Here is a collection of my old poems. Many of these I wrote when I was aged 10-16 (apart from the ones that say otherwise!) Anyway, they are the characterisation of a young mind and often take a simple more naive look at the world!
Instead of correcting their messy rhyming patterns or recreating them into something more 'highbrow', they remind me of a good homemade scone, slightly overdone, full of 'stodge', but with all the goodness and warmth that you can't get from any fancy fondant embellishment!
They may have some purpose yet...
Instead of correcting their messy rhyming patterns or recreating them into something more 'highbrow', they remind me of a good homemade scone, slightly overdone, full of 'stodge', but with all the goodness and warmth that you can't get from any fancy fondant embellishment!
They may have some purpose yet...
Cornwall is my Kingdom
It is the endless horizon and incessant sea blue,
The sapphire, the emeralds, the lilac lagoon,
It is the foamy cream of the slippery waves,
The echoes of the swell in the luminous caves.
It is the overwhelming cliffs that loom in the sky,
The deep red and greens of the serpentine,
It is the ferns, fauna, fungi and gorse,
The wildflowers of pink that pattern the moors.
It is the tranquil mornings so unperturbed,
The hills so crisp that the mist obscures,
It is the crimson red of the sun as it sets in the west,
The night that rolls down as the light is suppressed.
It is the stars dusted over the vast night skies,
The shy villages under the moon’s prying eyes,
It is the cloak of cloud that creeps in from the coast,
The foghorn that snarls at this trespassing ghost,
It is the homes of the people scattered on the land,
The memories of past sprinkled in the sand,
It is the fishing boats nestled in the cove,
For the approaching storm that rattles the stoves.
It is the immense beauty of it in it’s entirety,
Sleeping to the big bad wolf of society,
It is the Kingdom I call my own,
It is Cornwall home sweet home.
Tamara Stidwell, May 2010
It is the endless horizon and incessant sea blue,
The sapphire, the emeralds, the lilac lagoon,
It is the foamy cream of the slippery waves,
The echoes of the swell in the luminous caves.
It is the overwhelming cliffs that loom in the sky,
The deep red and greens of the serpentine,
It is the ferns, fauna, fungi and gorse,
The wildflowers of pink that pattern the moors.
It is the tranquil mornings so unperturbed,
The hills so crisp that the mist obscures,
It is the crimson red of the sun as it sets in the west,
The night that rolls down as the light is suppressed.
It is the stars dusted over the vast night skies,
The shy villages under the moon’s prying eyes,
It is the cloak of cloud that creeps in from the coast,
The foghorn that snarls at this trespassing ghost,
It is the homes of the people scattered on the land,
The memories of past sprinkled in the sand,
It is the fishing boats nestled in the cove,
For the approaching storm that rattles the stoves.
It is the immense beauty of it in it’s entirety,
Sleeping to the big bad wolf of society,
It is the Kingdom I call my own,
It is Cornwall home sweet home.
Tamara Stidwell, May 2010
If these cliffs could talk,
they'd say "my nose may look powdered,
but it is merely brighton's chalk,
a famous East coast flour."
Hear the pebbly floor guffaw,
crunching under party feet,
sandy heeled foot or four,
as lovers dive from seedy street.
And the pier stands for pride,
leaning drunk, dunked by waves,
as night clubs draw inside-
the shoals of students to the caves.
If these cliffs could talk they'd say
"this East coast wind has carved me,
but unlike the painted promenade,
I cling to all my debris."
This town is up and coming,
clothing the imperial over the inferior,
but look beneath the stone of the town,
and bury under the exterior.
Outside the royal marble steps,
the beggar's still on knees,
and Brighton may be brightening, except,
there's always chalk and cheese.
Tamara Stidwell, September 2015
they'd say "my nose may look powdered,
but it is merely brighton's chalk,
a famous East coast flour."
Hear the pebbly floor guffaw,
crunching under party feet,
sandy heeled foot or four,
as lovers dive from seedy street.
And the pier stands for pride,
leaning drunk, dunked by waves,
as night clubs draw inside-
the shoals of students to the caves.
If these cliffs could talk they'd say
"this East coast wind has carved me,
but unlike the painted promenade,
I cling to all my debris."
This town is up and coming,
clothing the imperial over the inferior,
but look beneath the stone of the town,
and bury under the exterior.
Outside the royal marble steps,
the beggar's still on knees,
and Brighton may be brightening, except,
there's always chalk and cheese.
Tamara Stidwell, September 2015
We arrive at the promenade, 3 in morning
And too tired to yawn we swallow our yawning
Winding the car through one way roads
Brighton sea front - a no go zone.
Where to park, to stop, to sleep?
Apart from miles down steely street.
Battling breeze of the east coast tides,
Straggling few clubbers' stagger to hide,
As our bodies lean to in the shunting wind,
He holds me and I hold him.
Down here, inviting, like sailors lost,
A hotel that's large steps promise 'posh',
As we enter, the Royal Albion glows warmth,
But the host looks like a ghost has moored.
Dragging Lewis - Festival mud clad,
Snagging broken toes on polished marble slabs.
Oh Royal Albion, please do take us in,
There must be room, room at the Inn?
Down to 167, he hastily points,
The squeaky elevator doth disappoint,
Meandering through, surely, the maids quarters?
A squalor of corridors cradling water,
The bed, our heads do sink, to sleep,
But mattress springs are harsh bones to cheek,
A leaky tap, a broken light,
A broken lass and lad tonight.
Tamara Stidwell, September 2015
And too tired to yawn we swallow our yawning
Winding the car through one way roads
Brighton sea front - a no go zone.
Where to park, to stop, to sleep?
Apart from miles down steely street.
Battling breeze of the east coast tides,
Straggling few clubbers' stagger to hide,
As our bodies lean to in the shunting wind,
He holds me and I hold him.
Down here, inviting, like sailors lost,
A hotel that's large steps promise 'posh',
As we enter, the Royal Albion glows warmth,
But the host looks like a ghost has moored.
Dragging Lewis - Festival mud clad,
Snagging broken toes on polished marble slabs.
Oh Royal Albion, please do take us in,
There must be room, room at the Inn?
Down to 167, he hastily points,
The squeaky elevator doth disappoint,
Meandering through, surely, the maids quarters?
A squalor of corridors cradling water,
The bed, our heads do sink, to sleep,
But mattress springs are harsh bones to cheek,
A leaky tap, a broken light,
A broken lass and lad tonight.
Tamara Stidwell, September 2015
A wise old man poured a pot of inks,
Right from the top of a hill,
And indigos, violets, purples and pinks,
Into the sky they spilled.
Then the old tinker slit his finger,
So blood red rose stained the clouds,
As rolling away down the sleeve of the earth,
The sun shone like a glinting pound.
Oh, the sunset spread where the skybirds fled,
And the boats on the bay sat bobbing there,
Whilst a gold quite blinding at the edge of the horizon,
- A thin strand of his flaxen hair.
The waves of the ocean rippled with his breath,
But smoothed over with his wrinkled hands,
Cupped in the flourishing green of the hills,
The patchwork quilt of the resplendent land,
But the light of day was slipping away,
And the old man began to cry tears,
Washing away the painted display,
So it slid down from the hemisphere.
And the sun so round, the old man's pound,
As it set, he stashed it in his palm,
Wrapping his cloak around the homes,
So they were shrouded in the twilight calm,
Then hooking his day's catch onto the roof of the sky,
- The scales glinted like a thousand stars,
The moon the old man’s eye now,
Watching the world from afar.
Tamara Stidwell, September 2013
Right from the top of a hill,
And indigos, violets, purples and pinks,
Into the sky they spilled.
Then the old tinker slit his finger,
So blood red rose stained the clouds,
As rolling away down the sleeve of the earth,
The sun shone like a glinting pound.
Oh, the sunset spread where the skybirds fled,
And the boats on the bay sat bobbing there,
Whilst a gold quite blinding at the edge of the horizon,
- A thin strand of his flaxen hair.
