TMA3

Here is my TMA3, where we were required to submit a total of 40 lites of poetry across one or more poems.  I dropped another few marks but still in a decent mark so I'm not too upset.  I am, however, frustrated with myself at where I lost the marks: archaic language and word inversion.  My tutor said I would have gained an 'excellent' had I not had these.  Also and unsurprisingly my weakest lines were the ones I threw in to make up the word limit.  So I must try harder!

Not sure the formatting here will work on the first poem - I used tabs to align the '/'s but even all squished up I think you can see what I was trying to do.

As ever, feedback welcome.

My Dichotomy

last night was the best of my life              / last night was the worst of my life

i could think of nothing but you                / i could think of nothing but you

the soft brush of your beard on my lips  / the tightening of your hands round my heart

the sensuous stroke of your fingers         / the brutal assault on my senses

the naked honesty in your eyes               / naked without my lies

it terrifies me                                              / it terrifies me

how much caring for you pleases me    / how much caring for you will cost me

my joy rebounds tenfold                          / my fear takes control

forever will i remember that time         / forever will i regret that time

when we first shared each other          / when i lost myself in me

you mastered the moment                    / you missed the moment

when you held me with your eyes        / when i turned to hide my eyes

blinking away threatened tears             / blinking away threatened tears

a whirlpool of emotions                         / a whirlpool of emotions

and how i pray our hope never ends   / and how i know that when hope ends

it nourishes me                                       / it will diminish me

i have faith in our strength of will        / i'll have nothing left, not strength nor will

to see us through the challenges        / to see me through the aftermath

to keep this treasure, newly found    / renewed again, this pain of old

enclosed within my heart                      / enclosed within my heart

(20 lines)

Fault lines

Swollen cheek, tender and sore,

vicious tongue tied to the ground,

go on, push me just once more,

I'll get right up off the floor

quickly and without a sound,

swollen cheek, tender and sore,

get my things out of your drawer,

thrown together in a mound,

go on, push me just once more.

Leave my baggage at the door

where it will be easily found,

swollen cheek, tender and sore,

with my eyes a hole I'll bore

into your head when you abound,

go on, push me just once more.

Always wanting something more:

life without me being around.

Swollen cheek, tender and sore.

Go on; push me, just once more.

(19 lines)

TMA2

As before just had my marks and whilst I'm slightly disappointed to have dropped one (that's right, a single!) mark it's a nitpick and a gripe and frankly I should just stfu! (For my OU homies click here if you don't know what stfu means!)

Like last time the assignment was in two parts: a piece of fiction (this time substantially larger) and a commentary (which I won't post).

My fiction is as follows!

Riot

'Interview commencing seventh of August 2011, time 1104 hours. Interviewing officer is PC Blonik. Interviewee, one Ms Georgina Tzavaras. Interviewee has declined the offer of counsel.

'So, Ms Tzavaras, can you tell me where you were yesterday at approximately 1400 hours?'

I told Nona I was going to the shop. She'd never approve of me going to a demonstration. As if it was something our family wasn't part of back in Greece! But unlike the riots there this is a peaceful demonstration. I didn't know Mark Duggan but this is my home and I'll be damned if I let the police shoot one of our own with no explanation.

'I was at the vigil outside of this station. You know that.'

'Indeed. And did you arrive with anyone?'

'No, I came on my own, but my friends, Tom and Manpreet, had both posted on Facebook that they'd be there so I went and found them in the crowd.'

'Why had the three of you decided to come to this unauthorised protest?'

'Unauthorised? Well I suppose it was, but we have a right to peaceful protest and...'

'Ms Tzavaras I'm not here to discuss the law with you.'

'Fine. We came because one of your lot shot one of ours. I – we – wanted answers; you can't just shoot people, and whatever trouble Mark might have been in he wasn't a threat to...'

'Just answer the questions, please. So you arrived on your own and met up with friends who were already there. What can you tell me about these friends of yours?'

