2020 Archives - Page 4 of 14 - The Litmus

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In Common

by Rozzie, Age 16 © Copyright 2020 Rozzie. All rights reserved.

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What Path Will I Choose?

by Janhavi Gale, Age 17 © Copyright 2020 Janhavi Gale. All rights reserved.

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Common Ghosts

how many ghosts do you keep locked up in your closet? do you take them out one by one, unpack the bleached limbs of their immortal guilt, and wonder what blood their skinless hands once bore? the worst kind is that which you cannot see, the crimson that has sunk down through the soul, burning into the marrow of these bones you turn between your palms: the blood that their hands painted globes with, the red they drew over their maps, their compasses, the heart-red, muscle-red, passion-red ink of an empire it was not the blue kind they liked to think ran in their own damned veins our blood does not run blue — nobody’s does, except maybe the dead’s — we have that in common, the way it tastes like salt and ash and iron mixed in with the sugar, the tea, the spices; when the land starved, it saw red, saw blue, saw white red skies, blue seas, white bones— the bones in your closet whisper, sometimes. they are guilty and no penance can ever gift back a history stolen, the voice of a world, choked my ghosts cannot rest in peace their voices, voices like the sea and the sky and the bones, rattling, keep their vindictive song known; do you sleep? or do you close the closet door when you grow weary of that truth and forget that some bones will never sleep beneath their own earth? tell me, how many bodies can you count, tell me, how red are the palms between which you hold the eternal weight of yourself rule britannia! my ghosts sing: rule the seas and the skies and the bones my closet is so full of ghosts

by Magdalena, Age 17 © Copyright 2020 Magdalena. All rights reserved.

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The Common Mother

The Common Mother ________________________________________________________________________________ Peacefully grazing on the lush grass of Ranthambore, the mother deer caresses her young fawn. The infant nuzzles close to her mother’s underside and suckles joyfully. The inseparable bond between mother and child epitomised by this affectionate scene. Gentle grunts and sweet snorts echo through the herd. Shanthi! Suddenly, there is movement. Alert eyes, erect ears and tense bodies. A crunch. A cacophony of panicked hoots, fearful braying and terrified alarms sweep through the forest. The mother deer hastily guards her precious offspring. Her only aim: to protect her child. Bhaya! A flash of orange darts dangerously through the thicket. The mother and fawn weave with nimble agility around the disfigured trees. Hearts racing, blood pumping, fear coursing through the deer’s vessels. But then, a separation. A wrong turn. A pounce. A kill. Mrtyu! She weeps. Grief-stricken, the mother deer returns back to the herd. There is a void in her heart. Anguished, she mourns the death of her child. Soka! ________________________________________________________________________________ She weeps. Grief-stricken, the mother tiger returns to the back of her den. There is a void in her heart. Anguished, she mourns the death of her child. Soka! Malnourished, the feeble cub struggles to breathe. His mother gently nudges him with infinitesimal affection. The mother tiger focuses her attention on her dying son as he feigns a shaky mewl. She delicately licks his thin fur as he takes his last breath. Mrtyu! With no kill in over a week, the mother realises she must feed her cub again. Failed attempts of hunts have left her frail but her son’s weak appearance and declining health worry her. She must provide food for him or else he will die. The fear of losing her cub grows. Her only aim: to protect her child. Bhaya! Silent stalking, leery lurking and precise pouncing. A kill at last! The mother tiger drags the carcass to her den. Her young cub whines excitedly and feasts frantically on the meat. She fondles her son lovingly as he weaves between her legs. The inseparable bond between mother and child epitomised by this affectionate scene. Placid prustens and cherished chuffing echo through the den. Shanthi! ________________________________________________________________________________ Both are animals. Both are mothers. Both lose a child. Protagonist-antagonist relationships depend on perspective. To each other, they are the villains but to their infants they are the heroes. Both creatures share an overwhelming amount of affection for their offspring. Maternal love is what they have in common.

by Sathvika © Copyright 2020 Sathvika. All rights reserved.