The waves of the ocean rippled with his breath,
But smoothed over with his wrinkled hands,
Cupped in the flourishing green of the hills,
The patchwork quilt of the resplendent land,
But the light of day was slipping away,
And the old man began to cry tears,
Washing away the painted display,
So it slid down from the hemisphere.
And the sun so round, the old man's pound,
As it set, he stashed it in his palm,
Wrapping his cloak around the homes,
So they were shrouded in the twilight calm,
Then hooking his day's catch onto the roof of the sky,
- The scales glinted like a thousand stars,
The moon the old man’s eye now,
Watching the world from afar.
Tamara Stidwell, September 2013
I wrote this whilst walking to my ex-boyfriend's house in Carleen, the sky was very beautiful that evening, and I imagined an old man sat at the top of Tregonning hill pouring the inks into the sky.
After a few thousand years, erosion and beers,
Some tectonic shifts and myths and blizzards,
The skittery serpentine beast of the sea,
Became known as my home, The Lizard.
If we go back to when the days were black,
Well dark matter, but matter do ee?
- With a bang and a pop like your kettle stop,
The universe rolled into a scone all jammed and creamed!
Oh, the volcanic crust took some helluva thrust,
The Earth's mantel took a mental heave,
The serpentine fist shot through the shist,
So it ended up atop of the sea.
The Gabbro girth of the inner earth,
is a melting pot of flavours profound,
Towns, villages, ships and shops
The ancient sea floor adorns a play ground.
Years I've danced along these sands,
Meandered these Cornish lanes,
and like it was carved in a sculptors hands,
My heart beats through its layline veins.
But for fear I will rot, blossom I must,
So, with hand prints still pressed in the clay,
I flee to the city, of life and lust
To etch tales into the tail I take.
That sea, a bitter-sweet mistress,
Cooing in her cool blue gown,
Lures me back when I'm distressed,
A siren that calls me now.
The Lizard has been my solitude,
The place my heart is drawn,
And is it I a fool to fall
Into the arms of where I was born?
Tamara Stidwell, April 2015
Some tectonic shifts and myths and blizzards,
The skittery serpentine beast of the sea,
Became known as my home, The Lizard.
If we go back to when the days were black,
Well dark matter, but matter do ee?
- With a bang and a pop like your kettle stop,
The universe rolled into a scone all jammed and creamed!
Oh, the volcanic crust took some helluva thrust,
The Earth's mantel took a mental heave,
The serpentine fist shot through the shist,
So it ended up atop of the sea.
The Gabbro girth of the inner earth,
is a melting pot of flavours profound,
Towns, villages, ships and shops
The ancient sea floor adorns a play ground.
Years I've danced along these sands,
Meandered these Cornish lanes,
and like it was carved in a sculptors hands,
My heart beats through its layline veins.
But for fear I will rot, blossom I must,
So, with hand prints still pressed in the clay,
I flee to the city, of life and lust
To etch tales into the tail I take.
That sea, a bitter-sweet mistress,
Cooing in her cool blue gown,
Lures me back when I'm distressed,
A siren that calls me now.
The Lizard has been my solitude,
The place my heart is drawn,
And is it I a fool to fall
Into the arms of where I was born?
Tamara Stidwell, April 2015
Many of my friends have moved away, mostly to go to University, but something magical and untangible pulls them back and soon they are back in the village saying how great it is to be "home". I am moving away after the summer, but I know that at some point in life the 'cooing' Cornish siren of the sea will lure me back in again like the meddling mistress she is!
He said he’d not settle for a place
but perhaps he would settle for a person,
He’d travelled the world you see,
thirty degrees of pretty city liberties,
Lost in the thrive of life,
but- love he was never immersed in,
Hot hotel rooms in Indonesia,
Double beds with a single heart,
He’d told girls candid words on seashores,
but they didn’t see the stars,
He used to holiday, young and free
held life in the sun kissed palms of his hands
But as he was pulled out by the rush of the sea,
The tide of times washed him up on solitary sands,
Such beauty and tranquillity away,
What are you running away from?
Take me on this plane, he’d say
It feels different out there, the sun.
The morrocan waves can crush you twice,
Surfing the reefy bones,
Out so far in a blue paradise,
What is paradise when you’re alone?
Chorus:
In this world of seven billion,
How can a man be alone?
Couldn't cut it with the Brazilians,
Indonesia, Morocco, Rome,
In this world of seven billion,
A man's got a long trip home
Skirting along the African fringe,
Heart beat like a bongo drum,
He remembers that crisp heat now it stings,
kicking up dust, now he's done.
You’ve got a whole heap of stories in your suitcase,
But no one to have them heard,
A man is sad of living out of bags,
A travelling shepherd with no family to herd.
A king can miss his kingdom,
Losing himself abroad and losing face,
His eyes have seen the world,
But now he wants to settle for a person -not a place.
Chorus:
In this world of seven billion,
How can a man be alone?
Couldn't cut it with the Brazilians,
Indonesia, Morocco, Rome,
In this world of seven billion,
A man's got a long trip home
Tamara Stidwell, May 2013.
but perhaps he would settle for a person,
He’d travelled the world you see,
thirty degrees of pretty city liberties,
Lost in the thrive of life,
but- love he was never immersed in,
Hot hotel rooms in Indonesia,
Double beds with a single heart,
He’d told girls candid words on seashores,
but they didn’t see the stars,
He used to holiday, young and free
held life in the sun kissed palms of his hands
But as he was pulled out by the rush of the sea,
The tide of times washed him up on solitary sands,
Such beauty and tranquillity away,
What are you running away from?
Take me on this plane, he’d say
It feels different out there, the sun.
The morrocan waves can crush you twice,
Surfing the reefy bones,
Out so far in a blue paradise,
What is paradise when you’re alone?
Chorus:
In this world of seven billion,
How can a man be alone?
Couldn't cut it with the Brazilians,
Indonesia, Morocco, Rome,
In this world of seven billion,
A man's got a long trip home
Skirting along the African fringe,
Heart beat like a bongo drum,
He remembers that crisp heat now it stings,
kicking up dust, now he's done.
You’ve got a whole heap of stories in your suitcase,
But no one to have them heard,
A man is sad of living out of bags,
A travelling shepherd with no family to herd.
A king can miss his kingdom,
Losing himself abroad and losing face,
His eyes have seen the world,
But now he wants to settle for a person -not a place.
Chorus:
In this world of seven billion,
How can a man be alone?
Couldn't cut it with the Brazilians,
Indonesia, Morocco, Rome,
In this world of seven billion,
A man's got a long trip home
Tamara Stidwell, May 2013.
I have never wrote lyrics before, so I thought I'd give it a go. A man I once knew, asked me to write a poem about him. Safe to say, I don't think this was what he expected, but it allowed me to express how I felt. He thought that because he had seen so much of the world, he must have so much to offer, but he had stopped seeing the world a long time ago and was instead blinded by loneliness.
"The stars, that nature hung in heaven, and filled their lamps with everlasting oil, give due light to the misled and lonely traveler." John Milton.
I couldn’t wait to leave the college,
Belly hungry, starved of knowledge,
Head feels blue from too much rum,
But the journey had not yet begun.
Hobbling home, feet feel sore,
Little soul in these sole-less shoes,
Munching on browning apple core
Feeling battered, shattered, bruised.
Oh pathetic fallacy,
Why do you have to rain on me?
Does this dress not suffice,
Macabre mascara pays the price.
Hitch a lift with rusted four by four
“Sorry not yer mercedes love”
Whilst I gingerly hold onto broken door.
20 miles an hour chugs.
I’m nearly home, all seems well,
Thoughts of a cuppa and comfort dwell,
But of course the house is locked,
And I’m almost attacked by vicious cock.
Grabbing ladder, bursting bladder,
Tackle window on top floor,
But there in tights tears a ladder sadder,
I am stuck, legs hang forlorn.
