Your name.

Your name
Is a spector
That haunts every corner
Waiting to snatch back my spirit

Your name
Burns my throat
Melts my words
And the remnants retreat to my stomach

Your name
The incubus
Stealing air from my chest
Invading my dreams and turning them into nightmares

Your name
Is empty and black
It spreads like consumption
Wilting delicate flowers until they crumble to dust

Your name
A malediction

Your name.


The Hopeful vs The Hopeless

The Hopeful

A symposium of angelic harmony greets her

as she arrives in London for the very first time

A new life, a new start and abundant opportunity await

The green plains of the royal parks and public open spaces have essence

of the vast emerald forests which line her home, near the Caspian Sea.

It’s high season in summer and everywhere she looks is beauty;

in the people, in the skies and in the flower beds.

Smiles become infectious when exchanged between strangers and friendships are forged within minutes

Inspiration comes at her from every imaginable angle and she snaps away with her camera phone

noting down areas so she can return with her Canon

Passing by those with freedom of the city

she drops metal coins into hats

It seems she has finally found a place where people look out for each other

and she relishes in the joy and comfort this brings

No problems walking around on her own

and if any arise she takes it all in her stride

and decides she’s just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

London itself will never be blamed

for it plays no single hand in steering ones’ destiny

The only thing it offers is grand opportunity

and will happily provide for whomever requests

The hopeful need nor want for nothing

for it all exists in front of them, laid out in the form of a concrete jungle

Just waiting to be taken for those who believe in it

offering itself in the role of a God.


The Hopeless

A cardboard city within a city of stone

where the homeless and helpless seek solace in similar company

The high-flying stock traders past them morning and evening

never glancing up from the stats on their phones

They share petitions to end hunger on social media and troll Facebook friends for having cold hearts

What a challenge to look past a screen

Although their unkempt clothes should make them stand out

the people in boxes remain as pieces of glass

Shelters are made from discarded papers

the very same ones the city boys read on their warm journey in

Preachers with leaflets stand beside the destitute teaching the lesson of “love thy neighbour”

but seem blind-sided to the plight of the one behind them

It’s the students on government loans that bring food from the supermarket and offer it up to ease the cold winter chill

Clothes drives are organised in universities local to the urban campsite

Yet students are still regarded as a sponge in the societal money pot

soaking everything up and giving nothing back

Where benches once stood now exist sleep inhibitors

spikes sticking out of the floor

Bus stops no longer have level seating

the black plastic bar is angled to make resting impossible

Those falling out of private members clubs think it’s funny to steal hats full of change as a dare

they pay two hundred pounds per month to pay for cocktails on a roof next to a heater

A church congregation takes place near-by with the full attendance of the local acolytes

They entice new parishioners with the promise of free tea and cake

the ones outside remain starving and frozen

Policemen patrol the streets doing their duty to keep the place safe

but they move on the cardboard dwellers and impose dispersal orders

as if a hungry lost soul is a threat

Sign boards and posters make it clear there’s no loitering

whether safe in a group or alone and exposed

For the homeless the city is baron and empty

light doesn’t exist here and life is a black as the dirt on the streets

Desperation does not destroy morality; the absence of empathy achieves this all on its own

But now all they face is trial and redemption for wrongs that they didn’t commit

Wrong place, wrong time; the city dealt a bad hand and now it’s controlling their destiny

With no end in sight and their only relief in the form of a pre-paid hostel

or selling the big issue on baron street corners

The ghosts of the city remain this way

until they disappear from existence

The sun sets as cyclically as their optimism

Such is the result of grand opportunity

conning its way into the hope of the hopeless.

The city takes on the role of God

punishing those it deems unworthy.


 

 

Trivia, 2018

During my 2nd year at Goldsmiths, University of London, I produced the following poem as part of an assignment for the ‘London through Literature’ module. It is a contemporary spin on John Gays 18th century piece ‘Trivia, or the Art of Walking the Streets of London’. (https://archive.org/details/triviaorartwalk00gaygoog/page/n3)


To walk London is a grand show of one’s own affection,

Towards a city offering nothing in the way of direction,

There are pathways and shortcuts that only those born here know

As if it’s a Londoners’ privilege to take the short route home.

