AWA: Academic Writing at Auckland
Creative Writing is found in English and other modern language subjects, and includes poetry, letters, creative non-fiction, and writing mimicking the style of another writer.
Title: Losing Battle
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Copyright: Goldie Hamilton
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Description: The poem 'Losing Battle' is an attempt at chant poetry (i.e. repetitive chant-like structure...) which was discussed (but not practiced) in class.
Warning: This paper cannot be copied and used in your own assignment; this is plagiarism. Copied sections will be identified by Turnitin and penalties will apply. Please refer to the University's Academic Integrity resource and policies on Academic Integrity and Copyright.
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Writing features
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Losing Battle
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They are the authority. They say half is not, direction forgot, put evil on the spot. They say ours is theirs, all spares and repairs inside their castles of despairs. They sit, erupt into hairs on our backs. They squint across, skip larva lakes, no breaks. They, them, all kryptonite and spite, with all their might. They snarl and stare, no one there, they prepare to ensnare. They handcuff pools of blood, sink teeth into diamonds and rough. They carve our chests and knot guts of old gold. They pull tight gums off roots and boots, take loots. They giggle, curl locks and keys, spit over clouds and creeks. They stifle and stitch, all sutured to explode. They grin and give, a blow to the nail, a wail for the failure, no bail. They steal the show, sparkling magpie nest of know. They reap as we sow.
We are the minority. We climb vertical cliff, bodies stiff, their unlucky priority. We sink and scratch, cry arrows and bows, kiss their toes. We listen and cringe, spin out of embrace, cover in lace, disgrace. We are the empty, bloated, smoke of all fires. We heave each breath through blazon rock, bleed through frock of yellow stars. We hang heads low but keep chins up to flaming suns. We bathe in poison, blossom and sprout inside-out. We snivel, snarl, empty all pockets of self-pity and pride. We hide and seek, grow strong and weak, well of words learns to speak. We listen but hear no here or there or swear to promise and keep. We stay safe and scorned, plant trees and lawns. We are blood red buds and yellow blooms with black engraving, still worth saving. We plough deep roots, offshoots, our culture reboots. We grapple and strain, neck-high in their flow of no. We reap what they sow. |
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