Now this is really taking the p*ss,
I’m hungover. I didn’t ask for this,
I chase off with tent pole, rooster’s rape,
Sitting in the shed I wait.
Eating pear found in bag gone soft,
Drink whats left of vitamin carton,
Then like Ray Mears I brave the odds
And pee down in the bottom garden.
Wrapped in wetsuits, I sit in shed,
I make a broken surfboard bed,
Then memorise wall of nuts 'n' bolts,
And make my lifeless phone do somersaults.
It has been two hours and twenty three
Minutes since I last saw civilisation,
Considering busking to make some P’s
But feel too irate for conversation.
Dad returns, thank f*ck for that,
And merrily opens door without key,
This is like a proverbial slap,
"Oh, it was just a little stuck you see.”
Belly hungry, starved of knowledge,
Head feels blue from too much rum,
But the journey had not yet begun.
Hobbling home, feet feel sore,
Little soul in these sole-less shoes,
Munching on browning apple core
Feeling battered, shattered, bruised.
Oh pathetic fallacy,
Why do you have to rain on me?
Does this dress not suffice,
Macabre mascara pays the price.
Hitch a lift with rusted four by four
“Sorry not yer mercedes love”
Whilst I gingerly hold onto broken door.
20 miles an hour chugs.
I’m nearly home, all seems well,
Thoughts of a cuppa and comfort dwell,
But of course the house is locked,
And I’m almost attacked by vicious cock.
Grabbing ladder, bursting bladder,
Tackle window on top floor,
But there in tights tears a ladder sadder,
I am stuck, legs hang forlorn.
Now this is really taking the p*ss,
I’m hungover. I didn’t ask for this,
I chase off with tent pole, rooster’s rape,
Sitting in the shed I wait.
Eating pear found in bag gone soft,
Drink whats left of vitamin carton,
Then like Ray Mears I brave the odds
And pee down in the bottom garden.
Wrapped in wetsuits, I sit in shed,
I make a broken surfboard bed,
Then memorise wall of nuts 'n' bolts,
And make my lifeless phone do somersaults.
It has been two hours and twenty three
Minutes since I last saw civilisation,
Considering busking to make some P’s
But feel too irate for conversation.
Dad returns, thank f*ck for that,
And merrily opens door without key,
This is like a proverbial slap,
"Oh, it was just a little stuck you see.”
Forever getting locked out of my dad's house, the ladder has become my greatest friend. I wrote this after coming home from college, and yes this was actually a real and not rare account...!
Papery chilly sea breeze,
Brisk and crisp on ruddy knees,
Running along the veins of the Cornish Coast,
Where the debris of past galleon’s float,
Sprawled stature of Penrose trees,
Like fractured hands through rusty sunlit beams-
Along the throng of stony track I run,
Thoughts in the sky, face to the sun.
Birds glide on the Loe, the fish feasters,
Reposeful swans and tree-branch breachers,
Peaceful peckers amidst the swampy shrubs,
Whilst the regal Eagles soar above.
Gasping with breathe, heart beat booms,
Whirlwinds spiral dust upon blustery sand dunes,
Waves galloping, crashing on the helm of the cliff,
Perilous pebbles fall away as flighty feet hit.
Evening draws in, draw in some stars,
Dusk is hushed by the blanket of dark.
The moon shines on my nose, And I don't really know,
Am I running or running away?
Tamara Stidwell, Jan 2015
Brisk and crisp on ruddy knees,
Running along the veins of the Cornish Coast,
Where the debris of past galleon’s float,
Sprawled stature of Penrose trees,
Like fractured hands through rusty sunlit beams-
Along the throng of stony track I run,
Thoughts in the sky, face to the sun.
Birds glide on the Loe, the fish feasters,
Reposeful swans and tree-branch breachers,
Peaceful peckers amidst the swampy shrubs,
Whilst the regal Eagles soar above.
Gasping with breathe, heart beat booms,
Whirlwinds spiral dust upon blustery sand dunes,
Waves galloping, crashing on the helm of the cliff,
Perilous pebbles fall away as flighty feet hit.
Evening draws in, draw in some stars,
Dusk is hushed by the blanket of dark.
The moon shines on my nose, And I don't really know,
Am I running or running away?
Tamara Stidwell, Jan 2015
I feel so alone in my home which is weird,
The dog keeps barking at the walls, which is weird,
I feel like I should shrink small, drink some wine, grow a beard,
I feel like I’m nothing at all, which is weird.
The house is sighing, my insides are crying, the village is dying,
And the fridge hums like my tum, both empty, weird.
Caught in this calm before the storm, it is bleak,
Nobody wants to know the days of the week,
The lights are switched off, day is lost
Night not feared
But emcompassing the thoughts of the folks,
So sincere.
I walk arond the lame roads, like a lost pup,
No bone to chew here, there’s fuck-
all to do, but for the sea-
Licking at the carcass of the shore.
Rusty doors swinging shut at the store,
No room at the inn, back to the house,
I can hear the neighbour's television
No vision in their lounge.
It’s tedious, devious,
We cannot change this place,
The hands of time tick nervously over its face.
And I grew up here, so I should feel safe,
This is my corridor,
But when I look around,
I wander what good it ever could offer,
The donations pot sits hopeless,
Complacently put out,
The bus leaves silently, it knows it’s come to the wrong village,
Quietly backing out,
There is no money here and never any change,
Cut off from the common, warped and deranged
The sinister sea, the turmultous turns,
The whispering village ways gasping through the ferns
The cliffs have faces, the Old Lizard Head,
Sleeping on the sandy springs of the rocky sea bed.
Bored they snore and shake off a thousand years of debris,
The storm has worn them down, they’ve got athritic knees,
And the village rocks like a madman,
As the locals tiptoe around,
The lies in their eyes,
Gagged and bound,
But there is beauty in the ugly, light in the dark,
I see the new generation playing on the swings in the park,
The park that looks across to the sea,
Now the parents stay close to the gate
Fearing all the baddies they see on the TV
Nobody’s out on my spot, on the Lizard head
A few hikers are chomping chips, and exuding "What a lovely place."
But they don’t see the hung cliff faces, the gulls guarding the lands,
They don’t feel the pulse shifting the sand.
Lost to the lines of a guidebook, little understood,
You can’t hear the tree fall if you're not always in the wood,
Blinded by symmetry, beauty lost in a wonk,
This village has been pillaged, it's duty best drunk.
Who can own a priceless wealth?
Even if it be by some revered,
Nobody owns this land
but the land itself
which is weird.
Tamara Stidwell, Feb 2015.
The dog keeps barking at the walls, which is weird,
I feel like I should shrink small, drink some wine, grow a beard,
I feel like I’m nothing at all, which is weird.
The house is sighing, my insides are crying, the village is dying,
And the fridge hums like my tum, both empty, weird.
Caught in this calm before the storm, it is bleak,
Nobody wants to know the days of the week,
The lights are switched off, day is lost
Night not feared
But emcompassing the thoughts of the folks,
So sincere.
I walk arond the lame roads, like a lost pup,
No bone to chew here, there’s fuck-
all to do, but for the sea-
Licking at the carcass of the shore.
Rusty doors swinging shut at the store,
No room at the inn, back to the house,
I can hear the neighbour's television
No vision in their lounge.
It’s tedious, devious,
We cannot change this place,
The hands of time tick nervously over its face.
And I grew up here, so I should feel safe,
This is my corridor,
But when I look around,
I wander what good it ever could offer,
The donations pot sits hopeless,
Complacently put out,
The bus leaves silently, it knows it’s come to the wrong village,
Quietly backing out,
There is no money here and never any change,
Cut off from the common, warped and deranged
The sinister sea, the turmultous turns,
The whispering village ways gasping through the ferns
The cliffs have faces, the Old Lizard Head,
Sleeping on the sandy springs of the rocky sea bed.