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The World We Live In Now

The World We Live in Now Sounds collected by the students still being educated in St Bede’s Interchurch School during lockdown. Poem written by Esme, Year 9, based on the phrase ‘in common’ and partly inspired by Roger McGough’s ‘The Sound Collector’ It’s common to hear ten types of bird call, Common to giggle on the playground. It’s common to find empty plastic bottles lying around Common to know the sound, Of wind, of the clock, of footsteps and of talk. It was common to know the sound of talk more than type, It was common to hear traffic, shouting, the sound of wheels on a bike. It’s still common to hear ambulance sirens, It was always a common thing. But the old me and I don’t share something in common; She doesn’t pray for the patient that siren brings.

by Esme Johnson, Year 9, St Bede's Inter-Church School, Cambridge © Copyright 2020 Esme Johnson. All rights reserved.

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Disconnected

Disconnected Love. Hate. Miscellaneous things Torrents of passion and words that sting Sparks that soar when meeting a gaze Quickly spiral into an air of malaise Love and lust the line is thin A constant battle we wish to win Marigold rays with an amber glow Glistering the ground once cloaked with snow Nature awakens from it's deepest slumber Spring chases fall whose days are numbered Seasons change and so do we But unlike nature we choose who to be We live in a world consumed with greed The rich get richer while we hope to be freed Not from shackles of the material kind But years of injustice we wish to rewind Creed, colour, visage or race We have more in common that should be embraced Static cities and flashing screens Models and media but what does it mean? Broken people who put on a show Were like you and I not long ago Rumours, gossip, murmurs and lies Push these people into their demise Great stone statues and art with grace Intricate detail found in every trace Time fleets past and features weather Minds stay young with skin like leather Legacies live from decisions made But eventually these memories fade

by Amina © Copyright 2020 Amina. All rights reserved.

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Reflection at 27

Reflection at 27 And every night he returns, to look at me like no other, never bothering to alter his tiredness, or to mask his painful exhaustion. So, with kind intent I guide him, as he browses the powders and puffs, to decorate an emancipated face like his own exquisite corpse. In some routine fashion he visits, slight, slightly ill - in his trading of metallics for a bitter white. Alongside me now stand four others, assistants, artists and associates, double checking he’s up to scratch, yet remain unconcerned with his newfound emptiness, impartial to his fading frame. That same night, he returns, and alone he seems so sickly. Trying to plead and reason and justify what he’s made of himself. He told me, I never wanted to be one of them I didn’t want to end up like that I don’t want to die so young and I don’t break until he leaves to find solace in his new accomplice. The next year he visits, his body a passenger of a parasitic psyche. A shell of himself, who left his soul on the two snow white rails, as he moves from station to station, alive and well only in theory. This year he doesn’t see me at all. A newfound vacancy in his eyes, enveloped in distasteful glitters, this year the assistants check him twice, So that the streams that carve his face never leave a trace, So this year he’s happy for the naked eye. There’re no more visits, it’s in my nature to assume the worst, when we sung suicide, and I guided his hand from pen to piano to pick-me-ups. Only hoping the guilt of greed wouldn’t eat us alive. Years pass, and I'm reminded now and then of our Sweet Seventy-four, and of the man whose hand I held off the cliff’s edge. Our exchanged words became a ballad over the ten o’clock news. Our death seized the radio. Perhaps without my script, death would wait. He followed my lyrics as if he had written his own lethal fate, and acted as if it were a premeditated event, that his destiny was written in melody, not stars.

by Laurence K © Copyright 2020 Laurence K. All rights reserved.

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its just been over forty years, nearly fourteen thousand nights.

