Examine a close reading of Songs of the Crow and Hawks Roosting by Ted Hughes in terms of critical commentaries.

In Songs of the Crow and Hawk Roosting Yorkshire native poet laureate Ted Hughes explicates the fraternity of nature by the amnesty toward their habitation, niche, mindless instincts and ferocity. These alien creatures nevertheless station themselves in the abodes of the human psyche. The whole of the countryside Yorkshire is a dwelling of mourning in funebrial of World Wars I and II. Thus “Hawk’s Roosting” is a hawk’s dramatic monologue of hawkishness,
exhibiting murderous instincts, malicious vivaciousness and manic egoism, infernal ruthlessness, precarious hubris, perilous arrogance, maleficent coldbloodness and gothic tyranny.

Hughes at his most disposition exhibited the aura of being the poet of claws and cages: Jaguar, Hawk, Falcon and Crow, mythologizing and psychologizing anecdotal memorabilia through penchant of restorative memory. Mythic or symbolic and elegiac or confessional poetry crafted by Ted Hughes are exemplified thus with Coleridgean vision and Wordsworthian candour.

Existence of the stark predatory personae of the hawks’ is emblematic of animalistic savagery and cannibalistic bestiality bereft of remorse and empathy in case of Hawk Roosting. The primitive and instinctive nature of its cold existence are further metaphorically represented within “the allotment of death” as implied by the superpower of “hooked beak” and “hooked feet”.

The futurity of nihilistic existentialism in the havoc and upheaval wreaked by the post World Wars allegorically critiques this satirical motif. Furthermore decadence and dehumanization along with
the fall of the legacy of Western civilization becomes the harbinger of the Hawk spirited personae espoused by the poetic voice. Harshness and ghastliness of the poetic voice examines the satiric scathing and incantatory conjuring of large scale nuclear annihilation, anarchic apocalypse and massive environmental cataclysm. Crow’s life and songs is an exposition of human hubris as an ecofeminist project in the vein of the tragic and mythic in the anthropocene.

That poetry consists of phrases that are soul feeding verses as declaimed by Seamus Heaney fruitfully resurrects in Ted Hughes’ Crows Song and the Hawk Roosting too. The poet laureate
remythologizes communion of heaven and earth resembles iconoclastic atonement and visceral bloody crucifixion. crows’ nailing of heaven and earth together/ So man cried with God’s voice and God bled with man’s blood… Thus life exemplified by crow song is an amoral but extraordinarily volcanic force in the aesthetic eloquence of darkness being lightened and speechlessness being speechified. Nonetheless traumatic memorabilia from the Great World
Wars I and II and Sylvia Plath’s suicidal death by the gas stove psychically embroils the cauldron of fantastic narrative poetry
‘Crows Song’ and ‘Hawks Roosting’.

Hughes’s re- mythologization of Crows after all symbolically
manifests inimical indifference of obliviousness embedded in human nature throughout a demythologized world.

Hughes like New Moderns re-enchants the contemporary historical socio economic and cultural milieu through ancient, antique, atavistic and primordial ballads, myths, legends, epics, folktales and fairytales into the British Isles and Britannic legacy. A wild destructive London night and a banging blasting ferocious love masculinizes the lovemaking by libidinal urges of Plathian eroticization. In this scenario, the penis envy enmeshes the metaphorical symbolization of dominance and power in the poems. The Hawks Roosting propounds the American symbolist spirit of the nationalist bird evoked by proud roosting posture and the image of the strong talons.

Further Reading
A History of Modern Poetry Modernism and After David Perkins

.

HUMANITY NATURAL DISASTER

I have always wanted to meet a real man or woman, and I have never found one. When I was young and went out to visit clubs, dances, brothels, I only found men or women who were not men or women but brutes and animals.

When we left all these joints, my friends and I, we all went around saying that Humanity is a natural disaster. That it has no remedy. That if the final Apocalypse does not come it is because there will always be someone to fix, and women will always be twenty years old, face up, face down.

Grumbling and scolding is what we have to mend. Men shit in cauldrons, and women listen to mass shitting in the corrals. Where good wine is drunk, there the girls are affectionate, and men mend their pants for the grilled toast of the moment.

Let us hear them in the cellar:

-My mother married me to a shepherd, because I went to mass one day and he raped me in the sacristy; which did not displease me because he is a messenger of God.