Bored they snore and shake off a thousand years of debris,
The storm has worn them down, they’ve got athritic knees,
And the village rocks like a madman,
As the locals tiptoe around,
The lies in their eyes,
Gagged and bound,
But there is beauty in the ugly, light in the dark,
I see the new generation playing on the swings in the park,
The park that looks across to the sea,
Now the parents stay close to the gate
Fearing all the baddies they see on the TV
Nobody’s out on my spot, on the Lizard head
A few hikers are chomping chips, and exuding "What a lovely place."
But they don’t see the hung cliff faces, the gulls guarding the lands,
They don’t feel the pulse shifting the sand.
Lost to the lines of a guidebook, little understood,
You can’t hear the tree fall if you're not always in the wood,
Blinded by symmetry, beauty lost in a wonk,
This village has been pillaged, it's duty best drunk.
Who can own a priceless wealth?
Even if it be by some revered,
Nobody owns this land
but the land itself
which is weird.
Tamara Stidwell, Feb 2015.
This is unfinished work, I wanted to resonate the haunting sensation of being isolated by a rural village and it's secrets. But I shall come back to this. I always try to keep my rhyming patterns coherent, but with this I was messing around with chopping up sentences and the repetition of the word 'weird' which really does sound 'weird'!
Love
I'm staring at this blank screen and can't think what to bloody write!
I began with the title 'love' you see, but still no bite.
I'd be told "More experience required" if this was a CV,
But at eighteen to a degree, they'd most likely be right.
Shakespeare, Bates, Byron, Yeats they've all tried to digest,
This crazy thing we call 'love' they were injudiciously obsessed,
They speak of Roses red, mistresses dead and angels from above,
Of how much they love to love thee and love to ogle at thine breasts.
But today is Friday and the year twenty fourteen,
And love seems not red roses but rather a gloating shade of green,
And I'm almost sure, I do concur that you can almost hear,
A Victorian Love poet gasping 'Your idea of love's obscene!'
But I begin writing this poem as my father talks to a Russian woman he has met
-Well not in real life you understand. But proverbially via internet,
Conglomerating on internet dating is a shady tool to meet,
But how can she be the apple of thine eye, when she could be a 'He' called Pete.
I flicker through my facebook and a new relationship has been bestowed,
By bonnie lass flashing ass and a boy who looks thirteen years old,
And by gratification they embrace their satisfication to the world
By sharing a thousand photos of soppy salivating embraces rather bold.
Now next week, her heart is metaphorically broken as with her mother he has engaged,
Scandal alike on Jeremy Kyle is in abundance it would seem these days,
And you can just feel the passion, whilst they parade a Nike themed fashion
And he curses at Shaniqua as he battles for thee Dna test on thy stage.
It was Valentines a while back so I sauntered down to the shop,
To buy 'love' located on a shelf, with words pre-wrote incase I inconveniently forgot,
Besides were teddies, champagne, outdated lingerie to try to spice up a waning marriage,
And of course nothing says 'I love you' more than a box of tooth rot.
As I dodged amongst the junk I noticed a man with phone to ear,
"Look I've only got a quid or two, these f*ckin cards are dear"
And whilst witnessing this compassion for his wife on other end,
It transpired he could make one for her, on his own. What an ambiguos idea!
I wander if Lord Byron would have made an online profile to find a Mistress to date,
Looking for a wench who walks in beauty alike the cloudless climes he might say,
Preferably about five foot six, with a car and no kids,
Oh yeah, thee better not be fat at that and know how to have a good time (winky face.)
Romance these days is a little like Lidl's, it's cheap and artificial,
It can be imported from a foreign country and consumerably superficial,
It can be texted, hashtagged or slipped into every pop song trending,
I'm sorry, but this love song has no happy ending.
Tamara Stidwell February 2014
I'm staring at this blank screen and can't think what to bloody write!
I began with the title 'love' you see, but still no bite.
I'd be told "More experience required" if this was a CV,
But at eighteen to a degree, they'd most likely be right.
Shakespeare, Bates, Byron, Yeats they've all tried to digest,
This crazy thing we call 'love' they were injudiciously obsessed,
They speak of Roses red, mistresses dead and angels from above,
Of how much they love to love thee and love to ogle at thine breasts.
But today is Friday and the year twenty fourteen,
And love seems not red roses but rather a gloating shade of green,
And I'm almost sure, I do concur that you can almost hear,
A Victorian Love poet gasping 'Your idea of love's obscene!'
But I begin writing this poem as my father talks to a Russian woman he has met
-Well not in real life you understand. But proverbially via internet,
Conglomerating on internet dating is a shady tool to meet,
But how can she be the apple of thine eye, when she could be a 'He' called Pete.
I flicker through my facebook and a new relationship has been bestowed,
By bonnie lass flashing ass and a boy who looks thirteen years old,
And by gratification they embrace their satisfication to the world
By sharing a thousand photos of soppy salivating embraces rather bold.
Now next week, her heart is metaphorically broken as with her mother he has engaged,
Scandal alike on Jeremy Kyle is in abundance it would seem these days,
And you can just feel the passion, whilst they parade a Nike themed fashion
And he curses at Shaniqua as he battles for thee Dna test on thy stage.
It was Valentines a while back so I sauntered down to the shop,
To buy 'love' located on a shelf, with words pre-wrote incase I inconveniently forgot,
Besides were teddies, champagne, outdated lingerie to try to spice up a waning marriage,
And of course nothing says 'I love you' more than a box of tooth rot.
As I dodged amongst the junk I noticed a man with phone to ear,
"Look I've only got a quid or two, these f*ckin cards are dear"
And whilst witnessing this compassion for his wife on other end,
It transpired he could make one for her, on his own. What an ambiguos idea!
I wander if Lord Byron would have made an online profile to find a Mistress to date,
Looking for a wench who walks in beauty alike the cloudless climes he might say,
Preferably about five foot six, with a car and no kids,
Oh yeah, thee better not be fat at that and know how to have a good time (winky face.)
Romance these days is a little like Lidl's, it's cheap and artificial,
It can be imported from a foreign country and consumerably superficial,
It can be texted, hashtagged or slipped into every pop song trending,
I'm sorry, but this love song has no happy ending.
Tamara Stidwell February 2014
Hollie McNish's (popular contempory poet) Review:
"I really liked it, thought it was honest and funny, and I want to be honest - the only bit I found a bit insulting was the reference to the tracksuit couple from the girl that were on your Facebook page - was that really one of your friends on Facebook? If not, I thought it was a bit bashing of the working classes. But I'm just defensive cos I have cousins called Tracy and others along the Shaniqua line of names and lots who walk around in Nike tracksuits! But apart from that - and I'm just touchy about it - I loved the poem! xx"
"Keep looking into things,
That's what life is for,
If you don't look through the windows,
You'll keep closed all the doors."
Tamara Stidwell 10th June 2015
That's what life is for,
If you don't look through the windows,
You'll keep closed all the doors."
Tamara Stidwell 10th June 2015
Said last night to my sister, when she said "Stop looking into things so much Tamara!"
|
I love you,
That is true, Like 1+1 makes 2, A simple equation, With little numeration, So multiply these times, Let's not divide, When we resolve our delusions, The solution we will find. Times are changing, Figures rearranging, But at the square of it, You will see, That if you square root you and me, We are but two parts, And if you look at it like that, Mere halves. A fraction we become, Divided from one, My other half removed, The equivalent of Taking one from two Let's be ambivalent, And summarise the sum, You are my denominator, To which, I, the numerator, belongs, - We are a whole. |
Now, if there are 7 billion people
In the world, And Ahmed wants a female, We half that (an estimation) And round it to a simple equation, He has the chance of 1 in 3.5 billion, (We are assuming he’s a monogamist) Of finding the one, (The probability is ridiculous!) But you have to be a chancer, And when you add it up, You find the answer. So don’t subtract or detract, My hopes Don’t rationalise my tries, With means and modes. Let’s simplify this problem, And summarise the sum, If there is one in a 3.5 billion chance, There is still one. Let’s eradicate and evaluate The equation, We run parallel, With those in our situation, So if we look at the acute angle of life, Not the obtuse, There’s an even higher rate of chance, That I’d find U, A ratio of 1:1 is better Stick in some algebraic letters... 2b or not 2b? I’d rather be Not just 1 but one with U. Tamara Stidwell, May 2015. |
I was just a garden pea,
Small and fat and round,
She was onna different dish to me,
Long and orange and proud.