'Why don't you ask them?'

'I'm asking you because you're here and they're not. Tell me about your friends.'

'What do you want to know? They're both locals like me, though Tom is a student at UEL whilst me and Mani study at Birkbeck. Look, we just wanted answers, why did you shoot Mark when he wasn't armed? He hadn't threatened anyone and was doing what you said then you just...'

'Tom – you know him well?'

'Yeah, we've been mates since we were at school together.'

'His surname?'

'Whittaker, why? Why are you so interested in Tom?'

'Please, just answer the questions.'

'Fine.'

'Had you or your friends come prepared for the demonstration? Did you bring anything with you?'

'How do you prepare for a demonstration? Surely you just turn up?'

'You know, placards, banners, that sort of thing.'

'Oh, right. Well yeah, I guess. I'd printed off a paper banner in case there were cameras, Tom had his megaphone, although he takes it with him wherever he goes anyway, and Mani had her airhorn that she normally uses at footy matches.'

'So no bricks, or... anything else that might be used as a weapon?'

'No, nothing like that. Like I said, it was a peaceful demonstration, why would we bring shit like that?'

'Ok. So tell me, what happened at this demonstration of yours?'

The crowd just keeps on growing. Within half an hour it's gone from about twenty of us to nearly three hundred. People have brought home made banners, whistles and other noise-makers. Someone must have called the tv channels as there are cameras setting up. Flashes go off constantly as journalists capture stills of the demo. I tried to hide in the crowd; Nona would have a heart attack if she opened the paper to find a picture of me inside!

Tom was shouting down his megaphone leading the crowd in chants demanding justice for Mark. He was exhorting the crowd to demand that the police come and speak to us, give us answers. Trust Tom – he's been on more demonstrations than I've had hot dinners! He wears his Kuffiya as a badge of pride, though I think it's more to piss off The Right than anything else.

'We were chanting, making our voice heard. We were there for hours and you guys just sat in here, ignoring us! All we wanted was answers! Why couldn't you have given us that much, at least?'

'The demonstration. Tell me what happened.'

From out of nowhere things start being thrown. Rocks, bricks, bits of metal. I have no idea what. The first one hit the window of a police van in front of us, smashing it to pieces, but I don't see where the rest of the barrage is thrown because I duck down and try to cover my head so I'm not hurt.

After it seems to have stopped I look up and there's chaos. It looks like a movie set. It looks nothing like a street five minutes walk from my home.

There are screams, whistles, horns. Someone crouched on the floor next to me is sobbing into their hands. I try to comfort her but my words get lost in the noise. I can see she's bleeding from her temple and dig out some tissue from my bag to help her try to stop the bleeding.

'You saw what happened. People started throwing things – it got violent. Things were smashed, the police van, the windows at the front of the station. It wasn't us who were demonstrating, we were peaceful! It's some others who arrived, it must have been. We just wanted answers, I swear!'

'Did you see any others arrive?'

'No – I was at the front of the demo, I couldn't see past the front few lines and all the banners and placards.'

'Carry on.'

The sobbing woman's head is still bleeding but it's slowed down a lot. How can things change so quickly? My heart jumps into my mouth when there is an explosion just ten metres away. The police van. The screams become louder, the shouting angrier. I only realise I've been screaming when I pause to take in a smoke-filled breath that nearly chokes me.

There are people everywhere. There's broken glass everywhere, and blood, and things, smashed, unrecognisable things.

All of a sudden the crowd has become a mob. Somehow I'm on my feet, pushed along in a series of peristaltic thrusts, literally bouncing between people. I don't know what's going on – how did this happen?

The mob is moving at a fast pace. I stumble but am forced to walk through the pain. I honestly think I'll be trampled to death if I stop or even slow down.

I try to take in what I can see around me. I can see Tom, Kuffiya torn and bloodied, throwing what looks like a brick at a window. I must be confused – it must be someone else?

'I was swept away with the crowd. I didn't have a choice! I couldn't get out! I was trapped!'

