tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88300028728679610372011-04-21T15:39:13.388-07:00Poetry, fiction, narrative writing and of course a blog, by Bea Good.Bea Goodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15011921861840931700noreply@blogger.comBlogger161100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8830002872867961037.post-40937823334840279992008-10-03T04:58:00.000-07:002008-10-03T05:11:59.134-07:00

What a dilemma - do I go to my tutorial in Birmingham even though I'm not meant to sit down for too long, or do I stay at home and look after my back and miss out on all the words of wisdom about The Cherry Orchard? I think I'll risk going as I need some good marks this year! I've finally started Advanced Creative Writing with the OU as well and so the creative juices are starting to trickle. It

Bea Goodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15011921861840931700noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8830002872867961037.post-71870772415302641242008-09-28T13:34:00.001-07:002008-09-28T13:37:56.549-07:00

So one would think that being off work for nearly 4 weeks would result in at least some semblance of productivity. Alas not. I have in fact spent many hours doing nothing much on Facebook, and a lot more watching 24. Somehow this seemed like a good option. No course work has been done either, despite the fantastic opportunity to get ahead of myself, especially considering that I'm doing two

Bea Goodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15011921861840931700noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8830002872867961037.post-74809867275775956242008-09-12T10:09:00.000-07:002008-09-12T10:11:37.732-07:00

Entrance to Ardtornish Gardens; longgravel driveway flanked on either side by redrhododendrons guarding the house, a trickle of unease.Tall turrets, watching windows, reminiscent of another house, forgotten tale from years ago, myforeboding as vivid as the red rhododendrons.Distant images; red rages, eyes raw from crying, a gunshot –blood spilt in the boathouse. Looming danger flames in my mind,

Bea Goodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15011921861840931700noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8830002872867961037.post-81005049359292790092008-09-12T10:07:00.000-07:002008-09-12T10:08:57.445-07:00

Blondes have more fun and red-heads are trouble.Fat girls are easy to pull: they’re grateful.Thin girls are anorexic, footballers’wives or Posh Spice wanabees. Gold diggers.Ugly girls have no personality.Beautiful girls are empty-headed. Dumb blondes, fiery red-heads, fat slags, stick thin,hit with the ugly stick, beautiful bimbo.People aren’t so sexist now, chauvinismis being brought down,

Bea Goodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15011921861840931700noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8830002872867961037.post-52029373265053501182008-09-12T09:58:00.000-07:002008-09-12T10:02:21.081-07:00

Walking down the street, watching.Looking in strangers’ eyes, searching for something familiar in the face of another, unspoken connection, glimmering recognition.Day after day, watching, looking, searching. Lying sleepless, taught and tense, ears waiting to hear the telephone ring.Listening in darkness to silence. Sleeping, todream that dreams can be real.Night after night, waiting, listening,

Bea Goodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15011921861840931700noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8830002872867961037.post-30960995604517294542008-09-12T09:56:00.000-07:002008-09-12T09:58:31.650-07:00

Ah ha! I have discovered some other poems that I wrote at the beginning of the year, so I can now add them and save myself the trouble of composing anything new!

Bea Goodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15011921861840931700noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8830002872867961037.post-86128908223333346062008-09-10T06:46:00.000-07:002008-09-10T06:53:39.469-07:00

Some lovely people have sent me emails and facebook posts, commenting on my blog - thank you! One recommendation was to add some information about why I decided to write the pieces, which I think is a good idea as it gives some context, so that is what I shall do! I've also been looking at The Writers' and Artists' Yearbook which is quite inspiring, so I will hopefully be writing more now!I am

Bea Goodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15011921861840931700noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8830002872867961037.post-54253105734369074802008-09-07T08:41:00.000-07:002008-09-07T08:58:48.940-07:00

Unfortunately, I seem to have uploaded all the not-too-personal bits of work from my course (Creative Writing, The Open University) and now have to actually write some new stuff! It becomes easy to see how people can have one hit - musical, literary or otherwise, and then not bother to do anymore, and just cruise on the back of it. I wish. Anyway, resolution made to try and find some inspiration

Bea Goodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15011921861840931700noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8830002872867961037.post-9292733635660784632008-09-07T08:06:00.000-07:002008-09-07T08:08:35.592-07:00

