[I don’t usually write poems, because I’m not really sure how to and I don’t think I’m good at it, but we had a group exercise set a couple of weeks ago to expand on the opening words “I was down that road before” and for some reason, a poem is what came to me so I decided to give it a shot. It might need some more work in future but we’ll see if I ever get the courage to return to it.]


I  was down that road before

In another lifetime

When dreams seemed attainable

And hope was more than a feeling

Now all I gleam are passing shadows

Of a life that could have been

So when I’m glum

I pause and remember

That dreams that haven’t come true

Were probably never meant to be.



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‘Attention all passengers, due to a person on the tracks there will be severe delays to this service.’

Great! All I needed was another delay in my already backlogged life. Did people not consider the rest of humanity before flinging themselves in the path of a speeding train? Not that it couldn’t have been an accident, it was just a bit odd that this was the second time this week the tracks had been closed for the same reason.

I sighed and slumped further into the dark dirty seat, trying hard not to dwell on what I might be sitting on. It was hard not to when you took a look around you and saw the people sitting there with you. There was a teenage girl beside me, who smelt like her shower was calling out to her, and a drooling old man who had been asleep since I got on…

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Chronicles of Tania




But we missed it!



Though we set out at 7am

queued in Wimbledon Park from 8am to 12pm

camped on damp newspapers on the grass

talked to our neighbours

opened umbrellas to shade under scorching sun

or protect us in drizzle.



The queue moved like a sloth

Feet shuffling slowly we got to the grounds eventually

Now which queue to choose?

The one for the toilets, food and drink, the courts or all three?



‘Federer look this way!’ screamed an autograph hunter

A stampede, flash of bulbs, squeals

I tip toed to see over the crowd

Was that a portion of the back of Federer’s head?

I couldn’t be sure.



A trip to the ‘hill’ showed no patch of grass free of human flesh

The sea of faces were glued to the screen which showed Sharapova at some stage…

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truth/un[w]rapping –

The sins of the modern age –
put all sorrow in a cage
mask it with rage
and call it a sin.

Why has humanity always seen open pain as a sin?
Why should the troubled have to explain their sorrow?

Who am I to contest this?

Who are WE?

How can I take you in?
I can barely bear myself
[my sin]
It would encase you in my emptiness,
A sea, nay a river
of soaked wretchedness
and no one would have sought

If you could
transfer the darkness from my
away from your grin
you would see.


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