Cardiff School of English, Communicat

Instructions to Students
1. This cover sheet must be attached to the front of the electronic copy of your
coursework.

2. Your student number must be on this cover sheet and on each page of each
essay, but you must not include your name anywhere in the coursework.

A Poem for Woodstock

Cars are abandoned on the highway and people are trapped in their houses;
Manhattan radios echo out ‘Thruway is closed people, stay with your spouses.’
God is against them and his heavens are opening
But baby boomers follow the bands into town, walking past those protesting.
The once peaceful fields are invaded, the sound of rotors rules the sky;
People just lie down, hearing the performers travel in helicopters flying high.
A young, dirty-looking couple stood embracing tight;
To another couple in Vietnam, the chopping rotors cause fright.

Floods of people penetrate the grounds;

The crowds are mesmerised by liberating sounds.
Three girls smile at each through rose-tinted spectacles,
Their feet are cut, the sun still not shining for the festival of festivals.

Bulging eyes would stare at the same moon

It shined over a land that strummed a social tune;
They waited for hours so would meanwhile indulge
And so deeper into the moon did their pupils bulge.

By the forty-eighth hour, hunger strikes

But the crowds feast on lyrics that thunder out of mics;
The people from Bethel making groupies food,
As the sun rises, guitars cementing the tranquil mood.
With the sun’s humidity making guitar tuning impure
peace and love were looming - a potential for war’s cure.
Fifty years have passed, but with the idea still craved for today
The two born at Woodstock later wishing the world had stayed this way.

A musical interpretation of a generation’s voice

at which people realised that together they still had a choice.
Fifty years have passed, the world just not the same
And that’s what is replayed even after the festival’s flame.

The Speaker
‘Life goes on’ is all they can say
Well no. I’d rather listen to something other than clichés.
Music is the chance for me to forge a different style
This despair is real though and I’ll take my time if
Life could just stand still for a while.
They say that time is the greatest healer
But a song will keep me in the moment for as long as it can.
I’ll just listen to the melodies that we were singing
If life could stand still just for a while.
I worry as the lyrics help me move on
I’m starting to feel better but what does it mean?
That I don’t care or that I wasn’t in the wrong?
Life’s silent melody would sound good for a while.
In the darkest of nights, my imagination runs wild
The speaker reminds me that I’m just another mother nature child.
It’s okay though, because it doesn’t tell me lies.
That’s why life has to stand still, so I can just listen for a while.
Let it go I’m being told over and over in speech
But what helps me is listening to the truth in song
I’ve cracked it now though. It’s only during a melody
That my life can stand still, even if it’s just for a while.

The Old Guitarist Down at the Mill 

His eyes bleed from half a century of stage light; 
Days of wielding his guitar, causing sheer delight. 
And the women that he picked up along the way; 
Relished the glam and the glitter and his musical sway.
Now, his fingers are crippled and worn; 
From playing on a stage to a world torn. 
Stadiums ten times over he would fill; 
But now, that old rocker just plays down at the mill. 
The acoustics inside satisfies those sensitive at heart; 
The town fearing the day those crippled fingers just won’t start.

Tales from the Watchtower

James

The clouds in the skyline look remarkably straight, not one seems out of place. The warm

glass in the old watch tower, in which I stand overlooking the darkened mountains, is cooling

as the sunset retires. Just a touch of blue remains in the sky, but the day is most definitely on

its way out.

I drew the short straw as it’s my turn on the late shift tonight. Well, I say my turn but not

really. I seem to have an inability to say no to the superiors of my life, which means I’m

working late for the third day straight. There’s never anything for me to do since being

demoted – ‘building security’, that’s my label.

I sit back in the chair and put my feet up against the desk, behind the CCTV camera. A few

trains go by, but they never stop. My attention turns back to the clouds, which have turned a

perky yellow, the red sections blending nicely. It reminds me of the Lion King, not because

I’m a fan but because my daughter is. I miss her.

I thought I left it too late to settle down and have a kid. I was thirty-five when she was born,

now she’s just starting school and I’m missing it all. I’m excited to get home in the morning
and to help get her ready for school. I kiss my wife and get an hour, sometimes less, with

both of them together. I make them breakfast, brush Sally’s hair. Best of all, I tell her about

the wild adventures that I’ve had that night in the watchtower.

I really need to stop making up these stories because she’s getting older, but the look of

excitement on her face make the tales more avant-garde on each telling. Sarah tells me off for

it sometimes too. The things I’ve done from this watch tower! I’ve battled pink dragons

living behind the mountains, singlehandedly stopped cowboys robbing the train and have

even seen a meteorite, filled with alien sweets, crash into one of the hills.

The depressing truth is that there are no dragons living behind the mountains, in fact my view

of the mountains is obstructed by an annoyingly thick signpost - it’s not even centre! As for

the train robbery, a few trains trickle past every now and then, and there is certainly nothing

of value in those working-class carriages. The meteorite was a bit of a dry day, I thought she

wouldn’t believe me, but it turned out to be her favourite tale.

One night I was especially tired. I leant my head against the dirty glass and hoped the rattling

from the trains would shake the migraine out of my head. My manager wanted to tighten up

on security and install more cameras in the office. I didn’t think this job could get any more

miserable, but they really managed to outdo themselves - this meant I couldn’t write as easily

as I wanted and would have to hide my drafts around the office.