I’m at this party right, and it’s banging,Everyone’s plastered. I’m drinking ciderand Rosie and Kate bought Twenty-Twenty,strawberry flavour, gets you pissed well quick.Anyway, I know I’m looking good right, borrowed Tara’s mini-skirt, and Jolene did my make-up. The girls say it’s my turn, say the boys say I’m tight. Tonight’s the night.So Zach brings me a beer right, starts gettingfrisky. Takes

Bea Goodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15011921861840931700noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8830002872867961037.post-52853259671383247682008-09-07T08:01:00.000-07:002008-09-07T08:05:24.858-07:00

She smiles, stifling the stinging sorrow, swallowing bitter tears that spring un-bid from a well of regret with flimsy lidcovering a childless tomorrow.The tiny shoes and matching baby-growpriceless, paid with the currency of pain,hope ever stirring, to be lost again. She gives her gift, and what no-one can knowis her secret. She has never let goof her dreams, and still, in her rocking chair,at

Bea Goodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15011921861840931700noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8830002872867961037.post-72140553971228995552008-09-07T07:57:00.000-07:002008-09-07T08:01:37.450-07:00

Go get ‘em Tiger, give ‘em all you got,you’re as good as any boy, don’t let noone tell you different. Keep your chin held high,always go down fighting, it’s a man’s worldTiger, you gotta be tough, be fearless,never cry, show no weakness, remember,you’re as good as ‘em but you gotta fight harder. Gotta sacrifice. Make choices.Right now. You decide. You gonna be a girl, a wimp, or a fighter, a

Bea Goodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15011921861840931700noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8830002872867961037.post-28895060645694587462008-09-06T08:30:00.000-07:002008-09-06T08:39:15.227-07:00

What to do on a Saturday afternoon when it's been raining all day, was the question. Possible answers consisted of housework, TV, reading or university coursework. None particularly appealed so I decided to stop procrastinating and set up a blog, an idea that I'd considered intermittently over the last year or so. That now done, I shall attempt to post various pieces of writing that I have

Bea Goodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15011921861840931700noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8830002872867961037.post-67469609876831640762008-09-06T08:05:00.000-07:002008-09-06T08:15:48.883-07:00

I am lying flat on my back, outstretched under the tree. The ground beneath me is warm and hard, the grass having turned to prickly stalks of straw in the summer heat. My heart beats steadily as if I too am part of the earth, joined to the organic, pulsing of nature. This is the place where time ceases, where troubles fade, and all noise echoes faintly as if it happens in some other era, some

Bea Goodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15011921861840931700noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8830002872867961037.post-85787528040860747522008-09-06T07:59:00.000-07:002008-09-06T08:03:43.328-07:00

The kerb is grey and gritty, so shitty,Down by the garages behind our house, Better than school and double English though.We lie on our backs, practicing smoke rings,Chewing gum and watching our little puffsDrift up free ‘til they dissolve in the sun.Birds chirp, we doze, on our concrete pillows, Content, ‘til in the distance, the bell screams.The sun clouds over, ominous darkness,Our feet slap

Bea Goodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15011921861840931700noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8830002872867961037.post-72880443800875342382008-09-06T07:53:00.000-07:002008-09-06T08:04:17.016-07:00

The unfriendly paper touches my lips,Orange, mild danger, encases the tip.Smoke stings my eyes and sneaks up my nostrils,I blink fast, furtive glance checking nobody noticed,While tiny tremors tell tales on my inexpert fingers.Ready. And. Inhale.Hot razor blades slice and slide down my throat,Smoke clogs my brain and cloys to my tongue –Swallowing hard, I puff through my noseAs two tendrils

Bea Goodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15011921861840931700noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8830002872867961037.post-13606133219078730202008-09-06T07:39:00.000-07:002008-09-06T07:52:25.889-07:00

The strange thing that I find about horses, is that they all have completely different personalities. Working on a yard of 60 horses for nearly three years, you get to know them pretty well. You can’t just say ‘the orange one’, because there may be eight orange ones. You can’t say ‘the orange one with a white stripe down its nose, because there may be four that fit that description. You need to

Bea Goodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15011921861840931700noreply@blogger.com1