Annabel Peet selected as Warwickshire's Young Poet Laureate for 208
My music contrasts the mood of my muse
As she restlessly calls for me to hurry and
Not waste my childhood thinking about
Things children should not think about.
She wants me to follow in the footsteps
Of those who went before me,
But find my own way using the map of
History and hindsight as a guide,
Not follow step for step a given path,
But choose my own and love her for
Giving me people and places and things,
Noises and lights she has found through experience.
I am not her only ward, and certainly not
Her first, for she has had years of learning,
Years of caring for and nurturing,
From a time before she was who she is today.
Oh, we have changed her,
Moved her body into a shape that
Fits who we want her to be each century,
Changing her hills into battlements,
And rivers into moats.
In the end, she makes bards of us all.
She has no care for her physical image.
She only wants us to know her,
As the decades and centuries of those
Who have passed before us knew her,
Who have loved her as
We love her now.
Though how anyone could love her
As much as I do is a mystery to me,
For she is my guardian who has always
Shown me the path lined with roses,
Clipping thorns off each stem before
They touch me. She loves me in a way
They could never know,
In a way no person ever could.
She is my home.
Is it my body?
when did my body stop being my body?
when did the curve of my hips begin
to belong to a stranger; for their hands to
lie on without my permission or consent.
when did my thighs become some sex
object for a stranger to stare at; for them to marvel
at how they would look around their head
in their bed , as if I am not too fragile for these thoughts.
when did my chest become a haven
for a stranger; for them to dance their lips across
to the music of my cries calling for a
lost childhood of unselfconscious ease.
i was born in this body, so I thought that
i belonged to it and it to me,
but somewhere down the line they took my body
and made it theirs,
so answer me this :
was my body ever really my body,
or was it on loan to me under the false freedom of femininity?