By: Tess

Originally written for: 2011 Trees for Life Charity Exhibition.

With skin so soft beneath the bark
And resin coated hair,
The freshest sap runs through her veins;
She is always there.

Never sleeping, ever true,
She answers every call
As, one eye hazel, one eye green,
She watches over all.

When winter storms are raging
Or the night seems far too long,
She suffers on amidst the gales,
Resolute and strong.

And in the spring of morning,
When all is calm once more,
She will still be standing there,
Steadfast as before.

For whether auburn, scarlet, burnished gold,
Pale green or richest lime,
This mother of the forest waits
Until the end of time.

By: Tess

As my teacher bumbles like a droning bee,
My mind flutters to get free
Of tales of War fifty years in the past,
And of the peace that will never last.

As fifty years ahead I blink my eyes,
I stand and stare in mild surprise.
The classroom’s gone – changed into waves
And the desks and chairs to wires and staves.

My fellow pupils are tall, dark men
Whose weary arms and backs all bend
And stoop to lift again and again
The stones and rocks – regardless of rain
That trickles down their hair and face.
They all continue at a steady pace
To build and toil and heave and strain
With eyes that are blank, yet laced with pain.

I blink my eyes and look once more,
But the scene is different from before.
My friends are the same men, smiling now,
But with similar work I know not how.
For still they build and still they toil
Yet now it’s on more fertile soil.

They talk and laugh with twinkling eyes
That shine with faith and compromise.
And as they work I hear them sing
Of peace and love.

Their songs take wing
And now, back whole again, I bend and pray
In the chapel I saw them build that day.
Their work is done and now they rest,
Hands serenely folded on their breasts.
Yet in the stillness I hear them sing
And through the silence their songs take wing
And settle together in the form of a dove
Whose face returns their undying love.

This poem, written over ten years ago, was inspired by The Italian Chapel on Lamb Holm in Orkney. You can read about the Churchill Barriers and the Italian Chapel online here.

By: Tess

I don’t tell people
now.

It’s not that I want to hear
the sick jokes,
but I hate the embarrassed
sideways look
when someone remembers you.

They don’t know you,
they only know
the scar you left.
Their cautious pity
tears my skin as you did.

I keep it hidden now,
my scar.

It is not shame
I feel.
I just refuse
to live as your victim
throughout my life.

You made me stronger.
I will never thank you,
but I can walk where
others dare not tread. They flinch
where I walk unfazed.

It is my strength,
my scar.

You will have
nothing.
No part of it. You are
nothing.

My personal triumph,
my scar.

I don’t tell people.
Not any more.

By: Tess

“I’m just saying, I think it’s an awesome name for a band.”

The three of them were all sprawled on the sofa, long legs stretched out in front of them, and gazing at the same spot on the ceiling. There was a fourth, but he hadn’t been engaging in conversation for some time: Woody was curled up in the armchair in the corner of the room, face turned away towards the wall.

“Yeah, I can see that,” one them replied. “Sort of, Bob Dylan meets Radiohead.”

“Lennon. You gotta have some Lennon,” mumbled another. It could have been the same one.

“I could play my guitar,” said the one in the middle. “You could sing – ” he feebly jabbed the one to the his right, “ – and you could play bass.” He nudged the one to his left.

They all nodded in unison, still staring at the spot on the ceiling that was exactly the same as the rest of the ceiling. Outside the window a siren moaned past, taking forever to disappear into the distance. The last track on the CD, a surprisingly good unlisted track in a raw state of completion that concluded an album of pretentious whining songs sung by a public schoolboy with a guitar, came to an end and the room slipped into silence.

“Lennon. Genius. You gotta have some Lennon.”

One by one, Chemocracy Coma fell asleep.

Woody continued to stare at the wall, unseeing eyes long since glazed over.

By: Tess

“For fuck sake.”

Paul continued to polish the glass he was holding and didn’t reply. He was used to this. His customer was hunched over an empty pint glass, his whole right hand curling round it, cradling it protectively as a new parent would their child.

“I mean, seriously. What kind of jacked up bollocks of a phrase is that?”

Paul made a non-committal grunt. He placed the glass, sparkling, on the shelf and picked up another from the dishwasher.

“It sounds like something she got from Buddy. Buddha. Whatever. Fat prick.”