It’s kinda hard ta comprehend,
I never really gone fa carrots,
But Man she worked that end,
She’d make potatoes lose dem jackets!
I wanted to ask her how she was roasting
What she was doing round these parts,
But like my old self I soon became frozen,
I was just too shy at heart.
I sat there green with envy,
As the turnips tried to chat her up,
But she floated away in the gravy,
She just couldn’t give a f*ck.
The Yorkshire’s were laughing at me,
They said ‘you t'ink you’ve gotta chance?’
I hated this hypocrisy,
They’ve got toads in their ass.
Well, I polished up my face,
And over to her plate I rolled,
Smooth I cruised with ample pace,
Like I was just takin' a little stroll,
Lying there under the broccoli trees,
It was love at fist sight goddammit,
I said "Lady will you talk to me please?
We could be just like peas and carrots."
Now I’m just the happiest pea,
Compared to all the peas around,
I feel like I am full of beans,
I really am so proud.
She is my gravy lady,
She is my pudding too,
This peas making bread sauce!
There’s gon’ be a pea and carrot boom.
But.. we spent our honeymoon in turkey,
My stag night in pork,
But the wedding was in heaven,
When we both got ourselves forked.
Tamara Stidwell, January 2015.
Small and fat and round,
She was onna different dish to me,
Long and orange and proud.
It’s kinda hard ta comprehend,
I never really gone fa carrots,
But Man she worked that end,
She’d make potatoes lose dem jackets!
I wanted to ask her how she was roasting
What she was doing round these parts,
But like my old self I soon became frozen,
I was just too shy at heart.
I sat there green with envy,
As the turnips tried to chat her up,
But she floated away in the gravy,
She just couldn’t give a f*ck.
The Yorkshire’s were laughing at me,
They said ‘you t'ink you’ve gotta chance?’
I hated this hypocrisy,
They’ve got toads in their ass.
Well, I polished up my face,
And over to her plate I rolled,
Smooth I cruised with ample pace,
Like I was just takin' a little stroll,
Lying there under the broccoli trees,
It was love at fist sight goddammit,
I said "Lady will you talk to me please?
We could be just like peas and carrots."
Now I’m just the happiest pea,
Compared to all the peas around,
I feel like I am full of beans,
I really am so proud.
She is my gravy lady,
She is my pudding too,
This peas making bread sauce!
There’s gon’ be a pea and carrot boom.
But.. we spent our honeymoon in turkey,
My stag night in pork,
But the wedding was in heaven,
When we both got ourselves forked.
Tamara Stidwell, January 2015.
|
Poor Old Ned
I didn’t wish to waste away, Waste away these years, So I threw away my pot of pills And bottled up my tears. And what I see, before a me, In this mirror where I glance, Is a man who wants the one he loves, To take her for a dance. I clean behind me ears then, I’ve never felt so good, And I look at a man in corduroy Who is proud, by way he’s stood. I’ve flowers in the garden I think that’ll do, And I rattle down the road on bicycle To mariannes at number 2 She’s humble as humble pie, Her face still gold with sun, And I know I’ll love her till I die, She has always been the one. Marianne I sing as crouched on knee, I hold up my slightly bent bouquet, ‘I’ve never seen such beauty As I see before me today’ She goes all shades of red then, Embarrassed like me thinks, And she said, "Ned- You did this the last time you washed Your medication down the sink." Tamara Stidwell, December 2015. |
Fifty shades of Cornish Grey
Panting, reckless it rolls up her sleeve, The sleeve of the sandy shore, Rolling about in her debris Clanging her crab baskets and rocking her ores. I’ve heard her winkles when pickled, Are the finest pickled winkles about Oh let me show you my mussels, That’ll make yer tide roll out. Fiesty and fierce her foamy hair Lurches over the cliffs A man could drown in her sea blue gown And he’d still be stiffer than stiff. 
|
He sat by me on the bus and I thought God I just would like some peace,
College had dragged, what a day I’d had, words and verbs spun thick in the heat.
He introduced himself as Kevin, and chugged ona bottle in a bag,
‘Where are ya from? You speak posh some, I’m just a Northern lad.’
Kevin’s mate joined us at the station and sat at the back too,
Then lit up a fag, so the passengers had, to pretend not to smell his perfume.
Conversation drifted to politics, Kevin was under much deliberation,
That the government had not given poor Kevin much citizenship consideration,
'I’m a charming gent I am, he claimed, chivalry is not dead,
I let old ladies pass not like that Matt who knocked that pregnant lady off ‘er legs.
If yer gonna steal, go on disability benefit, it’s a much more moral thing ta do,
I’m saving everyone a lotta trouble, doing the good thing, minding my business too.'
I told Kevin I was sorry to hear he was ill, would he mind telling me what he had,
He tapped his head, 'Ah' he said, 'I’ve had a dodgy vein in me brain since I was two,'
He swigged on his bottle a rum then and I asked him did it affect him now,
'Oh yeah sometimes I see double like, or start spinning out.'
We started talking about what party we voted for in which Kevin got rather nervous,
Whilst the lady at the front of the bus kicked up a fuss at these drunkards smoking on her public service.
'It’s important to vote,' Kevin said, his friend agreed,'Vote anything but torie and ‘ave our vengeance,'
“But Kevin” said the bloke in bandage, “You can’t vote till you’ve served yer sentence?”
Kevin got rather embarrassed then, and wiped the sweat from his brow,
‘Ang on a minute mate you’re making me look bad in front a the lady now.'
Kevin said ‘the worlds a total mess gal, in fifteen years I 'aint been able to see me kids,
'On this sick pay,' he said flicking his ash, I can’t afford a train, Hinckley's where they live.”
'I could be Prime Minister' he suddenly declared, ' I know my wrongs and I know rights"
'You take from the rich you give to the poor' he said, 'I'm robin hood but 'aint gay, so no tights.'
The green fields passed by the window and the other guy gazed out across the Cornish abbys,
'Ah, i think its pretty,' said the quiet one 'the city 'aint no better than this'.
When the bus came up to my stop, Kevin staggered through the aisle of seats
'Remember what I told you gal, it’s us against them, speak up for your own beliefs”
I told him it was nice to meet them and i hope he has a fruitful life,
'Don't listen to him sweetheart' said his friend, turning to Kev he laughed 'We're fucked you and I.”
Tamara Stidwell, September 2015
College had dragged, what a day I’d had, words and verbs spun thick in the heat.
He introduced himself as Kevin, and chugged ona bottle in a bag,
‘Where are ya from? You speak posh some, I’m just a Northern lad.’
Kevin’s mate joined us at the station and sat at the back too,
Then lit up a fag, so the passengers had, to pretend not to smell his perfume.
Conversation drifted to politics, Kevin was under much deliberation,
That the government had not given poor Kevin much citizenship consideration,
'I’m a charming gent I am, he claimed, chivalry is not dead,
I let old ladies pass not like that Matt who knocked that pregnant lady off ‘er legs.
If yer gonna steal, go on disability benefit, it’s a much more moral thing ta do,
I’m saving everyone a lotta trouble, doing the good thing, minding my business too.'
I told Kevin I was sorry to hear he was ill, would he mind telling me what he had,
He tapped his head, 'Ah' he said, 'I’ve had a dodgy vein in me brain since I was two,'
He swigged on his bottle a rum then and I asked him did it affect him now,
'Oh yeah sometimes I see double like, or start spinning out.'
