Words, Words, Words

The Glastonbury Tales

18 Jul 2011 3 Comments

by RJH in Poetry Tags: advanced higher, alcohol, atmosphere, beckyhurt, chaucer, english, festival, folio, glastonbury, heroic couplets, iambic pentameter, long, places, poem, poetry, rebeccahurt, rhyme, rhythm, rjhurt, tales, writer, writing

In summer sun the festival takes place,
When many thousands crowd into the space
Surrounding Glastonbury. They make such noise
It’s hard to think they’re merely girls and boys.
Above them all the clouds stay out of sight
Throughout the day and well into the night.
The stars they shine, the moon it guides the way
Until the morn begins another day.
Another day of sun, of cloudless sky;
A thousand sweaty people squeezing by.
The people surge, I struggle my way through
The bulking, tow’ring ones who block my view.
The atmosphere’s so close I cannot breathe,
I must get out, my lungs I must relieve.
The music blares, the drums, guitars all screech
And hands stretch up to heavens out of reach.
A common love of music brings us here,
And soon a common kinship will appear.

All eyes they focus on the stage ahead
As burning sun beats down upon their heads.
Throughout, the fields resound with pulsing beats;
A paradox of Dissonance and Peace.
The squelching mud beneath my boots grows thick,
In order not to sink I must move quick.
Stampeding feet destroy all grass around,
So I attempt to find some pleasant ground.
A tranquil spot is found off to the side
And others here avoid the swelling tide.
We lie around and listen to the songs,
We talk and laugh, drift amiably along.
Despite the fact that none of them are friends,
We each begin our tales as others end.

Some students dwelled among those in the crowd.
They talked, they sang, they drank, they partied loud.
A group of three took refuge from the fun
Among our lot who gathered in the sun.
The first she faced the sun, the orange glow
Showed porcelain skin as pale as winter snow.
Her hair was dyed, her clothes were mostly black
And names of bands were stitched on her rucksack.
Her eyes were blue, and nervously did dart,
She seemed at every sudden sound she’d start.
This girl she was a student of the Arts;
She claims she felt the rhythm in her heart
And had to take the path her fate had set;
She couldn’t face the world filled with regret.
Her home-town friends, they never understood
Her need to leave her tiny neighbourhood,
Get out and find the things that would seem new,
Discover who she was, just get a clue
To what the world might hold, aside from hate.
She had to go before it was too late.
It seemed her hunger lay with written words,
Devouring every book, she seemed absurd.
She saw the might that Pen and Paper held
And wrote down everything her mind expelled.
A world she could create with her own ink,
Her hands, her mind, she only had to think.
Shut off from all distractions she did go
Exploring things she thought she’d never know.
From urban life in cities to the world
Beyond the sea. Imagination whirled
And danced around her till she found that she
Could be whatever she would like to be.

She told her tale and slowly sipped her drink,
Her friends they were too drunk to even think.
Their hair in disarray, their clothes all stained.
I asked, was her enthusiasm feigned?
Behind her jet black hair she muttered, “no”,
Although, at times she felt it all a show.
Her bony fingers clutched her bottle tight
And then she stood and wandered out of sight.
Her vintage clothes hung loose despite her frame
She never did return, nor give her name.