Paul could sense that something more was expected of him. Sure enough, a moment later:-

“I mean, what do you think? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

The man raised his head and glared accusatively at him. Paul took in his face, screwed up with bitterness, eyes red and small with alcohol. His patron continued.

“Stupid bitch. You know what? She can just fuck off and search all she likes. I’ll cut her off. I’ll fight her for the kids too. Never wanted the buggers anyway, but it would kill her not to have them.”

The man sneered, cruel and vicious. He climbed off the bar stool, struggling to stand unaided.

Paul watched him. He was his last customer, here out in the middle of nowhere. There would be no-one else on the road for miles.

Paul picked up the man’s car keys and tossed them to him.

“Time to go, mate. Safe drive home.”

The Spike and the Plug
By: James

You can’t quite believe the anger you’re currently feeling. You’re pretty certain that you’ve never been as angry about anything in your life. This really has to be the last straw, surely. I mean, why bother? Why bother trying to just get on with things? Life just shits on you any chance it gets. What conceivable reason do you even have for getting up in the morning? Seriously, just give it up, man. And what the hell is it with you anyway? You’re far too highly strung, and your anger barometer is clearly wired up the wrong way. You get mugged as a teenager and you’re mildly irked? Your girlfriend leaves you for her personal trainer and you’re “not that bothered”? At work, someone gets promoted over you, largely due to their husband-of-a-senior-member-of-staff status and you say nothing? Yet here you are, after walking barefoot through your darkened bedroom, foolishly stepping on an upturned plug, a plug that you left there, suddenly you think it’s okay to erupt into a frenzied bag of Mental. If it’s not “Son of a whore!” this, it’s “Fucking coconut shit-tits” that, and let’s not forget the classic “Jeeping shitwank fuckmethathurt!”. Seriously, stop your whining, you’re not that special. Remember whose fault this is.

Evidence of a Struggle on the Dancefloor
By: Tess

The band on the stage had been playing for thirty-three minutes already, and showed no sign of stopping for a break.

Is you is or is you ain’t my baby?

Her feet were sore, in her too tight new red shoes. She hoped her hair, perfectly curled earlier in the day, and her vivid crimson lipstick were intact with no sign of wear or tear. It wouldn’t do to look like a floozy.

The way you’re actin’ lately makes me doubt.

He was wearing his brogues, shiny as if brand new, but she knew they’d been worn so many times they fit his feet like a pair of driving gloves.

Yous is still my baby-baby.

He smiled at her as he twirled her round. She smiled back, ignoring the familiar cold sensation in her left foot which meant that the blister that had formed on her smallest toe had burst. She didn’t look down. She couldn’t look down. She just had to keep on dancing.

Seems my flame in your heart’s done gone out.

He smiled at her again, his eyes peculiar in the flickering light. They seemed sharper, more alert, and it suddenly seemed to her, on the dimly lit dancefloor, that there was something cruel about his expression.

She blinked her eyelashes, heavy with lacquer, and flicked her skirt as he spun her round once more. She smiled back at him.

A woman is a creature that has always been strange.

He didn’t recognise the stamp on the postcard.
By: James

“Who the hell are Diane and Mark?”

“What?”

“I said, who the hell are Diane and Mark?”

“Sorry, didn’t get that. Who’s dying what?”

“Fuck’s sake. Who the hell- you know, if you’d come to the top of the stairs you might actually be able to hear me down here. Who. The. Hell. AreDianeandMark?!”

“How the hell do I know?”

“Well I don’t know a Diane, or a Mark,”

“Well neither do I, what the fuck are you on about?”

“It’s this postcard. Looks like it’s from some couple in Morocco or summat. Sounds like they’re having an alright time,”

“What’s the weather like?”

“It just started raining,”

“Eh? In Morocco? How’d you get that from a postcard? What is it, an iPostcard or some shit?”

“Not fucking Morocco. I thought you meant now… Um, they don’t mention the weather, but apparently there’s loads of beggars and that,”

“Sounds a bit shit.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah. Anyway, come and look at this, I think the Pebble Crown works quite well with the bathroom suite, but it kind of clashes with the Shanghai Gist on the landing. What do you reckon?”

“Na, I’m off out,”

“What? I need your opinion on this!”