Why, I'm thankful for the many lonely nights she held me In each fearful moment, enveloping me in a sweet song. With harsh noise, her eyes fixated. With soft melodies, her touch was real. In each cruel moment of distrust and misfortune, A voice of silver lining guides me, the same way her worn hand guides the needle through. Each day my appreciation grows, to the point I admire and love all that signifies your presence. Not just your voice, which bought me such comfort, but the path you’ve walked seems sacred. Though sharing your light with those who need it is a heart-warming task, basking in your great love with those who admire you as I do is an elevated joy, For you gave us all our own stories, Since we sat and heard yours.

by Laurence K., Age 16 © Copyright 2020 Laurence K. All rights reserved.

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Are you Human?

Are you human? What makes humans human? How do we categorise and differentiate ourselves from all the other 6,494 species of identified mammals on the planet? The main distinction between us and the more primal fauna of the world is principally our morality, compassion and our capacity for deeper recognition of our actions and how they affect the world around us. Therefore, in order to be classified as a human being you must be endowed with some elemental level of this philosophy. But I ask of you this, how often do you look at another human being and simply appreciate them for who they are and the impact they have on your life? More often than not these days with all our busy lives leaving little time for contemplation, we overlook all the incredible people that surround us and forget what we have in common. Underneath the outer wrapping we all share fundamental similarities, not only do we all have a heart and a brain, but we all have emotions, feelings, thoughts. THIS, World is what we often fail to notice in our selfish lifestyles while we constantly strive for more: more money, more success, more stability. We forget that no matter where we come from, whether it be Pakanbaru in Indonesia or Quito in Ecuador, we all have these collective qualities that connect us, as if we are all tied together with constrictor knots. Whether we are fat, thin, tall, short, pale or tanned we are all human. This is something we all have in common, something that binds us together in the largest community on Earth. There to support us if only we seek it and guide us towards the light should we need it.

by Bella, Age 14 © Copyright 2020 Bella. All rights reserved.

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Fire of Life

We live in a world of war and death, of fear and destruction, of pain and suffering and the never ending screams echo into the universe, soundless, audible. We look at each other and we see an enemy, an Other, someone unlike us in looks or heart or nationality. We look at the world around us, and we don’t see shimmering light stretching between living things, tying them together with the golden threads of fate. We see a resource for the taking, something we want to get our hands on and squeeze the life out of, just for the pleasure of watching it die. After all, if we can’t find something in common with our own species, our own friends, our own family, then how can we see anything at all resembling us in a tiny woodlouse creeping across the bathroom floor, a verminous little cockroach, a disease carrying urban pigeon. You know we share 60 percent of our DNA with Bananas? Most people don’t realise it but it’s still there. One day, thousands and thousands and thousands of years ago, something happened. People argue about whether it was a miracle, or a gift, of an explosion purely as a result of chance. It is unknown whether we’re destined to be here, whether there’s some greater purpose written in the gleaming stars, that we, standing in our puny human structures simply fail to understand. It is unknown whether we are here by complete luck, coming into existence, slowly, over time changing and mutating and forming new shapes until here we stand. A tiny blip in the neverending sands of time. We try to leave things behind - writings on dusty archaic manuscripts, gleaming skyscrapers that pierce the clouds, a gravestone jutting out of dew filled grass, a footprint in the forest floor. But we know they too will one day be swept away into the dark abyss of nothingness, a feeble imprint on the memories of grandchildren, of great grandchildren. Fading, faded, gone. Even when we separate ourselves from each other, fighting and warring and burning and destroying, it’s still there. Whether we like it or not the fire of life burns brightly within us, within everything chattering or chirping or scurrying. Within every vine that stretches across the forest floor. Within every leaf, flower, blade of grass. You may think we have nothing in common, but we all have a life and we are all here to live it. And one day when that life does leave our fleshy temples of skin and bone, we will return to the earth once again, indistinguishable from anything else living. The trees will wave in the breeze, and life will still be in common.

by Sarah Anne © Copyright 2020 Sarah Anne. All rights reserved.