In the poem “Hide and Seek” the central child, presumed to be a boy, is excited by the game of Hide and Seek. The poem begins with the frantic yelling of “I’m ready. Come and find me!” This sentence is short and sharp, being used by the poet to show the tension and excitement of the game and the anticipation of being found. The exclamation mark also brings forth the idea of excitement. He is so excited that he notices many ordinary things like “the sacks in the tool-shed smell like the seaside” and that “the floor is cold.” Because he is more aware, the excitement of not missing any moment builds. The line “I’ve won! Here I am! Come and own up! I’ve caught you!” shows the notion of the building excitement as the boy is triumphant and proud in what he has done. It seems very childish in the way he is so fully immersed in the setting, looking at and touching everything that he can lay his hands on. This is similar to “False Security” in which a young boy experiences excitement when he arrives at a party for his “dear little hostess.” He could not “still ones thrill at the candle shine On cakes and ices and jelly and blackcurrant wine” which shows that there are many things in which too look at that he is getting so excited by the welcoming masses of food. Both poems are in the moment, with the multiple use of the word “And” prolonging out the moment and making it seem that all of the setting is coming in on the boys at once. The excitement in both poems is a key way in which they show innocent childhood enjoyment.

Both poems end in disappointment leaving both children feeling loss and sadness. In “Hide and Seek” the last three lines of the poem contradict the excitement felt previously by the boy. The excitement is immediately drawn out of the speakers setting as “the darkening garden watches, nothing stirs.” The light or happiness in the garden is being taken away and filled by the dark sadness of the boy. He questions “where are they who sought you?” as the game of Hide and Seek ends with the boy not being found. “The bushes hold their breath, the sun is gone” is showing that the joy and happiness has been lost. The bushes symbolise the reader who is anxious with the anticipation and is beginning to realise what will happen to the young innocent boy. There is also disappointment in “False Security” but the impact on the boy is revealed in a different way than in “Hide and Seek.” The boy is “too overexcited and pleased” with himself so does not realise that the words of the hostess’ mother “would ever diminish my joy.” The words “I wonder where Julia found that strange, rather common little boy?” at the time have little effect on the boy because of the thrill he feels. He would never have thought that words would make him unhappy; the main reason for this is because he does not understand the nature of the cruelty behind the words, due to his inexperience. In the end however both poems leave the speaker feeling lost and unwanted.

Although “False Security” shares the same sense of excitement and disappointment with “Hide and Seek” it is presented in a different way. While “Hide and Seek” is presented as it takes place, “False Security” is a reflection. The speaker is reflecting on his memory of the party in a childlike way. At the time the mother’s words did not affect him but in later years they did because he can remember it, and it did diminish his joy for all his life after that time. “I remember the dread” gives the sense that the key reason why this poem was remembered and reflected upon was because of the dread and the disappointment that it instilled in the speaker. Unlike “False Security” “Hide and Seek” creates the effect that there is a sort of inner conversation which is taking place within the boy who is hiding in the tool-shed. The reader feels the sense of a fast momentum because of it’s in the moment appearance. While in both poems the reader is involved, whether it is reflection or not, as in “Hide and Seek” Scannell’s use of second and third person words like “you” and “I” put the reader in the poem so they can experience what happens and discover how they can relate that to their own lives. “False Security” also uses first person which involves and also questions the reader to make judgemental decisions about what they believe the poems underlying theme or message is.

The experiences of the children in “Hide and Seek” and “False Security” are similar in the way they deal with the notions of excitement and disappointment however both contrast differently in the way they are presented to the reader. I believe that, although the inexperienced children are faced with moments of disappointment, it is necessary for them to learn about growing up and the various techniques used by Scannell and Betjeman are used to demonstrate this in the poems.

