Empathy in Literature

Alongside writing poetry, I am currently studying for a PhD at Nottingham University in Literary Linguistics (aka being really geeky about other people's writing).

My topic is empathy in literature - what is it that makes us feel real emotions (or not) for characters who don't really exist? I'm running a survey: if you have read (or listened to) any novel in the last three months, I would appreciate your response: www.aboutbooks.co.uk

Trespass

I should not know
that the grass that grows
on the other side of the barbed wire fence
really is more green.

I should not have been
to the top of the steepest field
before climbing down
on hands and heels.

And I should not have seen
the place, where in between
the rocks grow orchids, like a forest
of tiny, curling trees.

These are my trespasses.
Forgive me.


©2018 Lucy Peacock

This poem is from HILL: The story of one Derbyshire hill. Visit www.hillproject.uk for more details.

When karma fails at least I have the Smiths

If poetic justice
Worked properly,
Then vicious officials everywhere
Would get their share
Of misery.
Their lives would be ruled
By even pettier fools
Who fill them with dread.
They aren’t, but at least I have
The Queen is Dead

Or if karma was
Reality,
Then the bullies who tormented me
And made me lose sight of who I might be
Would live their lives
With less certainty,
And a lot more doubt.
They don’t, but at least I have
There is a Light that Never Goes Out.

And if karma was more
Than an initially appealing religious concept,
Then few would live in poverty except
Those who misuse their power over other people’s lives,
And for whom the word “elite” is an awful misnomer.
It isn’t, but at least I have
Girlfriend in a Coma.

After the Referendum

It was never a romance.
There was no
Loved up
Goose bumpy
Doe-eyed dance
That no-one else understood.
But you always seemed right for me,
Like no other country could.

Now, though, you've changed.
And your obsession with demons out there has awoken
Within you a monster.
And I am
Heartbroken.











© 2016 Lucy Peacock

Banner Poem

This poem was written in celebration of the banner-making activities of the Derbyshire Dales Labour Party Women's Forum. Our first banner is below: it may be only a banner, and a somewhat rustic one at that, but it was a true collaborative effort, and the start of something bigger.

We are the needle warriors
We weep, and therefore we sew.
We are the quiet revolutionaries,
Pouring our fury into the very
Stiches of the banners that we create,
And when we can, we’ll demonstrate,
And with our banners, we will be the voice
Of the powerless, the unprotected, and those without choice.
We are the needle warriors,
We weep, and therefore we sew.

It must be nice

It must be nice to know
That you’re better
And cleverer
And more deserving
Than "them"
And how easy it is
For you to condemn
Those people, who are all the same,
Because you know, of course,
That they’re to blame
For whatever it is that you believe is wrong.
But, though you feel that you belong
To the righteous few,
Remember, that to somebody somewhere,
You’re one of "them" too.




©2016 Lucy Peacock

Poetry by Committee

At the meeting, it was agreed
That, though there is no need,
The lines in this poem should rhyme.
Or at least they should scan,
If they can,
And if an extra-long line isn't needed for some reason or other.
And that it should be
A tight ball of words
To be unravelled at leisure,
Though loose enough
To give immediate pleasure.
But not so loose that the words begin
To
  Fall
    Out.
But the most important thing
Is that it should rhyme.







©2016 Lucy Peacock

For My Children

May you find music and poetry
Wherever you live.
May you love and be loved,
And take less than you give.

May you live your stories,
Not just watch them unfold,
And may they be stories
That are worth being told.

May you feel snow on your faces,
And rain in your hair.
And if your shoes get muddy,
May you not care.

May you always remember
The importance of doubt,
And, when you sit by a window,
To always look out.

May your dreams come ever closer,
Without quite coming true,
And may you embarrass your children
As much as I do.




© 2015 Lucy Peacock

Where have you been all my life?

Just another one in a long line
Of final cigarettes.
And like every other time,
They’re placing their bets,
That you won’t be the last.

And yes, before you,
There were many, many more.
But you are the one, my only, my true.
This time, with you, I’m sure.

Only you can fulfil my desire,
And it’s only you that can light my fire.
And I will light yours.

You will complete me, where all those others have failed.
And I will leave you spent, used up.
Inhaled.




©2015 Lucy Peacock

All Grown Up

As a grown-up
(Or as grown up as I’ll ever be)
I should know that there are books
That I might never read.
And that 6 pints is too many
And 2 not enough
And that I already have
A lot of stuff.
And that a shouted heckle
Isn’t funny or daring
And that no-one (or hardly anyone)
Is impressed by swearing.
And as a grown-up
I should realise
That eating that many Jaffa Cakes
Really isn’t wise.
I should know when a rule
Is OK to break,
And I should be able to talk to you
Without starting to shake.
And I should know that the feeling I get when I see you -
That heart-thumping dizziness
That I can’t quite subdue -
Is merely the product of some hormone or other
Or a temporary insanity
From which I’ll recover.

I should know all these things
And one day,
I will.

© 2015 Lucy Peacock

Right For Each Other

This isn't a new story. But I'm posting it anyway to remind me to finish some new ones.




Right For Each Other


He'll be home soon.

He'll walk in the door, throw his coat on the peg and the house will be full of him. Then it'll be a cup of tea and a book, maybe, or the paper - some time to think. And later there'll be a beer and a meal (who's cooking tonight?). And he'll talk about his day – who he saw, what he did - and how was your day? How are you? And it'll all be relaxed and happy, and there'll be togetherness and smiles. But it won't be right.

He's later than usual tonight. Drinks after work maybe, or some job so important he couldn't stop. Lost track of time. Dinner in the oven. He won't be long.

He's never very late, or rarely at least. I think he's got home after 9 o'clock twice in 18 months. He's a homebody type - a sitter and thinker rather than a chatter-at-the-bar. He'll be home soon.

He's not like other men. He's generous, friendly, likes children. He's not one for staying out all night or steaming home in a temper. No “what is it now, woman?”, no coldness, no tears. He's a good man. A passionate man. He sees people as they really are and he loves them, and they love him. Him and his warm eyes, and that little curl of hair at the back of his neck.

And he has a power over me like no-one else has ever had before. An overwhelming, electric power that fills my head and almost blocks out everything else. He's part of me. My darling, my saviour.

It's very late now. His train was delayed I expect. Or maybe he bumped into someone. An old friend he couldn't say no to. He's sitting there now, sneaking glances at his watch and wishing he could leave.

I love him. It's his eyes, I think. Or maybe his laugh. A soft, deep laugh, always sincere. And it's the way he smiles, and just the way he holds himself as he walks up the road.

It's really something, the way he walks. Graceful even, but just manly enough. He has the world on his mind, but still manages a sideways smile for anyone who passes.

He saves his special smiles for me. And he tells me more, with those smiles, than he thinks he does. He tells me all I need to know.

His wife thinks I'm deluded. “That mad bitch on the bench”. But I'm the one he needs, not her. And I know he understands. He just doesn't say so. He's scared to leave, doesn't want change, thinks he doesn't know me. But he does, he does. And I'll just wait here, to catch another glimpse of him, today like every day. And he'll smile, and we'll know. We're right for each other.

© Lucy Peacock 2011