-Thinking that I had found a good girl, the other day I took her to the cellar, believing that she was a lady; but, when she lowered her trousers, the goatherd’s erect member appeared.

-How come you are, boy; you seem very angry.

-Since it has rained, I wanted to jump across the road, and in the middle I fell.

-Politicians are hopeless. They do not say a good word. They only know how to bray, thundering the House and the whole Nation.

-A bunch of hypocrites, thieves and liars they are, for whom the only bad thing is to bray out of season.

-They are as despicable as fools.

-Like priests, who are surprised to find the Donkey they lost when they pedophilia children.

-They wanted to make me a nun or a priest, but my parents surprised me by putting a dildo in my anus and vagina.

-I think it is a reasonable and convincing fact that Humanity is a natural disaster.

-Next to my house I have a small orchard and a strawberry tree. With my little orchard and the strawberry trees that it gives me, I don’t want any more!

-The Love that exists is only natural. I know that it needs an Aria, and I will play it for it as musicians do, and singers sing it and raise it to Heaven with pleasure and care, until Death comes, we hear it moan with pleasure, and we leave it so satisfied.

-Wait, Death, I want to say goodbye to Love.

-Mourners, cry as I do now; that Death has bitten my glans with its skull teeth.

– Goodbye.

NON RIESCO AD INTEGRARMI

Non riesco a integrarmi, ho un disturbo borderline

distribuisco gomitate tipo Greg “The Hammer” Valentine,

nemmeno se mi impegno riuscirò a aspirare al Nobel

deutoplasma irriducibile tra vacche nere d’Hegel.

Non riesco a integrarmi, ho un delirio schizofrenico

rifuggo dalle masse e intingo biro nell’arsenico,

canto, fuori dal coro, come un mitomane a X Factor

disinnescando bombe, spaccio col metal-detector.

Non riesco a integrarmi, ho attitudini da killer,

deambulo tra zombie, stile King of Pop in Thriller,

volando a bassa quota quoto quote di quozienti,

costretto a impacchettare sottotitoli per non-utenti.

Non riesco a integrarmi, ho ogni sorta di fobia

in coda appetisco il verde, come un virtuoso in dendrofilia,

mettendo a fuoco il mondo e sfuocati i tempi con lo zoom,

mi arrendo alla desuetudine della consecutio temporum.

I DON’T FIT IN

I don’t fit in, I have a borderline personality disorder

I give out elbows like Greg ‘The Hammer’ Valentine,

if I don’t apply myself I’ll never be able to aspire to the Nobel Prize 

irreducible deutoplasma among Hegel’s black cows.

I don’t fit in, i have a schizophrenic delusion 

i hate the people and dip my pen in arsenic, 

i sing, outside the choir, like an X Factor mythomaniac

defusing bombs and dealing with a metal detector.

I don’t fit in, i’ve got a killer’s disposition, 

i wander between the zombies, style King of Pop in Thriller, 

flying at low altitude I quote quotes of quotients, 

forced to pack subtitles for non-users.

I don’t fit in, i have all sorts of phobias, 

in the queue i crave the green, like a virtuous dendrophile, 

setting the world on fire, blurring time with the zoom, 

i surrender myself to the obsolescence of consecutio temporum.

IL POLLICE IMPONIBILE

La tassonomia caratterizza l’homo sapiens dalla forma della mano,

non distingue l’ominide della Bibbia, l’ominide del Vangelo, l’ominide del Corano;

l’anatomia moderna s’è imbattuta in una scoperta attendibile:

l’italiano medio è dotato di pollice imponibile.

L’aumento esorbitante dei tassi non comporta una sparizione delle tasse,

nessun sessuologo animale è mai riuscito a uscire dall’impasse,

le tasse aumentano, in caso di abbassamento o crescita dei tassi,

saranno tasse ninfomani, lontane dal desiderio di ribassi.

L’Italia è la repubblica fondata sulle tasse, da Nord a Sud,

tanto che a rimettere le cose a posto ci vorrebbe un Governo Robin Hood,

l’italiano medio, ogni giorno, è in ADE a misurarsi la pressione fiscale,

arrivati al 50% chiameremo l’anatomopatologo a certificare l’embolia cerebrale.