Daddy heard the police saw his balloon
And he was worried
Daddy hid the evidence
And said “Won’t find it now”
Daddy filled reporters with lies
And sent them off
Daddy had more ideas
And they were bigger and better
Daddy cleared his throat
And talked to the host
Daddy lost himself in the conversation
And the host talked to me

“Daddy did it for his show”
And Daddy lost

Ricky. A menace
Is being camouflaged through
This soothing Swallow.

Though cuddly it is.
A wolf in sheep’s clothing is
Present in plain sight.

There is comfort in
Its warming appearances.
But where is the fear?

My fishing rod. My Buzzy Bee.
My red trike. My feijoa tree.
My Indian hat. My pool.
Barney. The Wiggles. Pekerau School.
What Now? Noddy. My feather sword.
My bicycle. My wand and cape.
My red book bag. My cat.
The trip to Taupo. School Award.

Boats and Islands. Cornelius.
Glockenspiel. My school bus.
My piano. My C Grade Band.
The Internet. Disneyland.
My phone. My blog. My iPod.
My posters. My books. My lanyards.
My science kit. My song about the blues.
My juggling balls. My horn. Pink shoes.

My DVD’s. My back door keys.
My magic cards. My theatre mates.
My Toblerone. My running shoes.
Starlight Express. Catherine Tate.
My stickers. My flashlight.
My piñata. My plane kite.
My Meccano. My Musopoly.
My boomerang. My toy Barney.

They were there watching the flickering lights emitting from television screen. All seven of them were tightly packed into dimly lit lounge like sardines in an overflowing tin. This was a regular occurrence for the weekends and while the others were intently fixated on the fast flowing images, Hamish, who was bored with the lack of rich conversation, lazily gazed through the open slit made by the curtains.

            “Don’t touch the silver one…,” said the tall man on the screen, whose voice trailed out of Hamish’s earshot.

He pulled back the corner of the curtain with his first finger and strained to make out the shapes through the condensation frosted windows. The bitter coldness felt as though it burned the palm of his hand as he cleared the glass to see through, seeing Knight, the large black Labrador winding his way round the fence line. Then his father, bucket in hand, made his way to the garden.

            The sound of laughter filled the room behind Hamish’s head, so he swivelled round on the leather couch trying not to wake the peach coloured cat sleeping on his side. Some comedian featured in this film made some wise crack joke against a former politician. That’s not funny. He was right though, it was just ‘toilet humour’ (the lowest form of comedy possible). So he leant back in the seat and yawned, just an ordinary yawn. But it always happened that the tears would prick in his eyes and well up around the edges.

It was three hours ago when Rochelle fingered the purple powder inside the little plastic bag after hanging up from a call with an unknown man.

            A shadow loomed over the back of the couch, but Hamish took no notice. The tears splintered the light emitting from the box in the corner of the room creating a prismatic effect, the idea of being on an ‘acid trip’ as described on the news show the night before. As he wiped the blur from his eyes the credits rolled and with the commotion of everyone moving, no one heard Lynda as she opened the curtains.

            “Did you see that outside?

            “What are you talking about, do you want juice or Sprite?” said the others from the breakfast counter, which had been overrun with paperwork.

            “Did you see outside?” she was peering up on her tiptoes to see over onto the cobbles.

All the while Hamish just watched.

            “It was just Hamish’s dad.”

“Wayne.”

            “Yeah, Wayne. He was outside.”

It was four hours ago when the call bearing names of three teenagers were exchanged to Rochelle with a light chuckle of recognition.

All the while Hamish watched. He knew what Lynda, who had started to chat with Iain about some school production they might watch, had meant. He had noticed it also. Déjà vu. It was like déjà vu, the concept of which he had never grasped, yet he had experienced. He would be looking one way and out of the corner of his eye would see something, even if it were just for a minute, flash past.  Now sometimes it were a person but other times it could not be explain, making him double take once or twice only to see nothing.

            The daze he was in was interrupted by Shannon, a bubbly character with something of a comedic dark side.

            “What are we going to do now,” she said, “Can we just sit with the chips?”

            “Good idea!” Hamish said, while pushing the other couch around to accompany the gathering mass.

