A rose without a scent is no rose at all.

I sniff the ones by the roadside greedily,

gorging myself on their smell,

robbing them of their essence.

Sometimes, I can’t resist the urge

to become a thief.

They’ll look out of the window next morning

and be greeted by nothing but a graveyard

of thorny branches waving a sad hello

while at home, I, like Love,

lie on a bed of dying or dead roses –

roses never smell as sweet as when

they are about to die.

After some time, I throw them all out,

every last petal, stamen, stem and leaf,

sick of the stink of their deaths

clinging to my skin.

The ghost of you still haunts

my dreams

my memories

the errant fantasies I have once a week

when I am cold and lonely.

Why are you still here?

Why does it still feel the way it did?

Why do I still hear your laughter,

just out of reach,

still see you near me,

in the corner of my eye?

Why can I still feel the shape of your mouth?

This isn’t fair.

Dream-kisses should not taste this good.

Dream-embraces should not leave me trembling.

I should not still smell you on my skin

or feel your hair when I touch silk.

You, after all, do not see the words I wrote for you

in the curves of somebody else’s.

Your heart does not skip a beat

every time you see a girl in bright blue and white.

You do not shake and sweat and struggle for control

when my name is mentioned in conversation.

You simply do not grieve for me

the way I grieve for you.

You do not miss my scent

or my chatter

or my bad lyrics

or the long conversations we had

with my thigh resting against yours

as we talked and we loved

under the dying summer sun.

When I kissed you,

I tasted wedding cake,

its marzipan laced with arsenic.

When I touched you,

I felt the coolness of champagne

sipped from the same flute.

A poisoned chalice.

And when you called out my name,

I heard at the back of your throat

the gentle clink of manacles

in the form of two perfect, golden rings.

Matching; his, hers.

His her.

The rock feels heavy on my finger.

You fall asleep.

I plan my escape.

You make me want to weep.

But then, there always was something

about a beautiful black woman

that brought me to tears.

Maybe it’s those lips.

Full and fleshy,

the first kiss God ever created.

Switching from a debate on politics

To pressing kisses against my mouth.

Perhaps it’s the skin.

As slick and as sleek as the night

and more radiant than it, too.

It makes me want to commit it to memory,

to make a map of every hill and every valley

of your perfection in my mind.

It could be that hair;

a world of comfort and warmth

and spice,

soft against my palms.

It might be the way that

the whites of your eyes and of your teeth

and the fleshy, hot, pink of your tongue flash

against the glowing darkness of your skin.

Maybe it’s none of these.

I don’t know why a smile from you

feels as if you’ve reached out to me,

or why your voice can stop me dead,

or why a simple glance from you

is enough to make the world feel at rights.

Perhaps the sum of the parts

is not more than the whole.

Perhaps I can pin your appeal to no particular feature,

but to you, the beautiful black woman,

as a whole.

Perhaps everything about you

is a something

to bring me to tears.

You’re sitting idly,

doodling, drawing, doing anything

but the work

and the teacher is just a

relaxing drone from somewhere far away.

I’m hyper-aware of

the sound of your pen on the paper,

your ankles moving against each other,

the soft sh-sh of the fingers in your hair,

(God, to be one of those fingers)

and I could swear that the taste

of you lingers in the air.

But then the shaft of sunlight moves,

and the moment shifts

and you are stripped of your divinity

and it is the next boy’s turn

to be an angel.

In Appreciation of the Beautiful Black Woman

You make me want to weep.

But then, there always was something

about a beautiful black woman

that brought me to tears.

Maybe it’s those lips.

Full and fleshy,

the first kiss God ever created.

Switching from a debate on politics

To dropping kisses onto my mouth.

Perhaps it’s the skin.

As slick and as sleek as the night

and more radiant than it, too.

It makes me want to commit it to memory,

to make a map of every hill and every valley

of your perfection in my mind.

It could be that hair;

a world of comfort and warmth

and spice,

soft against my palms.

It might be the way that

the whites of your eyes and of your teeth

and the fleshy, hot, pink of your tongue flashes

against the glowing darkness of your skin.

Maybe it’s none of these.

I don’t know why a smile from you

feels as if you’ve reached out and stroked me,

or why your voice melts my knees,

or why a simple glance from you

can make me giddy.

Perhaps the sum of the parts

is not more than the whole.

Perhaps I can pin your appeal to no particular feature,

but to you, the beautiful black woman,

as a whole.

Perhaps everything about you

is a something

to bring me to tears.

(Nope, I didn't win any prizes. So you have to suffer with my poetry for the next God only knows how long :/ be kind, comment!)

