The Unfinished Heart

[This was part of an assignment for A-Level English Language and Literature as a poetic representation of this painting of Lord Chatterton. Props to my English teacher for the inspiration.]

The heartbroken adolescent, bordering on adult;

Flame-hued curls of a boy, sparse stubble of a man.

One arm trails from the bed like an unfinished sentence,

Unpunctuated and discarded.

Tattered pieces of his broken heart, torn to shreds on the carpet,

On unlined paper, the ink still fresh,

Like a bullet wound to the shoulder- not quite fatal.

He considered, in his final farewell, his once-happy self,

A youthful romance of gaiety and light-headedness,

Her sly smile and storm-cloud eyes flecked with ivy-

The letter penned in her hand.

25.06.11

Wax drips onto watercolour paintings,
Distorting colour and ordered lines,
Geometric shapes oozing through the fabric of the paper.
Picasso wouldn't mind, I suppose-
"Artistic licence" - making something new,
Instead of ruining a classic.
Dali's clocks already melted,
Butter-smooth over wicker branches,
Lazy arms of a dying oak,
Like a banquet waiter, cloth over forearm,
"Anything else, sir?"
Dripping wax like clocks and soft sugar spills,
Butter melting in the sun.

15.06.11

I tiptoe on the edge of life,
Pirouette en pointe between the white and yellow lines
As the train burrows like hot blood through the veins underground,
An arabesque on the cliff's edge, live bait dangled to the darkness below,
And in one wrong move I could be snapped up by the dark.
But as I bend to take my bow, an acknowledgement to my imaginary audience,
The white knight catches my waist, moving me,
And we waltz away from danger, spinning through the forest,
Escaped from a tragic jewellery box entrapment.

NO MEANS NO.

"However we dress, wherever we go, yes means yes and NO means NO!"


Yesterday, I was one of the five-thousand voices chanting in unison in a march against victim-blaming in cases of sexual assault.


"Slutwalk" was sparked by a comment made by a Canadian policeman in January 2011 that "women should avoid dressing like sluts in order to prevent being victimised." Following this, in February, whilst presiding over a rape case, the judge noted that on the evening in question "sex was in the air," and the victim's behaviour and outfit (a tube top and heels) may have given the "wrong impression". Furthermore, the fact that the victim was wearing makeup and had been drinking was also called into question. Although the defendent was found guilty, he was sentenced to two years' probation and was required to write an apology letter to the victim. The typical sentence for a rape crime is at least three years in prison, yet in this case the defendent was not considered a threat to society, merely "insensitive" to the fact that the victim may have been unwilling, and thus served no jail time.


This case caused a massive public outcry and led to the founding of Slutwalk. The co-founders used the word "slut" because that was the word that the Canadian officer originally used to describe women's attire, and because of its negative connotations and frequent offensive usage. It  has historically and consistently been used as a derogatory term to describe sexually promiscuous women, but in context is often merely used as casual insult, perhaps even aimed at those with a non-existent sexual history. The organisers stated that women "are tired of being oppressed by slut-shaming; of being judged by our sexuality and feeling unsafe as a result. Being in charge of our sexual lives should not mean that we are opening ourselves to an expectation of violence, regardless if we participate in sex for pleasure or work. No one should equate enjoying sex with attracting sexual assault."


The original Slutwalk march took place in Toronto on 3rd April 2011, with over three-thousand participants, and then spread internationally to major cities in the US, India, Australia, Africa, Asia and Europe. Yesterday, on 11th June 2011, I took part in the London Slutwalk as one of the five-thousand protesters marching through Piccadilly, chanting slogans such as "However we dress, wherever we go, yes means yes and no means no," "My dress is not a yes," and "Clothes don't rape people, rapists do." Other chants were more specific, such as "We are all chambermaids!", an allusion to the alleged IMF rape of a chambermaid at a Manhattan hotel.


Some protesters, both men and women, dressed in stereotypical "slutty" attire, wearing fishnets, heels, and some only in their underwear, whereas some took the opposite approach and covered themselves as completely as possible, scarves wrapped around their faces and wearing dark sunglasses. Others merely dressed in ordinary clothing, but the message was nevertheless the same; women can be raped no matter how they dress or how they behave. Some held signs bearing their own slogans: "It wasn't my fault," "slut pride" and "just because I dress like a hussy, doesn't mean I want you near my pussy."


As we passed through Piccadilly Circus, construction workers paused in their digging, residents leaned out of windows, and pedestrians stopped in the street to watch the procession. Many of them showed their support by cheering, thrusting their fists in the air, and clapping as we marched past. Once we reached Trafalgar Square, the entire procession assembled to listen to the inspiring yet heartbreaking series of speeches by organisers and representatives, including members of the English Collective of Prostitutes, Women Against Rape, and the Black Women's Rape Action Project, among others.


