I appreciate the fact that some subjects get looked down upon for their being thought of as somehow less important than others, and it’s heartbreaking.
Every subject a student studies is important to them. It moulds and shapes who they become academically and socially. Our cultural capital is of upmost importance. It helps us build friendships and strengthen the bonds we have with each other in finding common grounds.
English Literature and Language as many will know is seen as a compulsory subject up until GCSEs. Which is great for me seeing as that’s what I teach, but it does mean I get every sort of person in my classroom… those who want to be there, those who don’t, and those who really really don’t and will tell you as much.
There is something truly important about studying literature that doesn’t have to be seen as purely compulsory though.
Short and sweet based off a picture I took while teaching in Kiyamandi, a township in Stellenbosch, South Africa. My students came from this township and lived in these shacks.
There is a reason why only one person in my life has access to this poetry blog of mine… for you see if you knew my personal life and my background you’d have a field day analysing this narrative piece.
I’ve been giving in to my burning need to write… I’ve not given any thought as to whether it’s good or not, I’ve just been writing.
The other night I went to the monthly creative writing group and for some reason I was impassioned with inspiration coming from blood, lust, paganism, and witchcraft.
It’s funny how sometimes you just get caught up in a specific inspirational topic.
Anyways, I ended up writing among other bits and pieces, three short narrative works. This being the first.
I always have been and I always will be unapologetic about my body and it’s natural cycle.
Bleeding every month is the sign of a healthy woman. Mother Nature reminds me every month just how precious and vital to life I am.
She reminds me the value I have in her world.
Pain and pleasure I guess does go hand in hand… I’m forever trapped in a cycle of wanting to be hurt to feel alive.
I’ve got a whole poetry scrapbook FULL of poems I wrote when my teenage angst was at its peak. They’re truly awful, but with a bit of heavy editing and the creative surge I’m relishing in at the moment, they’re not turning out to be all that awful.
They’re harrowingly sad, and do obviously expose my past quite explicitly, but it’s cathartic.
M let me rework one of his poems. It’s not better than his original work at all. But I liked the way he put it… “Consider mine the skeleton and yours the flesh.”
I don’t tend to write poetry like this. It’s too simple and too short; but I think it sums up Winchester really rather well.
It paints the image I have in my head so succinctly.
I wasn’t going to post this one… but when your favourite person hypes it up this much you kind of have to.