            Packets of chips were open and poured into the wooden bowl on the glass top table which quickly depleted via the diving seagull hands. The conversation was milling around a central uninteresting topic and while not hitting the issue itself it went on wayward tracks about science, hated school teachers and Harry Potter movies. All of which were drifting over Hamish’s head as he sat taking in the colour of Jayden’s t-shirt and Rochelle’s blue jeans instead of the voice randomly and franticly jumping from one excited mouth to another.

            The shadow flicked past the window on his right giving the odd effect of an old Charlie Chaplin movie on the trampoline outside. Hamish’s eyes flicked from the window to Lynda who was concentrating on the window. The others began to realise that something suspicious was going on.

            “What are you looking at?” Christina questioned her.

            “Nothing.”

            “Yes you were watching something; I saw your eyes following it”

            “It was just a bird,” she said, brushing her hair out of her eyes.

It was five hours ago when the scarlet letter appeared on Rochelle’s desk.

            Hamish could sense her increasing anxiety and the fear which was mounting in her eyes. She was itching her forehead which Hamish of course knew wasn’t itchy. Shannon was beginning to catch on with what was happening and got up to walk to the window. Don’t say it, don’t say it.

            “Chelle,” she said, Rochelle turned to face her, “did you see that shadow before?”

            Rochelle scrunched her nose and raised her hand to her chin, pretending to think back to some memory that had been lost from consciousness for many years.

            “I guess not then,” she said seriously, though others smiled at the seemingly purposeful joke. But after that point they all noticed, even if they didn’t want to say, they all say the shadows.

It was eight hours ago when Noma Sila gave Rochelle the test of truth.

Darkness fell outside the room. Night. The winds howled and glasses clinked, cracked and clashed in far off places where there was nothing to worry about, but here and now there was something to worry about. Between Iain and Jayden’s hands a Rubik cube twisted, clicking buttons of cell phones tapped in the background and Hamish and Shannon and Lynda stared.

“Hey! Come and look at this,” Jayden yelled, with the coloured cubes.

“Look here!” Rochelle said sweetly, from the other side of the room, so all eyes turned from the window.

The shadow stood beside the window, darker than the darkness itself, facing the brick wall on the outside.

“Shit!” screamed Christina, who turned round, the black creature staring at her.

Rochelle reached for her pocket, pulled out the purple dust, thrusting her arm forward then round to the side so the whole room filled with darkness.

It was nine years, fifteen days, two hours and three seconds ago that Rochelle was given her choice.

            Screams of fear echoed throughout the room, which did not echo. And though no one noticed, though everyone was for themselves, no screams, no sound, no movement came from Hamish, Lynda and Shannon. When the dust cleared Rochelle laughed.

            “That was cool ay! I found it online, it like reacts with the air and expands, but doesn’t stain anything at all! It’s awesome!”

            “That was creepy,” choked Iain, “It was like, like those… those black dust Death Eater people off Harry Potter, you know!”

            Lynda, Shannon and Hamish just stared forward, seemingly out of shock. But something else was wrong that the others didn’t see!

            “No,” said Hamish, “that was the surveyor he had to hurry as he was late, he had to work quick, which was the dark moving person.”

            “Are you O.K Lynda?” said Christina, going to comfort her friend.

            “Yes. I am fine,” there was no fear in her voice and it almost seemed to Hamish and Shannon, robotic!

            But the others thought she was just scared, from the experience. But inside the three knew what was happening, they could not answer freely to their friends. They all though in rhythm, she, she did this to us! But no one could understand. Now, now we wouldn’t want to frighten them, would we!

            “That was a bit frightening, do not you think?” answered Hamish, to the others pressing questions.

            They left Hamish’s house, he had wanted to scream out, but he couldn’t, he had wanted to tell them that their Chelle was a horrible, horrible plague on the earth; the one children spoke of in playground games to frighten the others. The three lost souls could communicate, Help! Help! Send help, please! But forever they would remain silent.

