By Isobel A., a young poet from the South East


Sometimes I wake up

At four in the morning,

I pick up my pen

Before blinking and yawning


I reach for the book

That’s beside my bed

Reserved for ideas

That awake in my head.


The hand-held grenade

On the cover of black

Is shaped like a heart,

Bleeding and cracked.


The pages are lined,

Some are tattered and torn,

The corners are folded

And the cover is worn


You’d be amazed

At the ideas I find

Some awake, some asleep

Alive in my mind.


The plot lines that spin

The dialogues around

And the characters that anchor

Them all to the ground.


The book is a prison

Where the ideas are seeded

Among bars made of lines

Until they are needed.


Isobel is a talented young poet from the South East who took part in the WORDCUP2010 workshops with Rosy Carrick and Rik Sykes. She wasn’t able to make it to the WORDCUP Weekend, but if she carries on writing like this, her poetry will definitely take her places…

If you are a participant of WORDCUP2010 and would like to submit your poem to the blog, please ask your poet coach or teacher/youth worker to send it to Miriam.

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