L’Itaglia è terra d’inventori, si mette una tassa sull’ombra delle tende dei locali,

il massimo del cuneo fiscale (presa per il culo) è la tassa comunale sulle centrali nucleari,

che, in bolletta, ti trovi una tassa EF-EN sull’efficienza (?) dell’energia elettrica,

come cazzo riescono a convincerti dell’incoerenza è cosa comica.

C’è la tassa sul televisore, c’è la tassa sulla tassa, d’incostituzionale disappunto,

e scopriamo che la nostra spazzatura, soggetta ad IVA, ha valore aggiunto,

la tassa sulla morte, intesa come certificato di constatazione di decesso,

ragazzi, ditemi voi, se ci fosse stata ai tempi di Yeshua, Lazzaro come sarebbe stato messo.

La tassa sulla morte, maronna dell’Incoroneta, a morire serve un nulla-osta

ostia, il morto deve resuscitare e versare 35€ facendo la coda in Posta,

la tassa sulle invenzioni che non si applica all’invenzione di nuovi tributi

e ti accusano di diffamazione se affermi d’esser governato da una massa di cornuti.

La tassa sugli spiriti, in senso alcolico, la tassa sul rumore degli aeroplani,

il rumore degli aeroplani? Pensa alla tassa sul casino di un concerto degli Inti-Illimani,

c’è una tassa sui gradini, l’imposta comunale sui cani, la tassa sulle cabine telefoniche.

Ma andate a cagare, forse si stava meglio con le stravaganze fiscali borboniche. 

THE TAXABLE THUMB

Taxonomy characterises homo sapiens by the shape of the hand,

it does not distinguish the hominid of the Bible, the hominid of the Gospel, the hominid of the Koran;

modern anatomy has made a discovery worthy of belief:

the average Italian has a taxable thumb.

The exorbitant increase in rates does not mean the disappearance of taxes, 

no animal sexologist has ever managed to break the deadlock, 

if rates are lowered or increased, taxes will increase, 

they will be nymphomaniac rates, far from a desire to lower them.

Italy is a republic founded on taxes, from north to south,

for many who would like to put things right, it would take a government Robin Hood, 

tthe average Italian is in ADE every day to measure the tax burden, 

when the figure reaches 50%, we’ll call in the pathologist to certify the cerebral embolism.

Itaglia, the land of inventors, imposes a tax on the shade of shop awnings, 

the maximum of the tax wedge (taking the ass) is the municipal tax on nuclear power plants,, 

that, in your bill, you find an EF-EN tax on the efficiency (?) of electricity,

how the fuck do they manage to convince you of the inconsistency is funny.

There’s the TV tax, there’s the tax on tax, unconstitutional discontent,

and we discover that our rubbish, subject to VAT, has added value,

the death tax, aimed at the death certificate,

guys, tell me, if there had been in the times of Yeshua, Lazarus, how they would have put it.

The death tax, Holy Madonna to the Crown, to die gives the green light, 

fuck, the dead must resurrect and pay 35 € queuing at the Post Office, 

the tax on inventions does not apply to the invention of new taxes,

and they accuse you of defamation if you claim to be governed by a bunch of cuckolds.

The tax on spirits, in the alcoholic sense, the tax on aircraft noise, 

aircraft noise? We’re thinking of the tax on the mess of an Inti-Illimani concert, 

there’s a tax on staircases, council tax on dogs, tax on telephone boxes.

Fuck off, maybe we were better off with the Bourbon tax extravaganzas.

WWW

Il web è una cosa strana,

la libertà dell’ignorante regna sovrana,

dicevano i latini, dal mento volitivo, della lega anseatica, necesse est navigare,

e ci si trova imbrigliati nella rete come cozze messe a corrente da lampare.

Ci immergiamo, ogni santo giorno, nella melma del World Wide Web

senza bussola, come turisti nomadi intimiditi alla ricerca di un Club Med,

siamo incalliti e spensierati come membri di una neo-avanguardia

imbarcati, veri coatti, nelle cabine della Costa Concordia,

incuranti che a forza di navigare si finisca davanti ad un machete,

nella jungla sadomaso dei webmaster t’imbatti sempre in un webete,

disponibile a imbavagliarti in un rapporto di connessione / sconnessione,

convincendoti, senza fatica, d’esser tu il set da circoncisione.