Hamish unconsciously wrote this story, Help! Help! Robotically he typed, lost in the words and finally he could write the last words of his saviour letter, Help! Help!

            He discovered the answer to the shadows, And to stop Rochelle… the key to save the three, Don’t you dare!

            “And,” said Hamish, “they all lived happily ever after. The End”

Title:               Northern Lights

Author:          Philip Pullman

Genre:                        Narrative

Cultural Perspective:

Gender Perspective:  Male

Pullman’s novel “Northern Lights” has become world renown because of its rich fantasy, high drama and intense emotion and, though slightly different, it relates to our world and own lives.

A character that had impact on me was Mrs Coulter and the way she is presented in Part One of the novel. She is described as “a beautiful young lady” whom seems to be taking children, for their own safety, on a journey to the North. Pullman portrays her as a deceitful person, tricking others into loving her for her appearance when she really plans to harm them. She asked the children to write letters to their family to tell them where they were going and after “she bade them farewell and saw them in the care of the bold captain” she “threw the little bundle of letters into the furnace.” My first reaction was that of anger towards her but the strong resentment I felt was not justified as I did not know, at the time, for what purpose she was doing these horrible deeds of stealing children.

She seems very sly and has a well practiced facade which she displays; this is reiterated when Lyra meets her, and though normally she would see past a person who is a “fake”, she looks up to Mrs Coulter as being “not like any female Scholar” that she had met. The way in which she welcomes Lyra to help her is perplexing because though it seems she has real interest in Lyra’s potential, though previous description of her evil ways provoked a thought in me that there may be more to this than at first glance.

Mrs Coulter is very persuasive and I felt she was a strong figure as she had control over Lyra who is normally described as a “wild child.” Lyra’s dæmon Pantalaimon questions whether Mrs Coulter is really going to help them get to the North, but Lyra, who seems to be fully under Coulter’s charm, disagrees, putting it down to him not liking her. Mrs Coulter’s true side is aggressively shown when Lyra refuses to wear the dress that she was provided. Mrs Coulter’s dæmon attacks Pantalaimon and though “Lyra sobbed in terror. ‘Don’t! Please! Stop hurting us!’” Mrs Coulter barely noticed, casually “looking up from her flowers.” When the problem was resolved Coulter asks Lyra to be well behaved and when she agrees Mrs Coulter replies, almost as if the previous incident had never happened, “Then kiss me.”

I felt that Pullman’s character of Mrs Coulter had impact on me because I felt negatively towards her horrible evil side and they way she carelessly treats those who love and trust her and believe and in her care. The way she is portrayed in the novel effectively creates tension between the main characters as well as suspense in the plot, which I found captivating to read.

Then, ah… oh yes, Macbeth, Macbeth, that traitor! Seemingly oblivious to the fact that the King was dead in the next chamber, so allowed me to find him, as Duncan had me requested to, but assumedly not in such a state. O the horror! Horror! Horror! Someone, so murderous, so conniving, stole from me, from us! He who doth enter the Lords anointed temple should have been struck down there! And me! Explaining to that hideous mockery of a Lady that the murder occurred, Macbeth and his mistress thieved words from my mouth that had needn’t be spoken! That “gentle lady” be the scum of the earth. Then like a serpent hiding beneath an innocent flower she fainted with false grief.

Erm…. then… Ross, oh after leaving the castle, I meet with Ross. At the time I knew not of Macbeth’s dark deed so thought, like all the other blatantly oblivious men, that the slain guards committed the murder. Though Ross said that because Duncan’s sons Malcolm and Donalbain, of whom I had no regular meetings with, though sounded like nice men… though because they fled have been accused of bribing the guards. But I knew better, even though Ross was a loyal man, he was not a bright man and couldn’t really see the clear evidence. Well, the whispers. Words of women, hideous but hidden, women that look not like the inhabitants of the earth and, oh they were the Weird Sisters, I think that’s what they called them, yes, the Weird Sisters, who melted as breath into the wind. Worst yet was that Macbeth was said to be consorting with these vile spirits.