And now we see the unemployed man;
He’s with his son; the boy lives with his Gran.
The father’s clothes, their colours seems to fade;
They’re caked in stains with edges badly frayed.
His cotton jumper hangs upon his back
All focus in his gaze he seems to lack,
A stubble lingers on his bony chin
And dirt infests his grubby nails and skin.
He slumps, and in his drunken stupor sips
The drink that seems to never leave his lips.
In alcohol his very soul seems drenched,
We keep our distance to avoid the stench.
Affording food’s the father’s main concern
But money’s difficult for him to earn.
The mother left her son at one year old,
She “couldn’t cope with stress”, so he was told.
His father scrimped and saved to make ends meet;
His sister had to save him from the street,
She helped him get a mediocre job,
But cannot stop him boozing at the pub.
“Relieving pressure”; this is why he drinks,
Without it he’s just tott’ring on the brink
Of self-destruction, with that comes more pain,
No alcohol might mean he goes insane.
(Just now he’s drinking as I watch him talk.
His eyelids droop, he slurs, can barely walk.)
His son is silent, never speaks a word;
The ones his father shares are always slurred.
Although he shows no signs of life it’s clear
That all he wants to do is disappear.
The boy, he watches but avoids all eyes
(Just once he moves and causes much surprise).
He stands and reaches deep into his bag
And then we watch him whilst he smokes a fag.
His body language calms as he forgets
His father, future, and his past regrets.
His face becomes obscured by smoke and hair
And though he seems relaxed his face still bears
A sadness that’s reflected in his frown.
He sees me stare; his darkened face looks down.
Despite his broken home what we can see
Is just an average teen. He has acne
And greasy hair. But even so, he’s bolder
Than teens who face no problems till they’re older.

A lawyer there was also, seated on
His tiny bag. His eyes they brightly shone,
Despite the fact he seemed so unprepared,
Our band of strange companions gladly shared.
We’d get him through the weekend all the same.
It’s what you get at festivals, they claim.
He seems so clean with hair so neatly slick,
A single straying strand curls out. A flick
And suddenly it’s straight and neat once more
(Completely different from the man before).
His shoulders broad, he stands so straight and tall
His arms are like machines, his chest a wall.
His eyes as blue as oceans; hints of green
Add beauty to the kindest eyes I’ve seen.
They huddle close together, gleaming bright
As stars that twinkle in the dead of night.
His old and chipped guitar is by his side;
A trusty friend on whom he has relied.
The weathered wood will travel with him ‘till
His heart has ceased and all his body’s still.
And so he told the story of his past,
A whirring blur where nothing ever lasts.
He used to be a country boy at heart,
Career decisions tend to play their part.
Though schooling in the Law he did receive;
The problem is the future can deceive.
A world that’s all appointments, no free time
The rules and regulations are the crime.
He feels imprisoned, trapped in dingy rooms,
From which he can’t escape, they’ve sealed his doom.
But love of music carries him along,
A passion for the sound makes him belong.
He eloquently spoke of Music’s place,
Consuming life so much it had replaced
All other things his heart had once held dear,
Including friends and family. It’s clear
That Music has become his sturdy land.
The sea of Life he cannot understand.

As dusk descends and darkness creeps along
Our lawyer plucks away and sings his song.
Beyond his musky voice the parties roar
But certain sounds are easy to ignore.
The gentle humming strings, they sooth the night
As crickets chirp and cold begins to bite.
A flask of whisky warms from heads to toes
And as the day unwinds exhaustion grows.

At night I can reflect on what I’ve heard
As during daytime everything seems blurred
And hazy. In my tent, my secret den,
I think alone and hear the tales again.
These stories tell me several people’s lives,
Their hist’ry, future, how they will survive.
Some filled with joy and others with despair,
Some filled with hope, some lost beyond repair.
I judge them not, I cannot know them truly.
They could be sane, their minds could be unruly.
And I can’t help, I don’t know how to solve
The many problems that they can’t resolve.
“But nonetheless, forget and have some fun;
Ignore your troubles, party in the sun.”
Philosophy seems rare to find out here
Its substitutes are sex and drugs and beer.
Though still we share we never can redeem
Mistakes we made. So all we have are dreams.

We lastly turn to me, but can I share
The thoughts I have inside, and do I dare?
It seems that all I know is what they’ve said,
On speaking my own thoughts I carefully tread.
I’d rather not reveal to them my mind,
As I don’t even know what we will find.
I cannot tell them secrets, neither lies;
Of troubles they don’t know, they can’t advise.
But could they help? And that I cannot say…
My mind stays silent till my dying day.