Questi miei stupidi versi dove andranno mai a parare,

se qualunque palla finisce in rete senza possibilità di verificare,

senza opportunità di criticare, ti saltano addosso in branco, come neo-fascisti,

fasci in fasce con in bocca un biberon da insaziabili etilisti,

davanti all’uomo webete ogni ragionamento cade,

l’aristocrazia del web si incentra sulla marca di De Sade,

«lasciate ogni speranza» o voi che entrate, in blog

se avete il torto di non spartir merende col barone Sacher-Masoch.

La verità è che navigare è diventato un dramma,

senza aver attaccato all’USB del tuo Pc i fili dell’elettroencefalogramma:

chi non ha intuito che il www sia diventato un outlet,

sia condannato a osservar la rete come Boris Beckett.

WWW

The web is a strange thing,

the freedom of the ignorant reigns supreme,

as the voluptuous-chinned Latins of the Hanseatic League used to say, necesse est navigare,

and we find ourselves stuck in the network like mussels in the current of the lamparo.

Every holy day we plunge into the mud of the World Wide Web,

disorientated like intimidated nomadic tourists looking for a Club Med, 

tough and carefree like members of a neo-avant-garde, 

embarked, real roughnecks, in the cabins of the Costa Concordia, 

carefree enough to sail that everything ends up in front of a machete, 

in the sado-masochistic jungle of webmasters, you always come across a webheber,

ready to gag you in a connection/disconnection relationship,

by convincing you, with ease, that you yourself are circumcision material.

My silly worms, where will they ever go 

if any ball ends up in the net without the possibility of verifying, 

no opportunity to criticise, if they fall on you in herds like neo-fascists , 

bundles in layettes with a baby bottle in their mouths as insatiable alcoholics, 

all reasoning falls before the webbeast,

the web aristocracy centres on the De Sade brand,

‘abandon all hope’ you who enter here, in blog 

if you’re wrong enough not to share tastes with Baron Sacher-Masoch’s.

In truth browsing has become a drama, 

without having to connect the USB of your PC to the wires of an electroencephalogram:

who hasn’t guessed that the www has become an outlet, 

is condemned to observe the net like Boris Beckett.

EPIMILLIGRAMMA

Non ti devi incazzare se, a volte, ti nomino,

sai, t’ho reso immortale come un «ritratto d’anonimo».

Incide meglio il mio inchiostro che una ciotola di cicuta:

senza che nessuno lo sappia la tua fama si è evoluta.

EPIMILLIGRAMME   

You don’t have to put yourself in color if you look at your name,

you know, I’ll make you immortal in “portrait d’anonyme”.

My ink cuts better than a bowl of hemlock:

without anyone knowing your fame has evolved.

MANGIANO VOCI

se hanno carta bianca, i nuovi scrittori che cantano senza Musa

emulerebbero Géricault nella sua zattera della Medusa.

L’arte italiana è diventata un assalto al forno,

sbocciano versi a «cazzo» che neanche i membri di un film porno,

anche nel Poetryweb l’attore si confonde con il montatore,

rigurgitando testi tanto anacronistici da andare in copertina su Le Ore.

La democrazia lirica non deve essere una lirica da due lire,

indispensabile è studiare e non è vietato severamente approfondire

oramai tutti improvvisano, protesizzatisi con un bloc-notes,

come se invece che far cultura doves sero iscriversi a Tú sí que vales.

Per la scrittura sul www dovremmo mettere un test d’ingresso,

vietato toccare la tastiera sotto minaccia di sollecito decesso,

non occorre all’arte tardomoderna, Lucini docet, attempiarsi rivoltelle,

la malattia incurabile d’inizio secolo si chiama Adsl.

THEY EAT VOICES

if they have white paper, the new writers who sing without a Muse,

would rival Géricault in his Raft of the Medusa.

Italian art has become an assault on the pot,

more fulfilled in the ‘brothel’ than the members of a porn film,

so in the Poetryweb the actor is confused with a stallion

full of anachronistic texts fit for the cover of Le Ore.

Lyrical democracy must not be a two-bit lyric,

it is essential to study and it is not forbidden to go deeper,

all of them now strictly improvising, equipped with a notepad,

as if they should sign up for Tú sí que vales rather than culture.

To write on the www we should set up an entry test,

It’s forbidden to touch the keyboard on pain of sudden death,

not suitable for late modern art, Lucini teaches, his revolver at his head,

the incurable disease of the turn of the century is called Adsl.