We started talking about what party we voted for in which Kevin got rather nervous,
Whilst the lady at the front of the bus kicked up a fuss at these drunkards smoking on her public service.
'It’s important to vote,' Kevin said, his friend agreed,'Vote anything but torie and ‘ave our vengeance,'
“But Kevin” said the bloke in bandage, “You can’t vote till you’ve served yer sentence?”
Kevin got rather embarrassed then, and wiped the sweat from his brow,
‘Ang on a minute mate you’re making me look bad in front a the lady now.'
Kevin said ‘the worlds a total mess gal, in fifteen years I 'aint been able to see me kids,
'On this sick pay,' he said flicking his ash, I can’t afford a train, Hinckley's where they live.”
'I could be Prime Minister' he suddenly declared, ' I know my wrongs and I know rights"
'You take from the rich you give to the poor' he said, 'I'm robin hood but 'aint gay, so no tights.'
The green fields passed by the window and the other guy gazed out across the Cornish abbys,
'Ah, i think its pretty,' said the quiet one 'the city 'aint no better than this'.
When the bus came up to my stop, Kevin staggered through the aisle of seats
'Remember what I told you gal, it’s us against them, speak up for your own beliefs”
I told him it was nice to meet them and i hope he has a fruitful life,
'Don't listen to him sweetheart' said his friend, turning to Kev he laughed 'We're fucked you and I.”
Tamara Stidwell, September 2015
Bound my body to driftwood,
And let me float from the shore,
Because these feet can’t stand this sinking sand,
I can’t stand this land no more.
There is beauty in the slipping sun,
The horizon dipped with gold,
As the sea it beats, it’s tapping turquoise feet,
And the shale of the cliff falls cold.
Take me with the wind then,
Leave nothing but the blemished sand,
Rocked to sleep as the sea birds weep,
I can’t stand this land no more.
The boats that float on the edge of the world,
Stagger drunken with sailor’s dream,
The helm of the boat, a gaping throat,
As the sails whisper tales of the sea.
Don’t leave the sand young child,
You’re wild like a horse on the moor,
It’s all very well till you’re caught in a swell,
And I wont be there to help you no more.
But I can’t stand this land much longer,
I long to be drawn by the dawn and the dusk of the tide,
I will drift in the sea like unhindered debris,
And return with the illustrations of a nation in my mind.
Tamara Stidwell, November 2015.
And let me float from the shore,
Because these feet can’t stand this sinking sand,
I can’t stand this land no more.
There is beauty in the slipping sun,
The horizon dipped with gold,
As the sea it beats, it’s tapping turquoise feet,
And the shale of the cliff falls cold.
Take me with the wind then,
Leave nothing but the blemished sand,
Rocked to sleep as the sea birds weep,
I can’t stand this land no more.
The boats that float on the edge of the world,
Stagger drunken with sailor’s dream,
The helm of the boat, a gaping throat,
As the sails whisper tales of the sea.
Don’t leave the sand young child,
You’re wild like a horse on the moor,
It’s all very well till you’re caught in a swell,
And I wont be there to help you no more.
But I can’t stand this land much longer,
I long to be drawn by the dawn and the dusk of the tide,
I will drift in the sea like unhindered debris,
And return with the illustrations of a nation in my mind.
Tamara Stidwell, November 2015.
It went like this,
I’ll tell you nothing but truth,
We were pissed as farts, dancing apart,
Me in my dress blue,
In a scraggly fleece twas’ you,
That boy, thought I
As you caught my eye,
Has caught the affliction to dance.
I must rub shoulders with this young man,
And then we can share this jovial fate,
And a smile that stretched a mile,
Painted itself resplendently across ones face.
And so Oh to dance and grind
In a temple of delicious mankind.
We frollicked and fooled,
Oh such a ball,
The jive is alive when you salsa from the heart!
Alas now I can see what ones been missing
How extraordinary when our lips are kissing
To bask in ones hug,
A delicious drug
As the boom of the truimphant bass comes a hitting.
We shall flirt over rum and coca cola,
And tickle our tipples all over,
And when the moon is fat,
And the night is black
We shall reside in a tent in the clovers.
Tamara Stidwell, December 2015.
I’ll tell you nothing but truth,
We were pissed as farts, dancing apart,
Me in my dress blue,
In a scraggly fleece twas’ you,
That boy, thought I
As you caught my eye,
Has caught the affliction to dance.
I must rub shoulders with this young man,
And then we can share this jovial fate,
And a smile that stretched a mile,
Painted itself resplendently across ones face.
And so Oh to dance and grind
In a temple of delicious mankind.
We frollicked and fooled,
Oh such a ball,
The jive is alive when you salsa from the heart!
Alas now I can see what ones been missing
How extraordinary when our lips are kissing
To bask in ones hug,
A delicious drug
As the boom of the truimphant bass comes a hitting.
We shall flirt over rum and coca cola,
And tickle our tipples all over,
And when the moon is fat,
And the night is black
We shall reside in a tent in the clovers.
Tamara Stidwell, December 2015.
For my Friends and family.
Art work, Kezia Stidwell
Mum is houmus nights, and carrot sticks and majestic midnight feasts,
When she’d bring to bed the BFG and we’d slip into the thrilling land of beast’s,
Mum was dressing up boxes, and fancy gowns, wigs and homemade plays,
The living room a marvellous theatre, where our young imagination staged.
Mum was water fights, and camping nights when we’d take our tent to Kennack sand’s.
In the enchanting valley we’d camp, our tent clasped in Granny Pat’s hands.
Running and dancing along the beach, rippling the silver moonlit waves,
The sky candle which didn’t quite fly, and caught the cliffs ablaze.
Mum was maker festival and Shambala where we’d sell necklaces on little rugs,
And we’d dance to bands and mum taught us to understand that happiness is a better drug.
Taking Lucy the pink car to France for two months we traveled and camped,
Mountains, Gypsy’s, cathedrals, naked tribes in a naturist camp.
Mum was spells, then crystals, then candles in coconuts, she had many ideas,
Hairdressing and then thong-tastic, then delightful donuts for the last five years,
And look where we’ve come from that donut van that rolled away,
To three vans, our own brand a polka-dot pleasure which we work together on today.
And sometime I chuckle when I think of the memories so fresh,
Of festivals, lost spectacles, touring France and naked bums in Marrakesh!
So we’ll pull together as a family whilst another crazy year rolls on,
She’s a woman of many talents, but her best one’s being Mum.
Tamara Stidwell, August 2014.
When she’d bring to bed the BFG and we’d slip into the thrilling land of beast’s,
Mum was dressing up boxes, and fancy gowns, wigs and homemade plays,
The living room a marvellous theatre, where our young imagination staged.
Mum was water fights, and camping nights when we’d take our tent to Kennack sand’s.
In the enchanting valley we’d camp, our tent clasped in Granny Pat’s hands.
Running and dancing along the beach, rippling the silver moonlit waves,
The sky candle which didn’t quite fly, and caught the cliffs ablaze.
Mum was maker festival and Shambala where we’d sell necklaces on little rugs,
And we’d dance to bands and mum taught us to understand that happiness is a better drug.
Taking Lucy the pink car to France for two months we traveled and camped,
Mountains, Gypsy’s, cathedrals, naked tribes in a naturist camp.
Mum was spells, then crystals, then candles in coconuts, she had many ideas,
Hairdressing and then thong-tastic, then delightful donuts for the last five years,
And look where we’ve come from that donut van that rolled away,
To three vans, our own brand a polka-dot pleasure which we work together on today.
And sometime I chuckle when I think of the memories so fresh,
Of festivals, lost spectacles, touring France and naked bums in Marrakesh!
So we’ll pull together as a family whilst another crazy year rolls on,
She’s a woman of many talents, but her best one’s being Mum.