Then it happened that the sovereignty did fall upon Macbeth. It makes me hot to think that a traitor… of such betrayal should be given a position of such magnitude and greatness. I refused to be in his presence ‘cause I would myself thrust him off the highest pinnacle to the fiery depths of hell before he should rule me! The crowing, now a stupid symbol of nothing and a, sorry… stupid symbol, of nothing, yes, nothing worth living for, fired me. I trusted the whispers; they would guide me to revenge the King! My mistrust took me England, from whence I met Malcolm and Ross did tell me of the… of the death…. first I got convinced him that I was loyal and he pledged  that he would give all he could to restore peace to this glorious land of Scotland. Then… this is hard to put… the news, the horrible news… my wife, my son, my castle’s people, their death. Macbeth killed my beloved family, for whom I treasured above all! I had left them, I should have been there! If I had known that leaving the King or my family alone would have resulted in this I would have never, never in my life, have left the safety of Fife! They could have taken me, let my son be an orphan child, instead of stealing my treasures away!

I had to be strong. I had to let my grief convert to anger and revenge the lost souls of the good to take the murderer Macbeth. The grief and the rage, well I had to suppress them both, so to cut short all intermission from when this fiend of Scotland and I meet. Within my sword’s length set him, and that, ah… excuse me, I’m not normally this forgetful. Oh, and for me to take him down would cure the pains that ravaged me then.

Malcolm’s army followed me in pursuit of Macbeth, with talks coming through the ranks that he was fearless! Phew, how laughable such a thing is, to not fear fear itself! Then, the most recent that did happen, my confrontation with that spineless, backstabbing man. He went on to say how he would “not yield to one of woman born”, which of course is senseless, as how could this be possible. It was though he was in like a… how could I put it, a trance, of some sort. He radiated a sense of the supernatural, like witches were invading his being; it was, well, partly saddening to see that he was beyond honour, love, obedience and troops of friends! Yet I could not put that in front of my duty to the Lord. I revealed that I was from my mother’s womb untimely ripped, which frightened him. I was brought back to when the news of my family was revealed, the same look of disbelief, like the whole world will crumble, hit him on the face.

I ended it there, dead was Macbeth. Soldiers told me that he had once unseamed a traitor from the nave to the chops, and fixed his head upon our battlements, and now he has been dealt the same fate. The cries still ring, “I will not yield” and will haunt me, haunt me forever. Hmm, that is all behind me… for now, in celebration we hail Malcolm! Hail, King.

I once heard Macbeth spoken of as brave and courageous but he was just, is just and will always be, just a dead butcher and his fiend-like Queen.

Macduff

This is an update of where people have visited me from on my Clustr Map (note the above picture is not of my map).

Make sure you get people to check out my blog so they can get their own little dot on my Clustr Map, and get one on your own blog!

The view drops down, through the brisk air. Drops of cornets make poker dots on the pavement, sounding like the knocking of a xylophone. These spots fill out to become a thin sheet of water which bounces up around the ankles of passerby when stood upon by even the lightest of feet.

The observer scours the bustling alleyways for more eyes but none can it find for all are tucked safely under hoods. Safe from the cold. People hastily trundle through the streets carrying brown paper bags filled with soups, vitamins and hot roast chickens, to keep away the encroaching cold. Their tubas are irregular but each keeps an even pace, shoe to sidewalk, shoe to sidewalk. The crowds of passersby invoke a small amount of euphonium. This feeling of worry and tension fills the stranger leading to suffocation taking over. The euphonium reaches a high note and suddenly the crowd disperses with people going every which way.  