Ivan Pozzoni è nato a Monza nel 1976. Ha introdotto in Italia la materia della Law and Literature. Ha diffuso saggi su filosofi italiani e su etica e teoria del diritto del mondo antico; ha collaborato con con numerose riviste italiane e internazionali. Tra 2007 e 2018 sono uscite varie sue raccolte di versi: Underground e Riserva Indiana, con A&B Editrice, Versi Introversi, Mostri, Galata morente, Carmina non dant damen, Scarti di magazzino, Qui gli austriaci sono più severi dei Borboni, Cherchez la troika e La malattia invettiva con Limina Mentis, Lame da rasoi, con Joker, Il Guastatore, con Cleup, Patroclo non deve morire, con deComporre Edizioni. È stato fondatore e direttore della rivista letteraria Il Guastatore – Quaderni «neon»-avanguardisti; è stato fondatore e direttore della rivista letteraria L’Arrivista; è stato direttore esecutivo della rivista filosofica internazionale Información Filosófica; è, o è stato, direttore delle collane Esprit (Limina Mentis), Nidaba (Gilgamesh Edizioni) e Fuzzy (deComporre). Ha fondato una quindicina di case editrici socialiste autogestite. Ha scritto/curato 150 volumi, scritto 1000 saggi, fondato un movimento d’avanguardia (NeoN-avanguardismo, approvato da Zygmunt Bauman), con mille movimentisti, e steso un Anti-Manifesto NeoN-Avanguardista, È menzionato nei maggiori manuali universitari di storia della letteratura, storiografia filosofica e nei maggiori volumi di critica letteraria.Il suo volume La malattia invettiva vince Raduga, menzione della critica al Montano e allo Strega. Viene inserito nell’Atlante dei poeti italiani contemporanei dell’Università di Bologna ed è inserito molteplici volte nella maggiore rivista internazionale di letteratura, Gradiva.I suoi versi sono tradotti in francese, inglese e spagnolo. Nel 2024, dopo sei anni di ritiro totale allo studio accademico, rientra nel mondo artistico italiano e fonda il collettivo NSEAE (Nuova socio/etno/antropologia estetica).

Ivan Pozzoni was born in Monza in 1976. He introduced Law and Literature in Italy and the publication of essays on Italian philosophers and on the ethics and juridical theory of the ancient world; He collaborated with several Italian and international magazines. Between 2007 and 2018, different versions of the books were published: Underground and Riserva Indiana, with A&B Editrice, Versi Introversi, Mostri, Galata morente, Carmina non dant damen, Scarti di magazzino, Here the Austrians are more severe than the Bourbons, Cherchez the troika. et The Invective Disease with Limina Mentis,Lame da rasoi, with Joker, Il Guastatore, with Cleup, Patroclo non deve morire, with deComporre Edizioni. He was the founder and director of the literary magazine Il Guastatore – «neon»-avant-garde notebooks; he was the founder and director of the literary magazine L’Arrivista; he is the editor and chef of the international philosophical magazine Información Filosófica; he is, or has been, creator of the series Esprit (Limina Mentis), Nidaba (Gilgamesh Edizioni) and Fuzzy (deComporre). It contains a fortnight of autogérées socialistes edition houses. He wrote 150 volumes, wrote 1000 essays, founded an avant-garde movement (NéoN-avant-gardisme, approved by Zygmunt Bauman), with a millier of movements, and wrote an Anti-manifesto NéoN-Avant-gardiste. This is mentioned in the main university manuals of literature history, philosophical history and in the main volumes of literary criticism. His book La malattia invettiva wins Raduga, mention of the critique of Montano et Strega. He is included in the Atlas of contemporary Italian poets of the University of Bologne and figures à plusieurs reprized in the great international literature review of Gradiva. His verses are translated into French, English and Spanish. In 2024, after six years of total retrait of academic studies, he return to the Italian artistic world and melts the NSEAE Kolektivne (New socio/ethno/aesthetic anthropology).

