Thimble Poetry

By Martin Sercombe

In old English folklore, there existed a ceremonial custom of whispering poems inside a thimble as a way of preserving and honouring the spoken word.

Poets and bards would gather together in a dimly lit room, surrounded by flickering candles and hushed silence. One poet would bring with them a thimble, typically made of silver or gold, which they would carefully pass around the circle.

When the thimble reached each poet, he would take a deep breath and whisper a poem, sonnet, or verse that they had crafted specifically for the occasion. The belief behind this tradition was that by whispering the words into the thimble, they would be imbued with a special kind of power that would make them more meaningful and long-lasting. The thimble was seen as a kind of vessel for the poem, protecting it from being lost or forgotten over time.

Once each poet had whispered their poem into the thimble, it was passed to the next person in the circle, until every poem had been captured. Finally, the thimble would be placed on a small altar, where it would be carefully guarded and protected as a sacred object.

It was believed that by whispering the words into the thimble, they would be preserved for future generations, ensuring that the stories and traditions of the past would never be forgotten.

The Time Machine

By Martin Sercombe

Alexander had always been fascinated by the concept of time travel. He spent years tinkering in his workshop, trying to create a machine that could transport him through time. Finally, after many failed attempts, he managed to build one that could move him backwards in time by five minutes.

With excitement and a great deal of trepidation, Alexander climbed into the machine and set the dials.  After a five minute launch procedure, the machine hummed to life. Alexander felt a strange sensation wash over him. Suddenly, he was back in time, standing just a few feet away from himself.

Alexander's clone looked just as surprised as he did, and the two men started arguing about who should test the machine first. Neither of them wanted to miss out on the chance to experience time travel, so they decided to go back in time together.

As they emerged from the time machine, they were very surprised to meet the two Alexanders arguing over who should test the machine first. The four of them stared at each other in disbelief, but quickly realized that they were all versions of the same person.

Upon this realisation, their eyes all lit up and all four climbed through the portal.

"Soon our army will rule the world!" they cackled in unison....

 

The Glass Opera

 by Martin Sercombe

The city of Toledo was made entirely of delicate glass. Everyday life was a dance of precision and care. The streets were paved with glass, and the buildings soared high into the sky, gleaming in the morning sunlight. Even the people were made of a glass-like material, rendering them translucent and fragile.

The inhabitants of the city went about their daily routines with practiced ease, stepping delicately and handling objects with care. They marveled at the intricate patterns of light that danced through the glass structures, casting shimmering rainbows across their world.

One day, a visiting opera singer arrived in the city. The diva, renowned for her powerful voice, stepped onto the stage and began to perform an aria.

As she sang, the glass people and buildings around her began to shatter into a million glittering fragments. The sound waves from her voice were too much for the delicate glass structures to bear.

The singer, oblivious to the destruction she had wrought, continued to perform, her voice rising in power and volume. Piles of colored glass fragments lay all around her, a stark testament to the devastation of her performance.

The people of the city were stunned, and many perished in the wake of the singer's powerful voice. The city that had once been a marvel of glass and light was reduced to a pile of broken fragments.

But still, the singer continued to sing, her voice ringing out across the shattered city. In the end, she was the only one left, standing in the midst of the ruin, singing out into the empty sky.

And the city of glass was no more, reduced to a memory of fragility and beauty, shattered by the power of a single voice.

 

The Herring Lasses

By Martin Sercombe

Herring lasses with baskets of herring.

 

Herring lasses were groups of women who would travel the east coast of the United Kingdom from as far north as Aberdeen to as far south as Great Yarmouth, following herring as they migrated throughout the year.

Herring, sometimes called ‘silver darlings’‚ are a small fish that were caught in huge numbers in the North Sea from the eighteenth century right up until the mid twentieth century.

Over the course of the year, the herring migrated to new breeding grounds, so the best place to sail from to catch them would change depending on the time of year.

Men worked on trawler ships catching the herring, but on land, it was the women‚ whose job it was to preserve them. Because there was no refrigeration, when herring were caught, they needed to be salted, smoked or frozen quickly. The herring girls typically salted their catches.

Women worked in groups of three or four, gutting and salting, each group packing one barrel at a time. The women were paid depending on the amount of barrels they finished, so it paid to work fast.

The work was all outside, so it could be freezing cold in the winter. Standing in a quagmire of mud and fish guts (imagine the smell!), the women worked with sharp knives to gut the fish, which could cause injuries. It was also extremely tiring‚ as the women had to work for as long as it took to gut and salt the whole day’s catch, which could be up to fifteen hours a day.