Tamara Stidwell, August 2014.
|
When you were an omelette,
In our ma’s tum, You probably were laughing then, And being a pain in the bum. When we used to change your nappies, You’ve always been full of crap, But kezzie’s chubby cheeks, Who could say no to that. Fyna the break dancer, Tapping her toes, Always one to grow new ideas, Like the pollip in her nose. Kezzie the horserider, Galloping along the moors, Always up for a cuddle, Regardless of how mum snores. Fyna was the angel In the christmas play, Kezzie was the donkey, She had an 'ansome bray. You’ve grown a pair of legs Like giraffes up you’ve sprung You're only a little up your ladder in life, But are steadily climbing the rungs. Sweet sixteen you’re ladies now,, It's amazing in retrospect, Kezzie you will paint a beautiful future, Fyna you will be your life’s architect And if you’ve problem with boys, I will sort it out with yselka, We’ll be your ginger ninja’s, Because we always stick together, So no matter what rocks your boat, Or shines on your apricot bum, Remember where you’ve come from And be proud of what you’ve done. We’ll be connected like lay lines, Cornwall will run in our veins, So even when the seas get stormy, There’s the salvation of home at bay. When Mum returns from her pilgrimage in india, Like a smelly hippy, Fyna will come dancing across the hills, Kez will paint the sunset pretty Yselka will probably get a lift with bev, Darling, I’ll bring the Caviar! And we’ll all have walked and talked the talk- But be the girly gang at heart. Tamara Stidwell, February 2015 |
Skinny pink skin, sizzling hot,
Creamy sun screen I think not,
We rest on the crashing curb of the beach,
In tantalising toes reach
Of the dragon out to sea,
But, we're safe on the mound,
With veggie burgers sizzling in the ground,
And a cheeky whisp of smoke
Dancing down the way,
The wind washing our words up on the bay.
Here we lay,
Here we lay.
And it is beautiful, so fruitful and sublime,
Feel her rays tingling down our spines
Like a jellyfish in the cloudy blue,
Fizzing, fizz, fizz, like the cider in our booze.
Drunk dunk, sand sunk,
Foamy sips as our bikini’s slip,
Watching the nuns and monks,
Talk about holidays and hide behind towels,
As we reminisce over ketchuppy kiss,
But our lives have just begun,
There’s a dragon out to sea,
And it growls.
Tamara Stidwell, April 2015
Creamy sun screen I think not,
We rest on the crashing curb of the beach,
In tantalising toes reach
Of the dragon out to sea,
But, we're safe on the mound,
With veggie burgers sizzling in the ground,
And a cheeky whisp of smoke
Dancing down the way,
The wind washing our words up on the bay.
Here we lay,
Here we lay.
And it is beautiful, so fruitful and sublime,
Feel her rays tingling down our spines
Like a jellyfish in the cloudy blue,
Fizzing, fizz, fizz, like the cider in our booze.
Drunk dunk, sand sunk,
Foamy sips as our bikini’s slip,
Watching the nuns and monks,
Talk about holidays and hide behind towels,
As we reminisce over ketchuppy kiss,
But our lives have just begun,
There’s a dragon out to sea,
And it growls.
Tamara Stidwell, April 2015
I am in a disco ball, A million thousand splinters of light cascade from vents in this dome,
This wooden paradise I often try to evade on my walk home,
But I am in the clutch of this Cornish jungle and it’s nice to be on ones own.
The branched tentacles tickle the lime green algae of the swamp,
My breathe a baits as I watch the trees wildly gesticulate,
Guiding me further in to the forest romp.
Their heads are outstretched nodding agreeing with me,
"Yes Tamara this is the third day this week we’ve been seeing you,
You chose not to get the bus because you’d rather be with us,
In this wooden paradise."
The psilocybin giggle in the October tufts of grass,
The stony track has pools of muddy ice that, try to misguide me in my path,
Squirrels fetch their fallen nuts and speculate me with small brown eyes,
But i am merely a spectator in this wooden paradise.
Winters coming and the naked trees are shaking off their gowns,
So they bunch around at their rooted knees bundles of golds and browns
They are not embarrassed by their bare bottomed nudity,
But dance with outstretched branches expressing their October liberty.
And as I walk the whisper of the winter cold breeze,
Draws up the forest bed so i’m in a spiraling cocoon of leaves,
There's no sight of anyone else and its so peaceful i think,
As a frog goes to the pond to rest its legs and have a drink,
No binoculared old men watching the birds from the shed,
Rather than show off in elaborate flight, they chill out on the river bed.
And the loe sleeps like a resting dragon winding round the incline of the hill,
Swans pick at its shale's as the sun shimmers along its gills.
Cows perch perilously on the slippery slopes of the heath,
Grinding up a psychedelic stew between their goofy teeth,
And as I amble along towards the gardens of the mysterious manor house,
The wooden paradise opens up and spits me out its foliate mouth,
'What a beautiful day' I think although now the world looks rather sad.
As the squirrels go back to nattering about how i’m trespassing their land.
Tamara Stidwell, October 2015.
This wooden paradise I often try to evade on my walk home,
But I am in the clutch of this Cornish jungle and it’s nice to be on ones own.
The branched tentacles tickle the lime green algae of the swamp,
My breathe a baits as I watch the trees wildly gesticulate,
Guiding me further in to the forest romp.
Their heads are outstretched nodding agreeing with me,
"Yes Tamara this is the third day this week we’ve been seeing you,
You chose not to get the bus because you’d rather be with us,
In this wooden paradise."
The psilocybin giggle in the October tufts of grass,
The stony track has pools of muddy ice that, try to misguide me in my path,
Squirrels fetch their fallen nuts and speculate me with small brown eyes,
But i am merely a spectator in this wooden paradise.
Winters coming and the naked trees are shaking off their gowns,
So they bunch around at their rooted knees bundles of golds and browns
They are not embarrassed by their bare bottomed nudity,
But dance with outstretched branches expressing their October liberty.
And as I walk the whisper of the winter cold breeze,
Draws up the forest bed so i’m in a spiraling cocoon of leaves,
There's no sight of anyone else and its so peaceful i think,
As a frog goes to the pond to rest its legs and have a drink,
No binoculared old men watching the birds from the shed,
Rather than show off in elaborate flight, they chill out on the river bed.
And the loe sleeps like a resting dragon winding round the incline of the hill,
Swans pick at its shale's as the sun shimmers along its gills.
Cows perch perilously on the slippery slopes of the heath,
Grinding up a psychedelic stew between their goofy teeth,
And as I amble along towards the gardens of the mysterious manor house,
The wooden paradise opens up and spits me out its foliate mouth,
'What a beautiful day' I think although now the world looks rather sad.
As the squirrels go back to nattering about how i’m trespassing their land.
Tamara Stidwell, October 2015.
Will you chase me like the wind to the clouds?
Tickling their soft white bottoms?
Will you follow me like the fabric to the yarn?
Dancing with the trailing piece of cotton.
Oh, when one is lost in the tumultuous sea,
Will I feel your kisses in the salty spray?
When the moon is fat and night is dark,
Will you be the rising sun of day?
Tamara Stidwell, January 2015.
Tickling their soft white bottoms?
Will you follow me like the fabric to the yarn?
Dancing with the trailing piece of cotton.
Oh, when one is lost in the tumultuous sea,
Will I feel your kisses in the salty spray?
When the moon is fat and night is dark,
Will you be the rising sun of day?
Tamara Stidwell, January 2015.
I am beautiful. Sexy and fiesty.
I rule this town.
Don’t frown, not round me.
I’ll turn that upside down,
Round and 'round.
On your knees.
These hips don’t lie Shakira,
These lips don’t lie either.
When I say good, I mean better,
Thick as lip stick on each letter
I’ve seen your types 'round here.
Don’t fear,
I’ll lick up those tears
You understand?
Holding your pain
in the clutch of my hand.
I’ll unlock you and rock you,
Till you forgive and forget,
Love is all you need-
You are lost without lust.
I will give,
Come to me.
