Poetry vs. Prose.

At the end of the autumn term we had to choose whether we would continue our creative writing course with the poetry module or the prose module, over the coming months. With two minutes to decide I went with my life-long gut reaction, which means no more last-minute poetry come assessment time (uh-oh?). Poems are quick and fun, but I don't really know how to write them. I think I made the right decision, what do you think?

First poetry exercise of the winter term, first prose extract of the prose module:

"I come from North and South,
Books and Rocks,
Farmers and Teachers
And cheese-and-chalk cliffs.
I come from Philip Larkin’s library,
From a seaside village,
A tourist town
Without any tourists.
Bucket and spade in hand,
A seagull on every shoulder.
The English stream,
The American Dream,
7:42 train to London Euston, 2 hours 56.
I come from Sunday School, ballet lessons,
Enid Blyton at bedtime
And pocket money sweets on a Friday.
I come from home-knit, woollen cardigans,
Smocking dresses,
A balled up handkerchief,
A Forever Friends lunchbox.
I am long car journeys across continents
With stiff joints and Meatloaf.
Unspoken ground rules,
Ball on stumps, loud howzat!
Two worn exercise books, fading ink,
The last word at home time,
A bag of shiny twenties, a first class stamp.
I am the Anglo-family tree
(a long line of churchmen on the Dover side)
With a red dragon on my cheek
And a sut da chi?"

or

"Drama school, class of '93. We met in the autumn, Newman theatre, Shakespeare try-outs. He bounced Laertes off my Hamlet and we jousted with wooden swords and nervous wit. We went out afterwards, bought beers and traded tales of the bard and the board and of yesteryear. Our knowledge of Star Wars quotations went unrivaled, he'd vacationed in my hometown, I admired his K-reg Polo and we talked horse power and gear boxes until last call. We left the pub like brothers, arm in arm, thick as thieves. Thieves. He stole my Ophelia, opening night, amid the stage props and the bustle. Four sweaty arms groping in the wardrobe, noise drowned out by the static of the gathered crowds. Later I saw him, Act i, Scene iii, lipstick smears and wandering hands when the curtain dropped. Incest of the first degree. So now I stand, with rock and glass cuts and petrol spilt, drunk on whiskey and post-show euphoria. I am Hamlet, King of Denmark. Laertes, bastard, K-reg, dies."