Herrings were over-fished by 1960 and from 1977 to 1981 fishing herring in the North Sea was banned. When fishing resumed, the herring industry no longer existed.

somewhere i have never travelled

 By Martin Sercombe. Poem by e.e. cummings

 

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands


 

One Night in Paris

By Martin Sercombe

It was a typical Parisian evening, the streets bustling with people going about their business. 

But as the night progressed, the sky grew darker and the rain began to pour down in sheets.

 The Seine, which runs through the heart of the city, began to rise alarmingly.

 

Panic set in as people realized the seriousness of the situation.

 

Bicycles were quickly commandeered as people tried to flee the rising waters.

 

But not everyone was so eager to leave.

Some chose to celebrate the rain, performing comic rituals in the streets.

 

Two fashionable old ladies sat in a bar, deep in conversation and oblivious to the chaos outside.

 

 

Meanwhile, a young girl was out in the rain, rescuing a stray cat from the rising flood waters. She held the shivering animal close to her chest, trying to protect it from the elements.

Homeless men sought shelter from the storm in the doorway of Notre Dame Cathedral.

 

They huddled under blankets, trying to stay dry and warm. 

 

 A busker sang a lonely song, ignored by the panicked passersby.

His voice echoed through the streets, a haunting reminder of the fear that gripped the city.

 

 Two young boys, separated from their parents in the confusion and chaos, stood, frozen, uncertain what to do next.

 

A mime artist walked slowly down a rain-washed street, mourning the sorry state of a world driven to madness by climate change. 

 

As the night went on, the rain continued to pour down, the Seine continued to rise,

and the floodwaters spread across the city.

It was a night that no one would ever forget.

 

Amika and Amilia

By Martin Sercombe

 

Amika and Amilia are discussing a typical day at their school on Venus.
Apparently, things were not entirely to their liking.

Amika: "Sproin-gent-wumpf?"
Amilia: "Fargen-bloopadoodle!"

Amika: "Thump-fu-glarpen flop-proin-gent-wizzle?"
Amilia: "Glarpen-fargen-thump!!

Amika: "Bloopadoodle-smee floopadoodle-glorp."
Amilia: “Thump-zoo-bloop, sproingent-wump-fargen.”

Amika: "Glarpen-floop-smee??”
Amilia: "Bloopa-doodlethump!!"

Amika: "Fargen-zargo-bloopadoodle."
Amilia: "Hoofoo-luxilo-flimzee-jo-jo!"

The Berlin Train

 

By Martin Sercombe

It was a foggy night on the train to Berlin, and the passengers were huddled in their seats, trying to stay warm. Among them was a man named Winston who had just heard false rumours of his wife’s infidelity. In a fit of rage, he stabbed and killed her in their compartment, then fled the scene.

The police were quickly alerted but Winston slipped away into the night. The next morning, the newspaper headlines blared the news of the gruesome murder and the failed capture of the suspect.

 
The passengers were left in shock and disbelief, wondering how such a terrible thing could happen on their peaceful journey. As for Winston, the guilt of his actions would haunt him for the rest of his days, knowing that he had taken the life of the one he loved, in a terrible misunderstanding.
 

 

 

The Lost Children (Part 2)

 

 The Lost Children (Part 2) by Martin Sercombe

 

Two of the boys decided to take matters in hand.

Together they would hunt for a new home,

a place where life might be a little easier.

They looked for a boat to take them down river.

On a misty morning they rowed downstream towards the ocean.

Soon after, two of the girls followed behind.

But the coastal town proved as desolate as the city they had left behind. 

Wild storms had destroyed much of what they found.

 Making it hard to choose a place to call home.

The Lost Children

The Lost Children by Martin Sercombe 

 

Throughout the city, people started to die of unknown causes.

As each year past, the plague struck younger.

Soon there was no one left over the age of sixteen.

 

 

For those that remained, the mutations started slowly.

One child grew an extra finger,

another an odd shaped thumb.

A great forgetfulness spread across the city.

The children struggled to understand the purpose of the things left behind.

The word ‘fun’ almost vanished from their vocabulary.

A few youngsters tried to bring a little joy back into their lives.

A makeshift circus traveled from ravaged street to street.

The performers made do with whatever they could find.

A tame rat and a threadbare teddy bear became the stars of the show.

 Led by the extraordinary juggling skills of Klara the Clown.

But in the end, the challenges of everyday existence took their toll.

 

 

Soon the shops would empty

and the children would have to leave the city in search of food.