Wayne Marlais Hopkins

June is a lovely month for gardens. The herbaceous borders are so fabulously colourful and there's a lot of fresh vegetables coming through. I'm particularly loving the bearded iris and picking out the best strawberries for my mistress.

Hide and Seek

Hide and seek, says the Wind,
In the shade of the woods;
Hide and seek, says the Moon,
To the hazel buds;
Hide and seek, says the Cloud,
Star on to star;
Hide and seek, says the Wave,
At the harbour bar;
Hide and seek, say I,
To myself, and step
Out of the dream of Wake
Into the dream of Sleep.

- Walter de la Mare

Happy Birthday Sally

Sunlight shimmers off the lake
Weeping willows caress the earth
Flock of rooks fly ahead
Caw, caw, caw.

Breezes brush against your face
Scent of blossom pervades the air
Water laps round your toes
Close your eyes: you're there

A fragile shell
A child within
Unborn
Unfeeling
Uncooked

Crack it open
It's runny and raw
You can squidge the bit
That could have been a chick
If only there'd been
A rooster

An egg
Is apparently
Not edible enough
So we had to make one out of
Chocolate

Break it open
And inside
Not a baby
But something sweet
To gobble up

And meanwhile
Christians
Go to church
And actually
Do something
Other than pig out
There's meaning
And virtue

And tomorrow
They'll still be singing
Hallelujah
While the rest of us
Just feel kind of sick
They get eternal life
We get nausea
No fair

Still
At least
There's chocolate
Today

A man said to the universe:
"Sir, I exist!"
"However," replied the universe.
"The fact has not created in me
A sense of obligation."

- Stephen Crane

In this short Life
That only lasts an hour
How much - how little - is
Within our power

- Emily Dickinson (again)

It is amazing the difference it can make, seeing an old friend who doesn't torture you.


Sit with your friends; don't go back to sleep.
Don't sink like a fish to the bottom of the sea.

Surge like an ocean,
don't scatter yourself like a storm.

Life's waters flow from darkness.
Search the darkness, don't run from it.

Night travellers are full of light,
and you are too; don't leave this companionship.

Be a wakeful candle in a golden dish,
don't slip into the dirt like quicksilver.

The moon appears for night travellers,
be watchful when the moon is full.

- Rumi

I am quiet. I know I am quiet. I am sorry. I just don't seem to have much to say right now. I read your entries and feel I should respond but what with I cannot think. But I am here, and I am fine, and if you think I should have commented, I am sorry. It is not that I do not care.

Pain - expands the Time -
Ages coil within
The minute Circumference
Of a single Brain -

Pain contracts - the Time -
Occupied with Shot
Gamuts of Eternities
Are as they were not -

- Emily Dickinson

Last Christmas I didn't know it was Christmas. This Christmas... I miss my family.

I think the thing I find harder than anything else in poetry is trying to recreate a feeling after it has passed. There are so many compositions I have begun and never been able to finish. I started a great number in Azkaban, and now I find I cannot even begin to imagine myself back into the state of mind I was in then - or perhaps I do not want to. Here are a few examples of works-in-progress, in varying degrees of completeness. The moments have, perhaps, passed.

( Wayne's uncomplete poems )

Is there anything feels so good beneath your fingers as sweet, fresh earth?

No, that is not a rhetorical question. If you can think of anything, let me know. But keep it clean please, or at least hex it if you can't.

Where there was bleakest darkness now shines light;
Where there was only tightness in my chest;
Where there was struggle, nay, I may say fight;
Quite suddenly I find there now is rest.

The constant presence of those creatures vile
Has lifted, letting me alone at last.
And yet it faintly lingers still a while;
I cannot quite believe that era past.

And freed of this great burden, write, my pen!
And write I can, my mind now clear and free.
Perhaps I may write happy tales again,
So glad am I for what has passed for me.

To my new mistress, all I have I give:
I thank you for the second chance to live.

I had a nightmare. I am unsure how long it lasted, but I believe the sun rose and set several times. Then I could not remember if it were a nightmare or a memory, and could not open these pages for fear. Finally I accomplished this feat, and endeavoured to write poetry for those who have requested it of me, but none was forthcoming. Eventually I managed to compose a comic poem, finding that writing things I do not feel was easier than writing things I do.

Charlotte's poem
(in response to that which she so kindly graced me with)

My bosom trembles more than yours -
I am bigger; my bosom is larger.
My heart, it aches much more than yours -
I am bigger; my heart beats harder.
My plaintive words are more profound -
I'm a man; my speech is deeper.
Each tear I shed has real meaning -
I'm a man; I'm not a weeper.
Oh, woman, woman, how you moan!
You've done it for so long!
But I will face it bravely;
I'm a man, you see, and strong.

The bear went over the mountain
The bear went over the mountain
The bear went over the mountain
To see what he could see
But all that he could see
But all that he could see
Was the other side of the mountain
The other side of the mountain
The other side of the mountain
Was all that he could see


I can see why I got that in my head.

I've got a nursery rhyme in my head, and I don't remember the words.

The One Certainty - Christina Rossetti

Vanity of vanities, the Preacher saith,
All things are vanity. The eye and ear
Cannot be filled with what they see and hear.
Like early dew, or like the sudden breath
Of wind, or like the grass that withereth,
Is man, tossed to and fro by hope and fear:
So little joy hath he, so little cheer,
Till all things end in the long dust of death.
To-day is still the same as yesterday,
To-morrow also even as one of them;
And there is nothing new under the sun:
Until the ancient race of Time be run,
The old thorns shall grow out of the old stem,
And morning shall be cold and twilight grey.

Sometimes I find it very strange that Christina Rossetti was a Christian.

Mornings are the worst. To wake and wish that you hadn't, even before you are properly conscious. Even nightmares are a blessed relief from the dullness and darkness of prison.

I thought that being able to communicate with the world outside these grim walls would make their shadows a little lighter, but alas! It seems the more I read, the more I am reminded of all that I did and can do no more, and all I will now never do.

A book! They have furnished me with a book! How clean and white the pages are! I do not think I have ever seen anything so beautiful, at least not in a long while. I have scribbled on the walls with a stone for so long that I believe I had forgotten how elegant and easy a quill is. It seems almost as though there is no interim between thought process and record, so speedily does it write. I think... I think my handwriting is poor, however. I can barely read it, although that could also be the light. Can you read it? How tragic, that I can finally learn about the outside world but my writing is so sloppy I cannot communicate with it. That is typical of this place.

So long. So long, and I cannot think what to write. My cell is small and dark, but there is a window, high up. One day a robin sat on the ledge and I could see its underbelly. I composed a poem in its honour, but it was a happy poem, so I have forgotten it. I can only recall the sorrowful ones, now, my own and of others. Perhaps, with a journal, I could record those rare pleasant moments, or at least decide once and for all that they are an illusion. I have sometimes wondered why, in such a miserable place, there is any happiness at all. I suspect that without moments of hope, despair loses some of its sting. It is the expectation of depression, the precariousness of light feeling, and the intense pain of the fall, that is the key to true suffering.