we were inspired by the series The Young Pope where the pope writes a letter about love (see below).
Love lost, love found….. we can’t wait to read your ideas and poems on this topic.
Marie, Jarek, Adam
What is more beautiful, my love? Love lost or love found? Don’t laugh at me, my love. I know it, I’m awkward and naive when it comes to love, and I ask questions straight out of a pop song. This doubt overwhelms me and undermines me, my love. To find… . or to lose? All around me, people don’t stop yearning. Did they lose or did they find? I can’t say. An orphan has no way of knowing. An orphan lacks a first love. The love for his mama and papa. That’s the source of his awkwardness, his naiveté. You said to me, on that deserted beach in California, “you can touch my legs.” But I didn’t do it. There, my love, is love lost. That’s why I’ve never stopped wondering, since that day: where have you been? Where you are now?
And you, the shining gleam of my misspent youth, did you lose or did you find? I don’t know. And I will never know. I can’t even remember your name, my love. And I don’t have the answer. But this is how I like to imagine it, the answer. In the end, my love, we have no choice. We have to find.
The lady from within the walls,
Has no need of wooden doors.
Freely roams from room to room,
Poised in silence ready to loom,
With dark intentions to consume,
No other reason I must assume.
Her incessant taping upon the wall,
Terrified, unable to cry out or call,
Was she invited? No! Not at all.
Silence ensures but wait there’s more,
As she appears from within the wall,
Dark as ebony, slender and so tall!
As she glides towards my bed,
Straining to hear what’s being said,
Persistent whispering in my head.
Paralysed, unable to move a leg,
Fear ensued, filled with dread,
Confronted by a living dead.
Mist swirling in across the moor,
Shrouds the walls of the Great Hall.
A silhouette; childlike at the door,
Stands trembling unable to take anymore.
Swiftly running across cobbled ground,
With Stealth; mindful to make no sound.
Her plight would seem a torrid tale,
Placed in service put up for sale.
Condemned if found to a living hell,
To spend her life in a prison cell.
Escape she must; she cannot fail
Whom to run to whom to tell?
Fleeting feet cross frozen ground,
In the distance baying hounds.
The forest briefly mutes the sounds,
On she runs; fearful of being found.
In the distance, a tavern outside of town,
With a stable to rest in; to lie down.
Almost at once the warmth of dry straw,
Allowing a brief moment to withdraw,
To relive events that took place before.
That fateful night; a hand on her door.
Bleary eyed ignorant of what was in store.
Her weeping mother she’d see no more.
Rancid sack placed upon her head,
Dragged screaming from a comfy bed.
No words are spoken, nothing said,
Why hands are bound and being lead!
Bungled into a beer soaked dray,
Clatter of hooves, she was sped away.
A hand gently placed upon her head,
Eyes open slowly, ‘there’s old Ed’,
Sleeping contently on her bed.
Blissfully, aware to what’s being said,
‘Nay, lass tis now ten years or more,
They’ll be no knocking on our door’.
As I scan the twilight sky, eagerly searching with my eye, for squawking seagulls keen to dine.
Their manic manner such a sign, of trawlers returning from the sea, with nets of fishes we’re guaranteed: a hearty supper for you and me.
Gently chugging into the bay, exhausted fishermen; with nothing to say, look forward to a restful day.
Those with children watch them play, their wives wishing they could stay. Others with hard earned pay, get out eagerly to ‘make hay’,
Wealthy, unashamedly I may not be,
But a truly proud grandma,
Brings much more pleasure for me.
Simple treats not expensive teas,
Romping about, climbing trees.
That’s the world you’ll get from me.
Plenty of hugs and genuine love,
In time watched over from above.
Take my nest cuckoo and enjoy the fruits of my womb.
Discard at will as you have, the runts.
Keeping only the bright baubles,
Like that of the devious Jackdaw.
Once upon a happier time,
You measured wealth by just one of mine.
At the end of my days,
My fortune truly is guaranteed,
A legacy left for all to see.
Family is all that has ever mattered to me.
Sadly true, some leaves have fallen,
By the wayside, far from the tree.
Pray tread gently, for know they are parts of me.
Road trips are fun, I think you’d agree,
Travelling the length of the country,
Sat-Nav gadgets are not for me,
Would rather a road atlas, upon my knee.
With route laid out easy to see,
No fear of a lane sending me up a tree.
Cheerfully we set off smiling, happy and free,
Nomadic life, yeah! That would suit me.
Passing wide open pastures green,
Pretty thatched cottages tantalise me.
Rolling hillsides an idillic scene.
It surely would be, living the dream.
Cities and towns wheezing by,
Villages are gentler on the eye.
Charming hamlets tucked away,
Quaint places for folk to stay.
Visits to the seaside on sunny days,
Sandcastles, rock pools, endless play.
National Trust sites on our list,
Agatha Christie’s not to be missed.
English Heritage now there’s a thing,
Of Ancient Castles, legends, Kings.
Forests and moorland so much to see,
Road trips are truly a must for me.
Lime trees line the ancient streets,
Busy folk bustling beneath their feet.
Stature, serene full of grace.
Proudly standing whence placed
Flowers akin to bobbin lace.
Majestic trees bloom by far the best,
Supremely dwarfing all the rest.
Cascading on boughs,
As if heavenly sent.
With heady, sweet erotic scent.
Etched memories; thoughts of many moons ago,
That time I desperately held on, wouldn’t let you go.
While; ‘messing about on the river’, how apt!
A favourite haunt of ours, that’s a fact!
At the time, maybe aged eight or nine,
Ignoring the prominent, ‘Danger’, sign.
Repeatedly told, ‘that it was unsafe to do so’,
Did we heed the advice? Unfortunately, No!
Losing balance, overboard you toppled and fell,
Immediately began the experience of a living hell.
Into the rivers grotesque murky depths,
Panic ensued, followed by a ‘sixth sense’.
I plucked you safely from her grasp,
Not a second thought, no need to ask.
Wet, bedraggled, in a state of shock,
Relief at what could have been: grateful for our lot.
A friendly Robin stopped by yesterday,
Chirping merrily in his own quaint way.
With a charming message to convey,
Like he does almost every day.
‘Alas no longer with you, unable to stay,
Cruelly, abruptly whisked away.
‘Know I’m with you come what may,
Each and every new born day’.