'Take a breathe. Have this tissue. There now. You want a coffee? Right. Interview suspended at 1118 hours.'

Whistles, burglar alarms, fire alarms, police sirens, yells, cheers, the whoosh of flames following the shattering gunshot-bang of another exploding car. I'm not religious but this is as close to hell as anything Nona ever told me about.

Someone's shouting over the din and somehow I can hear him. He's waving to the mob, standing in the wreckage of a shop window. He's got his hood up but I can see the grin on his face as he beckons people with one arm. He's carrying a flat screen tv in the other.

Just like that, as quick as thought, the crowd births another tendril as a surge of people flood towards the store, intent on pillage. How can anyone be thinking about looting at a time like this? I just want to get out of here!

'Feeling better? Good. Let's carry on then. Interview recommenced at 1136 hours. So, Georgina, can I call you Georgina?'

'Sure.'

'Georgina, tell me about what happened as you entered Stainby Road.'

'I wasn't at the front any more. I was stuck in the middle, so I could hardly see anything, just the other people in front and besides me. It was body to body, no room to move and no room to breathe. I just focused on putting one foot in front of the next. I'd twisted my ankle and it really hurt but I didn't dare stop.

'I don't know exactly how I knew we were on Stainby Road from what I could see. I guess it's just because it's my home street. I must have looked up and recognised the buildings or something.'

Again I somehow pick out a single shriek of terror and, identifying Manpreet, struggle all the harder to find my friend. She's right next to me. I hold her hand as she looks at me, still shrieking like she's a cat with its tail on fire. Her normally flawless make-up is in streams down her face. Somehow that makes everything worse.

'People were throwing things, smashing shop windows, but house windows too! And people must have stopped throwing bricks and started throwing petrol bombs or something because fire was everywhere. I couldn't believe it! This was my home! What were people doing to it?'

Still clasping on desperately to my hand, Mani starts to drag me and I follow where she leads. The crowd is thinner now that people have hurtled off to loot or burn or smash on other streets.

Choking on smoke I realise that I'm stood outside my own home. The windows are smashed. There is fire inside. Thrusting my hand into where my bag should be only to realise it's missing I start bashing, kicking, howling at my front door. Where's my key? Nona! Nona!

'I couldn't get in! I was so terrified, so scared for my Nona! She must've been out of her mind with fear! She hates fireworks and bonfires. My God, I was so scared for her!'

'There, there. Take a sip of your coffee. Calm down. Take deep breaths. I just want to know what you saw. I don't think you did anything wrong.'

'Thanks. I didn't want it to be like that, I swear I didn't! It was just supposed to be a peaceful protest, not a riot!'

'I know, I know. I just need to you tell me about the people you saw who were committing crimes. What happened when the fire-fighters arrived?'

I must have looked like a looter because the fire-fighters just pushed me out of the way before taking a sledgehammer to my front door. I was screaming for my Nona. Mani was gone. I was on my knees sobbing in fright and pain.

I don't know how long I was there. People kept stumbling over me but I refused to move. Something hit me on the back of my head and I could feel blood, hot and sticky, torrenting down my back. I remembered that you're supposed to put pressure on wounds to stop the bleeding. I just pushed with my empty hand. Nona! Please be all right!

Thank God! It's Nona! One of the fire-fighters is carrying her out over his shoulder. But she's asleep. No! Not asleep, unconscious! Nona!

'They got through the fire. They saved my Nona. They saved her life! But they wouldn't let me come with her to the hospital! They pushed me out of the way and sped off! I was so scared for her – I thought she was dead!

'Then your lot arrived. I was bleeding and sobbing and one of you bastards threw me to the ground. He kicked me whilst I was on the floor! Then forced my arm behind my back, so hard I thought he was going to break it. He pressed down on my back through his riot shield whilst he scrabbled to handcuff me. Then he dragged me to my feet and pushed me.