“Yep.”

Beleaguered Castle Blues
By: Tess

Everyone knew she was going to give in eventually. Why continue to struggle, to put up resistance?

She’d stood impenetrable, undiminished and unspoilt for decades, centuries even, but now she had met her match. And she knew it, though she refused to surrender.

It was, if nothing else, mildly frustrating, thought Ulric as he perched on his haunches in the rain, staring up at her. She towered over him, resolute against the darkening sky.

He grinned to himself as he sharpened his weapon, ignoring his sodden clothes.

It was only a matter of time.

By: Tess

If you’d like to hear these lyrics put to music, you can do so here: www.myspace.com/noix

Won’t you walk along this beach with me?
I love to be beside the sea.
And as I walk this way alone,
My hand in yours,
It feels like home.

Wind catches in my tangled hair,
I shudder in the darkening air.
The threat of night is drawing in.
I should return.
I should go in.

Is it the wind that falters, or my weary heart?
I just don’t know anymore.
Let the thunder roll and the lightening part the simmering skies.
I’ll hurry back once more.
Alone.

Won’t you sit beside the fire with me?
We could curl up, simplicity.
Companionable silence.

I clutch your hand, rest my head on your chest.
You whisper that it’s time to rest.
My eyes are slowly closing.
I’m fast asleep.
We’re both dreaming.

By: Tess

To: Trouble 23/04/2010 22:10:13
A hair on the lampshade reminded me of you this morning. I know I said I wouldn’t text again as I was driving myself crazy, but just had to let you know I was thinking of you. Mx

To: Trouble 17/05/2010 02:45:02
Do you realise that it is two years today since we first met, in the theatre bar? Seems so strange, I can remember it like it was yesterday. There you were, on your own, just taking it all in. Dressed in red. I always loved that red dress. Mx

To: Trouble 22/06/2010 23:03:21
Had an interview today, finally up for promotion. Sorry for texting. I know I need to let you go, but it’s hard sometimes when I remember all the good times. Thinking of you. Mx

To: Trouble 07/07/2010 03:18:09
I think it’s the silence that’s so painful, you know. You were never the silent type, you always instantly lit up any room you entered. I can’t cope with not hearing from you. Sorry, I’m selfish I know. Just wanted to say that what you did just doesn’t matter anymore. Mx

To: Trouble 20/07/2010 01:27:19
Please. Just one reply? I’m really struggling. Mx

From: Izzy 26/07/2010 11:57:23
Hey, just got your messages. I’m so, so sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, but my sister passed away four months ago. I would have been in touch earlier, but I’ve only just managed to face going through her things. I’m so sorry, I know you were close. If it’s any consolation I know how much you meant to her still. There’s an envelope addressed to you that I’ll forward on, I’m not sure what the letter inside says. I’m so sorry. Love, Izzy x

By: Tess

The rose border had been planted by a former resident and, BIll mused, friend. It seemed odd to think of the friends she’d made over the years; all of them outcasts and rejects, often considered the dregs of the social barrel.

She’d been adamant she would not stop opening her home to those who needed it, despite there having been trouble on more than one occasion; most seriously a gentleman who’d bound and beaten her and stolen her mother’s jewellery.  She didn’t care about the money, but it had pained her that he took something so sentimental. She never saw the jewellery again, though he turned up two weeks later in a disused drain. She’d never figured out which of her other gentlemen and ladies might have put paid to him, and preferred not to think of it.

The gentleman who’d planted the rose border had been particularly troubled. She’d never seen him as peaceful as when he’d been in the garden, working away getting his hands dirty. They certainly had been dirty before she met him, too.

He’d gone to ground when he’d been tracked down. At least she hoped he’d gone to ground. No-one had heard from him in eleven years.

The bench by the rose border was her favourite spot. She always felt at peace there and visited it when she could. Especially now, in her advancing years, she needed those moments of relaxation. Those snatched minutes of her own.

The sun was starting to slip from the sky, filling the garden with a beautiful pink glow. Rose, she smiled. Rose pink.

She exhaled, then took a long, deep breath, breathing in the scent of her roses.

Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight.

How appropriate, she thought. She listened to the stillness around her, interrupted only by her tired heart. Tired, but content.

The light in the garden was almost unreal now, so perfect. Just like the roses.