don’t touch me please

don’t touch me please

the grenade of death ignites inside me and will not explode

the ruins around me are overgrown with emptiness and others are dying instead of me

these others (for some reason)crave life in a glass of metallic milk

these others are born and die alone, inhaling the smell of milky silence

don’t bother me please

give me your first gift (you never gave me anything)

give me your last gift (I gave you my tears and you didn’t know about it)

death is nothing more than a surprise box

death is nothing more than a nuclear bomb that will tear me to pieces

no need to pick up my pieces from the floor pleaseеееее

splinters of dreams cut the veins of silence in which the clock clicks

countdown and nuclear bomb will teach you how to fuck like in porn

countdown and nuclear dust will teach you water

because the future is water is spit flowing from the wall of a destroyed house

no need

the sun is so in vain that the snow doesn’t melt and the fingers are still dumb

an island of a concentration camp of thought is buried in an ocean of knowledge about the principle of nuclear fusion

no need to study science

after all even I am nobody needs and unknown to anyone

and no one is capable of knowledge while the unfinished house of life is being bombed

the cemetery guard reports:

for the past night in the cemetery:

no one died

no one was resurrected

he looks…

he looks at me with red eyes

he speaks invisibly and inaudibly

he asks and doesn’t know what to ask for

I look at his face and upper body

I look at his torso cut across by a shrapnel

I forget that I have eyes and that I need to breathe

our lips don’t move

we’re talking forever

End of hi-story

1

the first day since the end of world history quietly ended

2

red birds are still silent in the invisible void

red birds peck the grainy despair of the cemetery

red birds knock on the window of a bombed house

3

kittens died inside the belly

mother cat died inside the womb of the planet

4

warmly

coldly

birds

without feathers

without wings

without beak

without eyes

without a body

nothing

nowhere

warm cold of nuclear winter

cold warmth of late autumn

eternal autumn in the joints of the prison

tightness bleeds

5

the cage of reality is torn

forever

“You were born from the Rays of God’s Majesty when the stars were in their perfect place.”

                                                                                                 ~RUMI

God I return to you in the lights of a star…shining bright with the light of love. Love from the beginning I return without darkness for I have seen the wonders of my soul. The hidden treasure of your spark within me. The world has not covered my soul in sin or emptiness leaving me without you in my heart. Your truth that speaks in me in the wee hours of the morning as the world sleeps forever more. I find my soul among the stars circling the outer rim of Saturn’s moon. I’m that star to the right of your heart. O God never to become dim for you created me to shine forever more.

“When you lose all sense of self the bonds of a thousand chains will vanish…”                                                                                                        ~RUMI

Where can I go O God where you do not exist? I have not traveled far enough to not feel your Holy presence within my soul. Delightful thoughts about the beginning of time together. Reaching for the clouds, as I lay in the fields of joy wishing to see the skies once more. Before the clouds cover the moon and the sun fades into the distinct mountains of Vermont. Once we had a conversation, as I sat on the porch wondering about my life. It was a conversation about my beginning without end. My heart listened intently as you spoke of salvation and redemption. Christ the messiah came alive within me. No more doubt nor sin to confuse my aching soul. For I had received the communion of life with these three words: You are forgiven.

BETRAYALS OF HATRED QUEUE IN PATH OF LOVE

I met her on resuming junior secondary school.

On Monday, we all resumed school and everyone promised to study well. On that week, we all wrote our first test which was to test the seriousness of a student when they have gone away for holidays.
Like water in a basket, the first, second, and third weeks came and passed. On the fourth week, a new student was enrolled in our class, a female student.

We have a classmate called Ummul Khayr who acted as if she knew the girl before. They were classmates in the formal school she attended.

On Tuesday morning, the new student introduced herself to the whole class. She was friendly but a bit proud.

Fatima was the kind that felt proud of herself in the classroom which I hated. So I spoke to her rudely about her arrogance but it led to a serious odium between me and her in the classroom.
Fatima and I never spoke to each other in a good manner but we were always being rude to each other.
We always had to fight in the classroom every single day since the day we had a misunderstanding with each other.

The first term went by without counseling with each other but we would always find new abusive words to stab each other with.
The second term came again and went by but still battling also the third term.
We were given a holiday for the end of the school year which makes me think about the issues.
I asked myself:
Should I stop this rubbish fight? or what will I do?

After the resumption of SS2, I tried my best possible ways to dodge the girl problem but all went in vain till the day I slapped her but still regretted my actions.

The first term passed by and we resumed as “not friends not enemies” and I really enjoyed myself like that.
The second term was so special to me because I met the love of my life.
In the middle of second term, the school embarked on a excursion to “BILKI BAB”. On that day, I just don’t believe myself when I realized that “NURAINI AND FATIMA” were chatting and smiling with each other.

