This academic year LBC has been guiding two young writers through the exciting field of Creative Writing at both AS and A Level. Both writers have enjoyed experimenting with many forms from haikus to movie scripts, with diversions into classical poetry, absurdist drama, metaphysical short prose and even gothic emulations of Edgar Allen Poe. And that’s just skimming the surface! Both Ashwin Sandhu (pictured right) and the enigmatic and elusive B.F. have produced some truly remarkable pieces across many creative writing formats. Below are some examples of their poetic outputs. Both poems display a remarkable potency in terms of language, form, structure, sound, imagery and voice. B.F.’s poem is a very moving vilanelle that speaks of hope in the face of loss and inevitable change. Ashwin’s poem is a visionary metaphorical journey from the city streets of London back through geological and natural forces that have shaped human history and the planet itself. While B.F. entreats us to vanquish our sorrows, Mr Sandhu finds the rat race of modern life a sorrowful cause for deep reflection and interrogation.
Crann Na Beatha II (Tree Of Life) by B.F.
Mourn not Wind’s veering arm, the fall of Leaf. For days shall break as glorious sun sinks. Old shaven Tree is immured not in grief.
A pair know how to, through their stay in brief, And rooted in a herby heat that links, Mourn not Wind’s veering arm, the fall of Leaf.
The tree sways in such curt winds, just as lief; The sexagenarian never blinks. Old shaven Tree is immured not in grief.
With swinging soul, breeze swathes as Tree’s motif Doth paints such arable airs, never jinxs. Mourn not Wind’s veering arm, the fall of Leaf.
Earth’s joints twist; aurete spring can bring relief. Such rich gems bloom, though never same, It thinks. Old shaven Tree is immured not in grief.
Perpetual flares leap aloft; a belief Encased in wooden amber one may glimpse. Mourn not Wind’s veering arm, the fall of Leaf. Old shaven Tree is immured not in grief.
Streets Well Worn by Ashwin Sandhu
I wonder what the rush was rushing to , Which tired strings were pulled to start it all, Which rhythm came and humble tune grew, Why they could not stop to stare and stew, Why time ran fast when it should crawl.
I wonder whether they saw it true, Here where rock sprung from hidden source, Here where sky was bruised with purple hue, How the pavement cracked and weeds stole through, How the tarmac rivers ran their course.
I wonder if they saw days long ago, That was locked in limestone now brittle, That was wrought in bronze and water below, Then no one had rushed and life was slow, Then people saw much, ignored little.
I wonder what the rush was rushing for, Mind locked away, eyes on the floor, Feet on the ground and hearts left indoor, As the rush rushed on with no clue, I wondered why I was rushing too.