Today is the 15^th of July, and I guess you all know what that means (all of you who live in the UK anyway).

 Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince came out in cinemas today.

 So why do I feel so empty, so utterly devoid of emotional investment and hope for the next movie? Easy: I’ve been disappointed. This was not the movie I was expecting to get. Instead of an 8.5 out of ten at the very least, I have been presented with a 6 out of 10 film, and it makes me miserable.

 I know that it’s a film and that they won’t get everything in if they want to make a film that’s both long and short enough to watch and easy for non-fangirls to follow the story, but leaving out the memory of Tom Riddle’s interview for the post of Defence against the Dark Arts? This was a stupid move in my eyes, because it didn’t bridge the gap between Tom Riddle and Voldemort AT ALL. It’s the whole reason that students get a new Defence against the Dark Arts teacher every single year, something that in the films will now be left unresolved. It also marks the turning point, the moment in which Dumbledore realises that he has lost Tom forever to the Dark side and that he is up against someone dangerous and power-hungry, a quality which Dumbledore himself fears.

 I also think that the importance of the Horcruxes have been HUGELY underplayed because in this film, Harry actually asks, “So they could be anything?”, to which Dumbledore replies, “Yes, commonplace objects, they could be anything.”

 NO, Horcruxes CANNOT be just anything, otherwise there’s no point in making them. There is no explanation of the glamour that Voldemort believes his Horcruxes to possess, no explanation of Voldemort’s attachment to objects steeped in Hogwarts’ history (this isn’t even touched on), no explanation of why Voldemort would want to be immortal; Riddle’s family are unmentioned. Even the memory of the locket is left unturned, which means that when the fake locket is found at the end of the film, no-one actually gives a damn, because no-one knows what the hell it is. We don’t even get an insight into what Voldemort was doing in the First War; this film makes it seem far too much as if this is the first time Voldemort has risen to power. There is nowhere near enough history to satisfy my needs.

 Half-Blood Prince also focuses on the Trio waaaay too much; Dean Thomas doesn’t get a word to say and I mean this in the most literal sense; he lolls around snogging Ginny (which was kind of weird to see actually, because none of the actors seem to mention that bit when they’re being interviewed about the romance in the film) but he utters not a sound. Even Blaise Zabini, who says precious little in canon, gets to grunt/laugh at Malfoy when he insinuates that he’s a Death Eater, the subject of which brings me onto the stellar performances of this whole film.

 Tom Felton is a revelation as Draco Malfoy, and I say that not because I have a substantial soft spot for him, but because he was brilliant. That was truly the first time that Draco was a person with conflicting feelings and troubles and stresses rather than your typical cookie-cutter playground bully. He’s not a pantomime villain anymore, not someone to be turned into a ferret and mocked in front of the whole school, he is a Malfoy. The use of the Daily Prophet to show that Lucius Malfoy had been imprisoned was fantastic and Draco’s lack of patience and vitriol towards the Trio was great; the only times Harry and Draco encountered each other was on the train and in the bathroom duelling scene.

   Draco was truly scary; I honestly thought he wouldn’t break Harry’s nose on the train, but he did and it terrified me. Draco didn’t even waste his breath on insulting Harry properly; “That was for my father,” and he was out, carrying his briefcase and wearing his wonderfully cut suits.

  Of course, the scriptwriters ruined him not more than five minutes later with the line “It’s not a cane, it’s a walking stick!” I didn’t know there was a difference. While I hated that line because it induced inappropriate laughter towards Draco (I admit it, I’m guilty as well), what I loved was that it was Lucius’ walking stick, which is where he used to keep his wand, which we can assume is now in Draco’s safekeeping... see where I’m going with this? I thought that was a really lovely moment. It was also great that we saw him on his own a lot of the time: his whole Slytherin posse were nowhere to be seen, not even Crabbe and Goyle and it was really great that his isolation was emphasised. If you think about it in terms of politics, it would be very shrewd of the people in his House to be friends with him so that they could make alliances with him and his family; for Draco to shuck all of this off for the sake of Voldemort is pretty intense.

 Alan Rickman as Snape was also pretty good; his character had more complexity. Like Draco, he is no longer just a ‘bad guy’, he is a human. His reputation as Hogwarts’ Darkest Teacher is severely infringed by the conversation that he has with Dumbledore anyway (damn, it eats into The Prince’s Tale screen-time for Deathly Hallows). Nothing’s black and white anymore, and that’s wonderful.

 Romance, however, is in a very strange way, a lot clearer than it should seem. Ron and Hermione’s attraction to each other comes to the forefront, as it should because of the appearance of Lavender Brown and Cormac McLaggen on the romantic scene. This is a fertile ground for comedy, and indeed, Yates milks it for all he’s worth.