I have a classmate called Salihu who saw us talking to each other. He announced it to the whole class member and wrote on a paper that “Nuraini and Fatima have started playing love”. some of my friends told me that is there a wish and Salihu said he had a dream about it before.

On our way back to school after the excursion, the bus was full with the story of the new Romeo and Juliet.
We continue like that until the speech and prize giving day of my school. The school gave one month holiday that distracted our relationship. So as a newbie poet I wrote a poem and placed it on my cupboard.

Fatimah
You are like a weapon that budged the gap between me and odium
You are the bridge that bridges my ribs to build a household of love in my heart
You are halal theft who took my heart without permission
You are a kind kidnapper that kidnapped my feelings and emotions
You curtained my heart so that nobody has access to it again
Let me tell you, Fatimah
My heart is your palace
Where you can do anything you like inside, Twerk yourself as fun
My heart is a palace that the kingdom In it never ends but you are only the queen forever.

We resumed SS3 in which I became shy of her. So I wanted her to first speak to me but no response.

NOW
I bought a chocolate and wrapped it in a lovers’ package gift container, I dressed up in a very ironed suit and walked to the front of the classroom. I brought out the gift and started writing with three colors of markers on the whiteboard.

In the Arms of Autumn

I once stood at the edge of a rusty, old bridge, looming over the abandoned train station below. To this day, I still wonder why I was drawn to that station, and why I wanted to end my life there. I come from a refugee family, a family that knew nothing about life in exile except how to eat, make money, drink, and work until you’d smoked through an entire pack of cigarettes. My parents were too old to work but too young to truly enjoy life. I had a twin brother who died just seconds after we were born. Maybe that’s why my mother always saw me as “the special one”—though never in a way that felt special to me.

My father cared about my health, but he cared more about the money I gave him from whatever jobs I could manage. Sometimes, he’d spend it on lottery tickets or buy my mother expensive gifts for no reason at all. On my birthday, all they talked about was my dead twin brother. I never felt their presence, their support. Eventually, I stopped going to school because I had no friends, and I lacked the knowledge I so desperately needed. Everyone from my high school moved on to successful lives. Even Linda—the only girl I ever truly loved.

It was love at first sight with her, but life dealt us both terrible hands. She survived a horrific car crash that left her with brain damage, but her parents weren’t so lucky. Afterward, Linda moved in with her blind, widowed grandmother and dropped out of school. She ended up working as a stripper at a well-known club, lying about her age with a fake ID.

I’d go there sometimes, buy an ordinary beer, and sit pretending I was waiting for a friend. I avoided making eye contact with anyone except the bartender, a divorced woman who seemed as lost as I was. She and I would have fun together occasionally when her kids were with their father in another city. My life was never important; I felt like an unwanted child in God’s land. My days were dull, each one bleeding into the next unless I was too drunk or too depressed to notice.

Then one day, the bartender took her own life. They found her hanging in her living room. No one knew why or how it had come to that. Her children were oblivious, but her ex-husband heard the news and eventually sent them to an orphanage. They were too young to understand that their mother’s death was linked to her battle with alcoholism.

After that, I developed a new habit—going to the abandoned train station to think about ending it all. I felt like there was no one left for me. Who did I have to live for? I wasn’t old, but the grey hairs were already creeping in, along with endless negative thoughts. The bartender had been the only one who knew about my visits to that station. After she died, I felt more alone than ever. Sometimes, I would stay at her house, and she’d treat me like a boyfriend, a lover, even if it was just for a few hours. But after she was gone, the silence became unbearable.

Linda noticed the change in me. I became quieter, more withdrawn. She started talking to me again, trying to reach out. One night, I told her everything that had been weighing on me. I even told her that it would be my last night at the club. When I said that, she started to cry, and so did I. I ran out, not wanting her to see me break down, and I ended up at the train station again, ready to end it all.

But then Linda appeared, wearing a man’s autumn jacket. She screamed my name, ran toward me, and hugged me so tight I could barely breathe.

She whispered, “I love you. Hug me tight and let the world fade away. Your embrace is my refuge, where I feel truly alive.”

With a broken smile, I replied, “When I see you or talk to you, I don’t have to work so hard to be happy. It just happens.”

We kissed under the night sky and took an Uber back to the club, where Linda handed in her resignation. For good.