Although each speech discussed different views, the general idea was altogether the same; speaking out against those who say that women who get raped are "asking for it" by the way they dress, the way they walk or if they were flirting or under the influence of alcohol. Against cuts to rape crisis centres, and virginity tests forced upon asylum-seekers to determine the "good" women from the "bad" ones. Supporting women who are disbelieved in court due to their sexual history, sexual orientation, skin-colour or social class; women who are disbelieved because they are less attractive than their alleged rapist; women who feel they cannot come forward for fear of deportation of arrest; women who lose the power of speech and are unable to report the crime.


Slutwalk, for me, was an eye-opening, truly inspirational experience, and I urge women and men everywhere to stand up for the human right to feel safe in their home country, with a police force who protect them and a government who supports them. Speak out and stand up- NO-ONE deserves to be raped.

When the Aliens Come

When the aliens come, they will snatch up the bankers,

The lawyers, attorneys in three-piece-suit languors,

They’ll prod them and probe them for more information,

And then, those aliens will come back for the nation.

They’ll snap up the babies in buggies and prams,

And the kids who sell tabloids at newspaper stands,

And once they’ve devoured their fill of the gossip,

They’ll  come back and steal the ones who have lost it.

They’ll take all the people who’s minds have all melted,

The loons and the crazies getting high off their felt-tips,

The ones whose lips trail long strings of drool,

Who foam at the mouth and giggle like fools.

They’ll abduct all the teachers who’re sick of their jobs,

The chavs and the townies and back-alley yobs.

They’ll sneak in through the chimney on good Christmas eve,

Take all of your presents and Christmas-tree leaves,

They’ll take all your toys and your books and your dog,

They’ll steal your parents and sneak out through the fog.

And finally, they will take everyone famous,

Authors and actors from the great to the shameless,

Stars born in poverty who then made it to millions,

Who walked down the red carpet dressed in vermillion,

They’ll take the whole country and squeeze onto their spaceship,

Take off through the galaxy with the sound of a whip.

And once they are gone, you’ll be left on this planet,

With nothing but memories and a spare tennis racket.

For a century you’ll wander around like a shrew,

And silently wonder why they didn’t take YOU.

Away Message

Dear Readers,

 

The writer of this blog has recently been swallowed by the Revision Beast. He comes in the form of many textbooks, countless reams of lined paper, and coloured flashcards. He feeds on stress and coffee, emitting only average grades. For the time-being, she will be unable to post on her blog. Please excuse the interruption. We assure you, it is for a viable cause. She will be returned relatively unharmed in early June.

 

Sincerely,

AQA and Edexcel

Friday Is the New Black.

Do you know what day it is? Have you checked your calendar? Does your watch have a day-of-the-week setting? Well, for those of you who have been in prison or living in a cave for the past seven days, it's Friday, Friday, Friday.

For the benefit of the lucky few whose ears have not yet been assaulted by what is now being widely referred to as "the worst thing that has ever happened to the music industry", click here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CD2LRROpph0. For a video with so many views, it seemed impossible to find for all the parodies, song analyses, reviews and interviews that followed.

Thirteen-year-old singer Rebecca Black released her first single, "Friday" on March 14th, which over the weekend went viral for all the wrong reasons. The comments on the YouTube video ranged from "horrible" to "I hope you cut yourself and die," whislt the rest of us just clap our hands over our ears and hope to God that sometime soon we'll get it out of our heads.

From the onset, the video makes a mockery of itself. Rebecca Black's alarm clock rings at 7am and she sits up in bed, her hair curly and wearing full makeup, and in case we didn't know what was going on, she sings in a monotone, "7am, wakin' up in the morning, gotta be fresh, gotta go downstairs." And all of a sudden she's fully clothed, standing downstairs with straight hair, and her monotone continutes: "Gotta have my bowl, gotta have cereal... tickin' on and on, everybody's rushing." That's funny, because when I'm late for school I always have time to straighten my hair and make a music video.

The song continues, and Rebecca proceeds to tell us that she's "gotta get down to the bus stop, gotta catch my bus." Wait. Hold it. You catch buses at bus stops? I always wondered what they were for... Well, don't leave us in suspense, Rebecca- do you catch your bus or don't you?

No, she doesn't. Her friends pull up in their silver convertible and are adamant that she get in the car. Yes. Because all thirteen-year-olds in the US can drive. And own convertibles. They're kickin' in the front seat. They're sitting in the back seat. Which seat can she take? CRISIS. Don't worry, Rebecca, we'll do the maths. If the car seats five and there are two people in the front, and two people in the back, we strongly advise that you sit in the only seat available.

She then proceeds into a chorus where the words "fun" and "partyin'" are used more times than Justin Beiber has ever used the word "baby".

Strangely enough, the young "star" is not fazed by the intense hatred and general negativity towards her. In fact, in an interview, she expressed her glee at the fact that "even if they don't like my song, it's still stuck in their heads," which may be the most spiteful comment I've ever heard from a thirteen year old. In fact, she has already planned to release an album as well as a new single, "LOL". I hope she knows that most will "lol" at her, not with her.