   There is this absolutely wonderful, hilarious moment at the first Slug Club dinner party when they’re all eating dessert and Cormac is staring at Hermione over the table, really staring at her, and all of a sudden, he starts licking his fingers and holding her gaze in what I think he’s hoping is a seductive gaze. Perfect; utterly, utterly perfect.

   Another really lovely moment that follows on from this is when Ginny comes to the table and Harry is the only person at the table who does the gentlemanly thing of getting up when a lady comes to the table; not even Slughorn rises.

 Jessie Cave was brilliant. I was fully expecting to hate her because she looked far too close to Luna for comfort, not to mention the disastrous open auditions. But she was really fantastic; her Weasley-fervour and her obsession were just done so brilliantly and were so funny. And she actually called him Won-Won! She clings to him like a pink, puppy-eyed limpet and she makes me laugh. She has my hearty approval.

 I could go on and on about all the stuff the missed out, but if you’re reading this, I’ll assume that you either have watched this movie or don’t care about spoilers. They cut out the Dursleys completely, Seamus Finnegan only gets one proper scene, McGonagall gets two, Neville Longbottom gets about a quarter of a scene and doesn’t speak and they didn’t even do the battle with people from the DA and Order of the Phoenix against the Death Eaters.... I think you get the picture.

 What I do think about this film was that it was stunning visually. David Yates is a man who really, really likes his explosions and special effects; he had the windows in the Great Hall and the crockery and cutlery on the table explode for no apparent reason, which sometimes gives you the feeling that he’s trying too hard to put his own stamp on it. The main problem for me was similar to that of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix; there was no cohesive storyline. It jumped from scene to scene far too much and there was no indicator of season like Alfonso Cúaron’s genius use of the Whomping Willow to show the seasons in Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban.

   It’s almost as if he focuses way too much on scenes rather than the film as a whole. But that said, there were some fantastic scenes; opening the film with the wizarding equivalent of the paparazzi waving their smoking flashbulbs at Harry as he walks out of the Ministry after the battle with Voldemort right in the heart of the wizarding authorities was inspired.

   My favourite scene out of the whole film has to be the scene where Harry and Ron start talking about Ginny and Hermione’s skin; if you’ve seen it, you’ll get what I mean. If not, go and see the damn movie!

 Thank you for bothering to read this. I love you, really I do. I’m now going to finish up with favourite quotes, especially the ones I see being on icons in a few weeks later.

DUMBLEDORE: You need a shave, Harry.
Harry [grinning and rubbing his chin]: Yeah, I do.
(I guess that was done to emphasise the changing relationship between Harry and Dumbledore; Harry’s becoming a man. But still, it’s weird.)

 DRACO MALFOY [to Argus Filch]: It’s not a cane, it’s a walking stick!

RANDOM MUGGLE WAITRESS: I’ve seen you reading that strange paper of yours quite a bit now. Once or twice, I could have sworn I’d seen the pictures move. [Smiles] You must think I’m going round the twist. There’s quite a bit about someone called Harry Potter...
HARRY: Yeah, I know him. Bit of a tosser, really.

 RON [on seeing Dean with his sister]: Slick git.

RON [five hours later]: Dean? He’s brilliant.

OR Why Catholicism Drives a Misogynistic, Patriarchal Wedge Between the Masses and God.



God said, “It is not right that the man should be what he is. What I have made is not what I intended. I shall make him a companion, an improved version of my vision. This companion will guide him through all the perils and woes of life.”

   So from the soil God fashioned all the wild animals and all the birds of heaven. These God brought to the man to see what he would call them; each one was to bear the name the man would give it. The man gave names to all the cattle, all the birds of heaven and all the wild animals. But no companion suitable for the man was found for him. Then, God made the man fall into a sleep. And while he was asleep, God took one of his ribs and closed the flesh up again forthwith. God fashioned the rib taken from the man into a woman, with the thought that at least one good thing could be salvaged from the mistake of the man, and brought her to the man. When the man saw her, he began to quake with fear as he could see the Hand of God surrounding her. And from that day on, he resolved to make life as difficult as he could for her without incurring the wrath of God.

The first part of his plan would be claiming God as Father, instead of Her rightful title as Mother Supreme.




I bet no-one's ever written fanfic for the Bible before...

Love, I have decided, is akin to the art of baking without a recipe. You start off as a novice, feeling your way around, adding ingredients here and there when it feels right, modifying your mental recipe, mixing as hard as you can and putting your first effort into the oven.

   The cakes don’t always turn out right.

