missing. His friend, being betrayed, Is now his foe, The one known as Banquo. Macbeth orders him dead, In a threatened spite, But his plans are somewhat slight. Fleance, the son Of the convicted man Flees the ground of the ruled Scotland. Macbeth is haunted By the ghost of his friend; The damage is done; it shall not mend. The Lady suffers: She has lost her mind, Her hands are of blood and suicide. Unstable Macbeth, Fears the suspicion from Macduff, The lust for security is more than enough. He finds the sisters, The witches under the moon, That once told him his great fortune. To Macbeth and his fears, They do confirm all, That his death will be from no man of woman-born. Macbeth goes forth, An order is made: Macduff’s wife and children are swiftly slain. Word soon reaches, Macduff fights back, They two meet in hand-to-hand combat. Macbeth is confident And so, fights with ease, But his mind is dead and does not foresee. Macduff then reveals: “I am not of woman-born” Macbeth has lost and Macduff has won. He announces that he was ‘Untimely ripp’d’ from his Mother’s womb. Macbeth is dead and the prediction proves true. Photo by Matt Riches on Unsplash Originally written in 2011, age 15
A special edition this month is the product of a collaboration between Samantha Ford and Darren Gibson, Master's Composition student from the University of Salford. Darren Gibson's atmospheric music brings to life the poetry of Samantha Ford, telling the story of ancient origins that has a modern moral at its core. The musical prose is based on the legend of Finn MacCool and the creation of the Giants Causeway and Isle of Man. Watch the video and read the poem below. Of Strong Mind (poem) Stones crowd the shoreline before venturing out, Like pebbles on a beach licked by the sea; Their voyage yet to begin from the Irish coast, Across the grey glass that twinkles in the dawning sun, To form a passage to a land where the Red Man lives. The sea glass shatters in sunlight and the promise of a new day. Finn MacCool smooths his hand over the cliffs, As the giant brushes away the moss clinging to the rough rock face, Like a stroke over his own weathered features. He then grasps a boulder nearby and begins work, Placing them one after another, Again and again and again, As steps out to sea. The stones warm to the passing of time, As Finn MacCool lays a causeway from his homeland shore of Co Antrim, Forming a passage of stone stretching to the Scottish coast, Where a Red Man stands; His blazing hair wired to the clouds as rain runs to the shore, Wetting the once warm stones of Finn MacCool’s labour. The rocks cool on impact as a foot slams into its face; Fire worms quiver in the highland air, Sprouting fearfully from the legs of the Red Man; Legs as chiselled as the contours of the Scottish cliffs, Which serves as his pedestal. The sky explodes in an electric flash, Setting afire the shore surrounding Finn’s giant causeway; Finn MacCool looks up into the bulging eyes of the scarlet Benandonner, The Red Man, A flaming head among the dark storm that partly cloaks him and Rumbles in guttural gasps. The Red Man, The Benandonner, The warrior giant, Catches the next shot of searing lightning, Crushing the thunderbolt between his tree-trunk fingers To a flat disc-world of energy; keeping it in his pocket. “Away. You,” he bellows. “Away. You. Nàmhaid <nowid>. Enemy”, The grave challenge roars from his thick throat. Finn MacCool sees through burning eyes to the smouldering heart of Benandonner And knows he will not prevail on the giant’s own Scottish grounds. Denied passage, MacCool turns and flees homeward; The stones quaking beneath him with every intake of breath That draws sharp jabs to his side as he runs for his life, Pursued by the Red Man. MacCool prays his partner, Oonagh, Will be home at fort Cullamore To help him escape the belligerent Benandonner. The wind aids Finn’s swift passage along the causeway to Cullamore, Where he finds Oonagh, wisely waiting. Upon hearing Finn’s hurried words requesting weapons to fight, She goes away; Returning with a white sheet, Billowing in the brewing Scottish storm; Its soft fibres dancing with intent and, When wrapped around Finn’s quivering body, Settle on his shoulders in a cunning calm, Like warm, reassuring hands that reflect his wife’s smile. “Brawn alone will not defeat the Red Man; Only strength of mind can conquer the giant”, She soothes, as Finn follows her arm’s motion To a room beyond, behind a curtain, Where he waits with shallow breath. The door to Cullamore rattles in its hinges, Its beams breaking under the force of Benandonner’s fist. The handle bows to its owner, Opening to reveal a resolute Oonagh, Who welcomes Benandonner in with a quiet knowing. For all the demands for Finn, the Red Man does not bend her; She stands as strong as the stones from whence the causeway came. Warming to her resolve, she asks Benandonner to wait While Finn returns from hunting on the hill, Leading the Red Man inside, Who still seethes and heaves To the rhythm of a rock fall with every exhale. A sharp selection of heavy hammers hang from the Cullamore walls; Oonagh introduces them as toys for their Finn-child, Although they were truly ornamental and gargantuan in mass, Far beyond anything Finn or Benandonner could hope to wield. The giant uncertainly shivers as he questions his own strength In a fight against Finn. Oonagh moves on; The kitchen fire burns bright Upon the entrance of The Red Man, Reflectively sparking a familiar hue of his hair into the room. Throwing shadow-flames onto the walls, The fire flickers and spits at the giant’s intrusion. Oonagh’s deception takes another turn; She serves Benandonner a bread loaf her husband eats daily, Slipping inside it an iron bar to Solidify the surface from soft bread To a block that, with one bite, Knocks the roots of the Red Man’s teeth From their mouth craters, causing them to Fall like rounded marble to the tiled floor. He yells in agony as Oonagh apologises in innocence; She takes an ordinary loaf To a curtain that wavers in quickening breath. It pulls back, breaking the shield to the room beyond, Revealing Finn wrapped in a swaddling sheet of white, Cooing as a baby waiting to be fed. He grabs the bread and bites through the aerated dough. Peering between tears, the Red Man’s eyes rest on the Finn-child, Wondering what monster Finn must be to have A child of this size born to him; A child that eats iron bread like gliding through hot butter; That has the muscles of a warrior, That can carry, never yielding, bulbous, heavy-ended hammers In childish play. How fearful must Finn MacCool be, Unbelievably, the father of such brawn From a child just born. “Finn is soon to return from hunting” Oonagh gazes onwards at the child and no further. When all she hears is the fire dimming in the grate, The rock fall heaving gone from the quaking Cullamore fort, She looks up to find no sign of The Red Man, Save his teeth resting like tombstones On the kitchen tiles. The Red Man runs, And escapes to return to Scotland and, In his haste and fear, Claws at the cliff as he reaches the shore, Gathering parts of the coast, Throwing it back onto the causeway, Severing his passage to Ireland, To Finn MacCool, Forming the Isle of Man And a reminder of a Giant deception From a woman, Not of brawn, But of strong mind. © Copyright Samantha Ford and Darren Gibson 2018
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AuthorSamantha is a doctoral researcher researching the power of figurative language in advertising, social media, and mobile technology. Copyright © 2022
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