Tamara Stidwell, March 2015.
I rule this town.
Don’t frown, not round me.
I’ll turn that upside down,
Round and 'round.
On your knees.
These hips don’t lie Shakira,
These lips don’t lie either.
When I say good, I mean better,
Thick as lip stick on each letter
I’ve seen your types 'round here.
Don’t fear,
I’ll lick up those tears
You understand?
Holding your pain
in the clutch of my hand.
I’ll unlock you and rock you,
Till you forgive and forget,
Love is all you need-
You are lost without lust.
I will give,
Come to me.
Tamara Stidwell, March 2015.
I wrote this while making a script for a film, set in Plymouth. I considered focusing on a male transvestite prostitute, desperate for love, but too involved in the sordid street life.
When I am old,
I will be bent and wicked,
I will be spent and crooked,
When I am old,
I'll be wicked.
I'll line my pants with elephants,
And dribble soup down my chin,
I'll grow whiskers to cultivate biscuits,
Oh I'll do the most wicked of things!
You'll question my aptitude,
And worry about what I do,
And I will revel in causing a ruckus.
When you wheel me around, I will jump to the ground,
And with walking stick, chase little f*ckers.
I will hobble with hunchback,
So that I can ramsack-
The view by not wearing my knickers,
And you'll cry "Granny's Leaving!" Oh how deceiving,
There 'aint no rest for the wicked!
Tamara Stidwell, May 2015.
I will be bent and wicked,
I will be spent and crooked,
When I am old,
I'll be wicked.
I'll line my pants with elephants,
And dribble soup down my chin,
I'll grow whiskers to cultivate biscuits,
Oh I'll do the most wicked of things!
You'll question my aptitude,
And worry about what I do,
And I will revel in causing a ruckus.
When you wheel me around, I will jump to the ground,
And with walking stick, chase little f*ckers.
I will hobble with hunchback,
So that I can ramsack-
The view by not wearing my knickers,
And you'll cry "Granny's Leaving!" Oh how deceiving,
There 'aint no rest for the wicked!
Tamara Stidwell, May 2015.
Seeing a dear old lady being helped into her home, I sensed a cheeky air about her and it made me wonder (fantasise) that perhaps when the door was closed she would throw her walking stick into the air and dance around the living room. Also, I love the poem, Warning by Jenny Joseph. Life's too short to grow old gracefully, be disgraceful.
Hippy-critical
His name is Bee shortened from his nickname Blissful Zen,
Because he says "I’m not a Buddhist but I think the same as them,
You are a conformist he says, You don’t live the way I do,
You’re just one of a number in a society, where there’s me and then all you."
Bee is a radical thinking tiger who holds his peaceful protest shield,
He don’t take no shit from the government, and he lives in a truck on a tax free field.
This guy loves the world around him, the friends that surround him-
Bee believes he is a non-conformist lifestyle founder breaking the shackles that bound him.
He avoids working a 9-5 doing a lacklustre job like a 'systemized sheep',
And he’s currently claiming state benefit off the government he hates, because unfortunately he’s found he has to eat.
“We need to break out of thinking we’re the government’s possession”
Funny that, Bee is now one of the 2 million unemployed helping the ol’ recession!
He detests Monsanto and the corporations fuelling consumer greed,
Yet buys multi-pack veggie burgers imported from china and Tesco’s pumpkin seeds.
“I strive to live in a world of beauty, I’m a van-lifer living the dream”
So he drives around in a petrol guzzling bus up and down the country and fuels the drug wars with his weekly bosh of ecstacy.
Blissful Zen is bohemian, he wears eccentric wrap arounds and head bands,
Cotton sewn in a slum in gambia by the world’s children, maan.
Bee likes to travel the world, he's a free-flying bird,
So he catches an easyjet aeroplane across the globe to make his climate footprint worse.
He says, “Drugs are natural man, the government can’t stop what comes from the land,”
Smoking skunk sprayed with chemicals and snorting mandy processed from a science lab.
But he insists vaccinations are the bad drugs run by a conspiring pharmaceutical hell,
He does forget that he has the best national health service in his country as well..
But he does tackle topics of world crisis, water aid, the melting polar ice, sewage on beaches..
..on his manufactured laptop, via the internet is where he always preaches-
He says he's gonna be the change in the world, he's a free spirit wiping up our tyranny tortured tears,
But climate change and politics wasn’t altered by a chauvinistic never altruistic bum it would appear.
Tamara Stidwell, August 2015.
His name is Bee shortened from his nickname Blissful Zen,
Because he says "I’m not a Buddhist but I think the same as them,
You are a conformist he says, You don’t live the way I do,
You’re just one of a number in a society, where there’s me and then all you."
Bee is a radical thinking tiger who holds his peaceful protest shield,
He don’t take no shit from the government, and he lives in a truck on a tax free field.
This guy loves the world around him, the friends that surround him-
Bee believes he is a non-conformist lifestyle founder breaking the shackles that bound him.
He avoids working a 9-5 doing a lacklustre job like a 'systemized sheep',
And he’s currently claiming state benefit off the government he hates, because unfortunately he’s found he has to eat.
“We need to break out of thinking we’re the government’s possession”
Funny that, Bee is now one of the 2 million unemployed helping the ol’ recession!
He detests Monsanto and the corporations fuelling consumer greed,
Yet buys multi-pack veggie burgers imported from china and Tesco’s pumpkin seeds.
“I strive to live in a world of beauty, I’m a van-lifer living the dream”
So he drives around in a petrol guzzling bus up and down the country and fuels the drug wars with his weekly bosh of ecstacy.
Blissful Zen is bohemian, he wears eccentric wrap arounds and head bands,
Cotton sewn in a slum in gambia by the world’s children, maan.
Bee likes to travel the world, he's a free-flying bird,
So he catches an easyjet aeroplane across the globe to make his climate footprint worse.
He says, “Drugs are natural man, the government can’t stop what comes from the land,”
Smoking skunk sprayed with chemicals and snorting mandy processed from a science lab.
But he insists vaccinations are the bad drugs run by a conspiring pharmaceutical hell,
He does forget that he has the best national health service in his country as well..
But he does tackle topics of world crisis, water aid, the melting polar ice, sewage on beaches..
..on his manufactured laptop, via the internet is where he always preaches-
He says he's gonna be the change in the world, he's a free spirit wiping up our tyranny tortured tears,
But climate change and politics wasn’t altered by a chauvinistic never altruistic bum it would appear.
Tamara Stidwell, August 2015.
My inspiration: The Driftwood horse sculpture, The Eden Project
The storm ripped the skies
And threw down all its power,
But the horse didn't shy,
Didn't fight, didn't cower.
Just stood there non-vexed, still for all,
As the clouds they cried, a balling fool,
Each wave she braves; a volatile violence,
How can this horse answer only with silence?
Maybe it will snap the binding twine,
Is there any mercy in the treacherous tide?
Maybe it will break her driftwood bones,
Or carry her oak heart miles from home.
But there is strengh in the depth of her chestnut eyes,
Head convexed to the howling skies.
She never moves, there's hold on the hooves,
A silent answer speaks volumes, volumes,
Her wood might be shaped by the tide and reformed,
But the wise will always wait for the calm of the storm.
Tamara Stidwell, December 2012
And threw down all its power,
But the horse didn't shy,
Didn't fight, didn't cower.
Just stood there non-vexed, still for all,
As the clouds they cried, a balling fool,
Each wave she braves; a volatile violence,
How can this horse answer only with silence?
Maybe it will snap the binding twine,
Is there any mercy in the treacherous tide?
Maybe it will break her driftwood bones,
Or carry her oak heart miles from home.
But there is strengh in the depth of her chestnut eyes,
Head convexed to the howling skies.
She never moves, there's hold on the hooves,
A silent answer speaks volumes, volumes,
Her wood might be shaped by the tide and reformed,
But the wise will always wait for the calm of the storm.
Tamara Stidwell, December 2012