   Sometimes, they come out blackened and smoking, sometimes, they’re too soft. Other times, they’re not soft enough. Sometimes, it’s not sweet enough or the flavours you’ve used don’t quite go together. You’ll become so exasperated that you’ll be on the verge of giving up, fed up of what you feel is wastage of resources on a futile effort.

   It’ll be on one of those days that, without warning, you’ll hit upon a perfect cake.

   Sweet, but not too sweet. Firm but with give. Flavours are present but not overwhelming.

   What happens after that? What do you do when you have the perfect cake?

   Well, you stick to the recipe you used for that perfect cake, of course.

I lay in bed, listening to the sounds of pre-dawn light; the birds, the wind the trees, the gurgling of the now defunct radiator... I breathed out cautiously waiting. Yep, there it was. My breath rose up in a misty fug. Getting out of bed was going to be hellishly cold today, but there was no need to think of that right now, for a long, warm body was pressed up against mine and the slow, even breathing of a person sleeping pulsed against the skin on my neck. I smiled contentedly and watched the new light of day bleed into the room and over her and me. The fresh morning light illuminated everything; the piles of books everywhere, a stack of old newspapers and our intermingled clothes, heaped in a pile on the floor from where we’d hastily thrown them last night. The memory of it brought yet another smile to my face and a warm feeling in a place that was considerably lower than my stomach. I lay like that for a very long and unspecified time, semi-conscious and dreaming of pleasant things, a warm and comforting presence reassuringly solid against my back.

   Eventually, the breathing sped up and she stirred, pulling her semi-nude body slightly out of the covers.

   “Good morning,” she murmured sleepily, kissing my shoulder.

   “Good morning, sleepy-head,” I smiled gently at her; her beauty was apparent even with her pillow-face and the sleep-sand in her eyes. “Welcome back to the world of the living.” She was a horrifically heavy sleeper and I never failed to enjoy teasing her about it.

   “I was not that” – she gave a giant yawn, revealing her tonsils – “out of it. ’Snot my fault you sleep like a bird.”

   I joshed her lightly and she shoved me playfully back and soon we were play-fighting, squealing like piglets and laughing, not letting the tangled covers get in the way of our fun. Naturally enough, the fighting segued into an altogether more pleasurable pursuit, though one slightly marred by the fact that we both had morning breath. They say that familiarity breeds contempt, but whoever said that was obviously single and bored of his or her own right hand; I loved the way I could trace her skin like a map, the way I could find the sensitive spots with my eyes closed. The warm, clean scent of her skin, now as familiar to me as the back of my hand, filled my nose and almost overwhelmed me. It was a pleasant suffocation, though.

   “Sam?” She’d pulled back so that she was doing a press-up above my body. Her whole face was a frown; I could almost see the question mark floating above her head.

   “Yes?” I answered, slightly out of breath and wishing to get back to what we’d been doing before and reach the natural conclusion – the back-arching, skin-tingling, breathlessly blissful conclusion that marked the beginnings of most of our mornings these days. I curled my hand around her waist in the hope of distracting her.

   She was having none of it. “What’s the date?”

   I frowned at her, nonplussed. “Um... Tuesday?”

   “The date, not the day...” Without warning, she climbed out of the bed, leaving me cold and alone in the covers. I sat up to see her checking the wall calendar.

   “Oh, no...”

   “What is it? If it’s your mother’s birthday, there’s still time to get her a present,” I joked, lying back.

   “No,” she said baldly. “It’s Christmas Day.”

   “Oh,” I said inadequately.

   “I didn’t get you a present,” she said almost sadly.

   I bit my lip. “I didn’t get you one either.” There was an awkward pause between the two of us. “But you didn’t need to. Not really.”

   She frowned yet again; she was going to have a terrible crease there one day. “Why not?”

   “Well,” I said, feeling slightly uncomfortable under her scrutiny. “Finding you undressed in my bed every morning and night has been a pretty fantastic Christmas present, if you ask me.” I looked down and back up at her, feeling somewhat embarrassed; sentimentality, romance... it wasn’t really my forte.

   She blushed then, and for once, I could see where the blush carried on and I swear to you, I’ve never seen such a beautiful flush on a human being. Her eyes darkened slightly and I could read what it meant. I felt myself reacting to her stare.

   “Are you going to come over here, then?” I whispered, but I knew she could hear me. She walked over and lay next to me on the bed. She cradled my face in her hands for a long moment before she touched her lips to mine. It wasn’t the most passionate of kisses and was barely even a kiss, more just a touching of lips, but it spoke volumes.

   When she pulled away, her eyes were glistening slightly. “Merry Christmas, darling,” she breathed against my mouth.