There is a slow in the actions of the world as if the cold has frozen life. But everything is just on pause, because up again to the sky the observer climbs and lingers for a moment. As if by magic, glockenspiels majestically float from the clouds. Glistening a pearl white, swaying, flipping, shaped like that of stars, dainty and fairylike. One or two at first, then hundreds, perhaps thousands, faint to the ignorant, but ringing out indefinitely against the artist’s dull pallet of sky. Earth’s confetti. The eyes widen with a sense of joy, watching children play, almost circus like, frolicking in the light and fluffy snow. Playing hide and go seek, the joy turns to soprano cornets, the eyes involuntarily well with tears, overcome with emotion as all the children vanish in the white abyss, the lone body turning to the ground.

Colourful coats rise from the snow. A perfectly rounded compacted horn races past the eyes. The eyes frantically look round and see the many smiling faces. The fight begins. A thunderous cacophony erupts as a hundred glockenspiels fly past; a combination of sweet and mischievous. Firing squads blast each other from either side. The sound of the timpanis is deafening.  Blaring trombones start up again, driver’s angry at the children’s in the way fun. The tangy smell of brass is so defiant that it is possible to taste. The eye just doesn’t know where to look! So many sounds, so much action, the striking piece seems as though it should sit in a picture frame.

It’s loud and soft, complicated but beautiful, fast but sweet. The observer’s vision blurs as everything gets faster, a silent hush follows as though everything will disappear. Bang, it all ends with a bang.

New life is now born.

Observe the Winter Music

Eyes thrust up, high up in the darkened sky. Flutes swirl and twist and spray out through the air with an almost spontaneous burst of excitement. The glance flicks to the streets of trombones whose impatient horns blare, trying to get home out of the cold. Above the wispy flutes die away and thunder bearing cymbals encroach into view; slowly at first then faster and faster. The sound that goes unheard by the earth is like that of someone telling another to be quiet, which crescendos to its loudest pinnacle.

The view drops down, down, down through the brisk air. Drops of cornets make poker dots on the pavement, sounding like the plonking of a xylophone. These spots fill out to become a thin sheet of water which bounces up around the pedestrians ankles when stood upon by even the lightest of feet.

The eye scours the bustling alleyways for more eyes but none can it find for all are tucked safely under hoods. Safe from the cold. People hastily trundle through the streets carrying brown paper bags filled with soups, vitamins and hot roast chickens, to keep away the mounting chance of unwillingly catching the cold. Their tubas are irregular but each keeps an even pace, shoe to sidewalk, shoe to sidewalk. The crowds of passersby invoke a small amount of euphonium, this feeling of worry and tension fills the eye leading to suffocation taking over. The euphonium reaches a high note and suddenly the crowd disperses, people going every which way.

There is a slow in the actions of the world like the cold has frozen life. But everything is just on pause, because up again to the sky the eye climbs and lingers for a moment. As if by magic, glockenspiels majestically float from the clouds, glistening a pearl white, swaying, flipping, shaped like that of stars, dainty, fairylike. One or two at first, then hundreds, perhaps thousands, faint against the grey sky, to the ignorant, but ringing out indefinitely to the sharp of mind. Earth’s confetti. The eyes widen with a sense of joy, watching children play, almost circus like, frolicking in the light and fluffy snow. Playing hide and go seek, the joy turns to soprano cornets, the eyes involuntarily well with tears, overcome with emotion as all the children vanish in the white abyss, the eyes turning to the ground.

Colourful coats rise from the snow. A perfectly rounded compacted horn races past the eyes. The eyes frantically look round and see the many smiling faces. The fight begins. Horns made from a hundred glockenspiels, a combination of sweet and mischievous. Firing squads blast each other from either side. The sound of the timpani’s is deafening.  Blaring trombone’s start up again, driver’s angry at the children’s in the way fun. The tangy smell of brass is so defiant that it is possible to taste. The eye just doesn’t know where to look! So many sounds, so much action, the striking piece seems as though it should sit in a picture frame.

It’s loud and soft, complicated but beautiful, fast but sweet. The view blurs as everything gets faster, a silent hush follows as though everything will disappear. Bang, it all ends with a bang.

New life is now born.