'Another officer was waiting to catch me, and she bundled me into a police van. There were already other people in there, and it was nearly full.'

Just as they were about to leave they threw in Tom. He was handcuffed, he had blood all over his face and he stank of smoke. But he was grinning, having the time of his life. I couldn't understand it. I shouted from the other end of the van to get his attention and he nodded in acknowledgement, smirking as he announced how much fun he was having.

'I need to know who you remember, who you might recognise from the riot. They are the people we want. Tell us what we need to know then I can take you back to the hospital to be with your Nona.'

'They were wearing hoods or scarves over their faces. And there were so many of them. Hundreds of them. I barely recognised my street and I've lived there for 20 years! I didn't recognise anyone!'

'I see. Nobody? Any information you can give us would be helpful. What happened to your friends? You said you were separated from Manpreet, have you heard from her? And what about Tom? Had you seen him since the beginning of the demonstration?'

I can see Tom, Kuffiya torn and bloodied, throwing what looks like a brick at a window. I must be confused – it must be someone else?

'Yes.'

'I see. Tell me more about your friend, Tom Whittaker...'

_______________

So there we go, one entirely fictional account of a dramatised 2011 London Riots.  As I said, happy with the mark though I can see one comment which was borderline throw-away cost me at least one mark.  At least I referenced properly this time ;)

Exercise on a memory

One of my exercises that inspired me was where I had to recall a moment in my past and write it in the present tense.  I'm not sure what inspired me to write this piece, but here you go:

I'm really thirsty. I can still taste and smell the chlorine from the swimming pool water. The splashing and playful shouting of the pool downstairs is drowned out by the churning of the Slush Puppy machine. I think I want a red one. I feel water trickling from my hair down the back of my neck and my t shirt sticks to the still wet bits. I'm mortified as I have no money – I'm only 8 or so years old – and have always been told by my parents not to ask for things as it's rude. But I'm thirsty and Adam's mum, Felicity, has always been so nice to me. I stroke my throat, somewhat obviously, and find myself saying 'I'm thirsty'. I think I'm being clever: I'm not asking for anything, so I can't possibly be rude. This, I think, is a stroke of genius and I feel quite self-congratulatory. Pausing whilst wrangling her son, Felicity somehow manages to smile and scowl whilst saying 'if you want a drink you only have to ask'. For some reason my stroke of genius makes me feel ashamed as I mumble an affirmative and ask for a glass of water in self-punishment, not asking for the Slush Puppy I want because I've made Felicity feel bad.

TMA1

Just had my marks and comments back from my tutor about my first assignment.  I was very happy with both, and the comments were actually useful rather than just cursory which is great.

The assignment consisted of two parts, a guided freewrite (where you start with an image, theme, whatever, and develop it almost as a stream of consciousness) for which I chose 'a fallen tree', and a short piece of fiction inspired by, but not necessarily based on, the freewrite.

Here's what I wrote for the freewrite:

Blocking the path a barrier to passage, door guardian, sentinel of the dead, keeping watch over its charge. A bouncer at a club – roughness, aggression rather than assertiveness. The moment of falling before the impact – the straw that breaks the camel's back, broken thing not working as it should, fallen soldier laying on the battlefield, war of nature versus artifice, chainsaws and axes, humans destroying their environment, intention versus action. Gravity felling mighty behemoths, old, ancient, watcher of the passage of years – wisdom, venerable, powerful, knowledgeable. Giants looking down up us all. A messenger diverted to another path gets lost. A storm – nature's way of culling the weak. Survival of the fittest – the rat race: commuting in squashed underground carriages, no light for days, no life for years. Falling down with weariness – giving up, giving in, all too much. Cut down in its prime – not its time. Seize the day for tomorrow may never come, wasted opportunities, regrets, remorse and retrospect. The three Rs – learning the basics, so easy yet so difficult to grasp. Reaching branches flailing as the tree fails like a drunken old man kicked out of a bar, regretting what got him to where he is now and hating what could have been so much, much more.