Keep your friends on the pavement to be sure you’ve not lost them

Though that’s particularly difficult on a Thursday in Hoxton,

For this is the play day of the inner-city banker

Who keep their beer on the sidewalk as if it were anchor

They don’t seem to mind that its winter outside

As its 2for1 cocktails but they can throw out the ice

Beware the scruffy poet who stands by the corner

He’ll trick you to thinking he’s an urban explorer

He will ask for a word and then give you a rhyme

Then force you to pay for his valuable time

Down to Brick lane as it’s not to be missed

Though avoid all the restaurants that hold a cease and desist

Dodge all the mouse traps and step over the poison

Noticed closed windows that keep the loud noise in

Walk down to the end and find goods in shops marked as vintage

Although all second hand, to buy you’d have to be minted

Here the crowd thickens and so does the air

A hipster adds to the soundscape by playing a snare

The lungs slowly tighten from all the pollution

And unexperienced tourists run around in confusion

They take lots of photos next to a spray-painted wall

Unaware that behind it sits an old music hall

Whether that’s intent or they’re just quite unwitting

You can see how they looked past that as the colours are pretty

The pavement is littered with moped thieves in contention

Who probably wouldn’t think twice to stealing an of age ladies pension

As the sun sets the sirens begin to roar in the distance

Perhaps caution is warranted in this sobering instance

The sidewalk safari slowly intensifies

Retailers close and the roads swept with pesticides

The sweeping is done by a man in machine

By the look on his face though, doesn’t care if its clean

Jump out of the way so you don’t end up underneath it

And into a doorway of an off license that’s heated

As the moon rises, London’s thrown into shadow

Claustrophobia sets in and it reaches a plateau

Hen nights alight the train at the High Street

Moral conduction becomes obsolete

Party members disguised in OTT fancy dress

You do have to wonder if they’re present under duress

You can stroll through dark alleys and get lost in the turns

Be mindful that here the neo-pick pocketer lurks

The unmistakable thump of the base from a nightclub

A mans refused entry and has started a riot

His friends are inside and have been for ten minutes

But the bouncers said no for being over the limit

Defeated he stumbles to purchase a beef bagel

Encroaches passers-by while lamenting his fable

As night turns to morning the roaring turns to a hum

Pale faces are shaking from having far too much fun

They wait for the night bus as the trains have stopped running

A last-minute decision as their Uber’s not coming

The track workers appear in their orange hi-vis

A safety device so their seen in the sunrises mist

The clubs start to close and the offices open

Carnage from drunk folks, a few windows are broken

At this time of morning exist two different commutes

The jaw swinging raver and the men in their suits

The shadows disperse, and the black streets are brightened

Children on school trips run around with excitement

The market is open, the day has now started

A whole day in East London is not for the faint hearted

Out come the brunchers and Instagram models

Who will only take coffee deconstructed in bottles

Parading their dogs in designer ensembles

Half of them don’t realise that they’re pure breeds are mongrels

Lunch time traffic comes to a standstill

The workers head out like tamandua to anthill

The brunchers feel smug being early no doubt

The best food on the menus now completely sold out

Car horns sound off and cabbies start shouting

A result of a city drowning in over-crowding

Walking through London offers a chance for reflection

You realise it runs on total inverted abjection.


 

Purpose


mee
Photographer: Samin Ghiasi

I begin with a photograph of myself, for no other reason than it aiding awkward introduction. I am Jaymie; a historian, a poet and a practising witch.

I have decided to start a blog in hope that it will act as a platform for my writing and research. I will be sharing (as often as possible) my own original poetry, short stories and other creative discourse surrounding my interests

A Historian; I’ll be recounting the first 3 years of my Undergraduate History BA at Goldsmiths, University of London, whilst presenting the research and assignments I am currently undertaking for my final year and dissertation subject.

A Poet; Writing – especially poetry – is my favourite past time and is something that I wish to turn into a life style. I’ll be sharing as much poetry and short stories as time allows, whilst documenting the application process on which I’m about to embark for the Creative Writing Masters degree programme, again at Goldsmiths, UoL (I am extremely loyal).

A Witch; I identify as pagan and I work closely with Hekate in my ritual and spell work. I’d like to use this blog as a way to demonstrate what terms like ‘ritual’ and ‘spellwork’ mean to the modern witch, beyond the realms of Harry Potter and Sabrina.