In all I was pretty happy with it, it was about 50 words under the 300 limit so I could have expanded but I stopped once I had hit inspiration.

The fiction I wrote was:

Home

You stumble again, barely catching yourself on a nearby concrete bollard outside the Legion. Your trousers are covered in dirt and holes and semi-dried blood from previous falls of minutes yet only feet ago. Your scuffed, holey shoes let the puddle water soak your crusty feet. You want another drink.

You're not entirely sure why they threw you out; you might have been a bit loud but that didn't usually bother them. Perhaps it was when you grabbed that lass' bottom, but she seemed up for a laugh! Didn't she try and kiss you outside the toilets?

You stumble again only this time there is no bollard to catch you. Hands surf on the tarmac and you plough furrows in your own flesh before coming to a halt. You lie there, broken, a fallen tree.

Your kids are at home. By now they will have made themselves dinner, maybe done their homework if they can be bothered, and have probably broken into your six-pack of beer . Little buggers! Still, you suppose, you should have hidden it better: the box of Christmas decorations under the stairs was far too obvious. Had you hidden beer there before? You can't remember.

You give passing thought to getting up to try walking home again. It's not far but ten yards might as well be ten miles right now. And you're starting to get comfortable. Cold, wet, bleeding, tired, drunk. But comfortable. At least the kids won't wake you up if you sleep here. What time is it? You realise as soon as you ask that you don't bloody care.

Still, what if the wee bairns haven't found your stash? At least you could salvage the rest of the night if you can only drag your arse home. Face down on the path that smells vaguely of kebab and dog urine, beard tickled by the smattering of weeds that desperately claw their way through the pavement. You give your hands the vaguest twitch just to check that they're there and still working. They grudgingly respond to your febrile mastery. You want another drink.

You plant one hand, then the other, either side of your head dimly aware that one of them is in a puddle. You slowly, agonisingly slowly, lever yourself onto all fours. You've ripped your t-shirt, which is filthy and sodden. And where's your coat? No wonder you're bloody cold! You think about heading back to the Legion to get your coat but know Rab on the door won't let you in to find it. Bastard. A man your age should be treated with a little dignity and respect. Bastard.

You can feel yourself starting to get maudlin and know you need to focus on something or else you'll be weeping where you're not-yet-standing. You put all your energy into taking the weight off of one knee and quickly – well, as quickly as you're able – putting your foot down. Success. You repeat the trick and mentally give yourself a round of applause when you find yourself standing. You start again in a homewards direction.

You think about cuddling up to your wife when you get home, mentally catching yourself, cursing her for leaving you and trying to focus on that lass from the pub. Yeah, she would have appreciated a man like you. You could have shown her a good time if Rab hadn't chucked you out. Why did they throw you out?

A fit of sneezing distracts you and you stop to count them: three, no four sneezes in a row. That last one was sneaky. Well that's about as much excitement as you can take right now.

Distantly you can make out chimes from the town clock, and you struggle to concentrate but think you heard 11.45 – still early yet! Definitely crack into those beers once you get home.

You stumble again but a traffic cone, wobbling all the while, just about breaks your fall long enough for you to regain your balance. Not far till home now.

I enjoyed writing the piece, and noted in my commentary the similarities between this character and Shameless' Frank Gallagher.  I enjoyed working with the second person point of view, something I'd only tried once before at the workshop for the course.  I'm not sure I could sustain it for a much longer piece; it seems like a stylistic statement for the sake of it!  That said, I could definitely see myself using it for shorter pieces in the future, and also, perhaps, for select and infrequent characters in larger works.  I definitely want to try using the second person perspective in poetry.

The comments I got were fair, as was the docking of a mark because I didn't do any references (I have no idea how to reference a tv show!).  I want to try and build up this character a little for future exercises, though perhaps not assignments.

All in all, very happy with my mark, appreciated the feedback and can now concentrate on working towards the next assignment!