This particular night was a gloomy one. Rain leaked through the roof and would drop down

into the bucket one drop at a time. Each drop was excruciating. It was humid and I was

already irritable. Sarah’s mum had just been diagnosed with terminal cancer and I’d been told

of the news that night over the phone. I sat and watched the rain trickle down the window, my

eyes having been staring at the same place for so long it looked like the hills were flooding.

The turntable in the corner of the office was the only solution. I remember I had some Beatles

records on the top shelf, I flipped the record because I couldn’t stand the early Beatles stuff.
The speakers echoed a rotten sound but it’s better than silence. I began to nod off, my mind

loosened by Strawberry Fields Forever.

I dreamt that I was climbing the mountain across from the watchtower, surrounding by

colossal footprints that had sunk deep into the mud. Blue and red clouds lightened in the sky

as the rain ran down the hill. Barefoot, I felt the water seep between my toes as the grass on

the hills grew as tall as my knees, waving back and forth to a distant beat. I could hear Sarah

and Sally from the top of the mountain and began climbing higher to join them. I smelt

burning but it was too late, my feet were singed. A flaming rock cooled and cracked open

over the ground, a jelly-like liquid melted out of it, tasting like a fruity syrup.

Ligneous elephant and giraffe structures watched over the valley, on their backs sat

motionless buddhas which, every now and again, blinked their eyes in unison. As I reached

my family at the top, I realised the distant beat I heard was coming from a group sat at the top

of the mountain playing drums. I looked up to the sky and realised that the beats were

affecting the colour of the clouds. When a harsher beat was played the clouds would turn a

harsher shade of blue. Everything seemed in balance.

One of the percussionists gave Sally a tiny-sized drum, we laughed at the comically small

size, and then she directed Sarah and I to ours. My name was carved into the drum. We all

had been given an innate sense of rhythm and played with the group for what seemed like a

perfect eternity. As I looked down the mountain, I noticed my watchtower surrounded by a

green fire, engulfing the lower levels. The dragon appeared from behind the tower, that’s

when I realised where I was. I was in a watchtower tale, living my daughter’s bed time

stories.

I’d never picked up a pen to write anything other than my wife’s birthday card or pass funny

notes to kids in class until I had that dream. Even so, it took me weeks to start. I felt as

though despite having this great idea in my head, it was impossible for someone like me to
translate it into words and onto paper. I’m one of thousands trying to write something

convincing. It becomes stressful having to deal with other people’s reactions, too. Eyes start

looking at you, volunteering their opinions on how they don’t believe you have what it takes.

Depending on the degree, a raised eyebrow can tell you a vast range of information, from

you’re kidding yourself and you should focus on real life, like getting a better job to who is

really going to read your books James?

It’s not just the negative reaction that I had to face to get this drafted again and again, but the

disbelieve in myself. The burning question pursued me - how can a forty something man,

who ditched English lessons at school and failed to write coherently all his life manage to

write a believable story? Self-doubt has always eaten away at me in some form - half the time

I was worried about other people not even being able to read my handwriting! Some days you

truly believe that your only fan is your five-year-old daughter. As glad as I am to have her in

the fandom, I hoped this idea would get me one or two more fans. I was never really proud of

anything that I produced before this, other than my daughter of course. I just knew that I had

this world that I wanted to invite people into to explore.

Sally

My dad committed suicide when I was fifteen. Mum divorced him after twenty years of

marriage because she fell in love with one of her teaching colleagues. I can’t hate her. Her

intentions were to stay close with Dad and carry on raising me as a team, so in some ways

they’ve both been selfish. Time has passed since, and time has healed some of the pain I feel.

I still very close to my dad because of the watchtower.

After his death, Mum and I were asked if we wanted to clean out his office. Climbing the

winding steps, I was taken back to a story that dad use to tell me when I was a little girl of

how he would get up and down the control room using a tube that could levitate him. Even
now, knowing this was made up to keep me entertained as a child, I was still disappointed

that I had to use the stairs.

You could tell the control room was originally supposed to be a bland, ordinary office, but

Dad had turned it into a showcase of all my childhood paintings, as well as his. On the left

side of the front window were my paintings, each dated gently in the corners with pencil. The

ones at the bottom included the pink dragons and the meteorite which were my bedtime

stories at around five years old. The ones at the top were ones that I gave him as a present

after my GCSEs. I noticed the turntable and the stack of records in the corner.

The song that remained the last played was a Beatles track from 1967, The Fool on the Hill. I

hoped he hadn’t seen himself that way. My mum began to cry in the corner of the room and

at first, I thought she was upset over the music but noticed that she was reading.

I sat at his desk and put my head in my hands, listening to the album whilst mum continued to

read. Despite everything, I had an overwhelming sense that everything was going to be okay,

because at that moment I felt close to Dad - the whole room reminded us of him. His fairy

lights draped over the window ledge, him having stuck plastic over the sensors for the

automatic lights to stop them turning on, and a lone ash tray sat next to the window filled

with cigarette butts. I put my arm around my mum and after reading the first page she

exclaimed “We have to get these published!”

Reading them back brought back so many of my childhood memories. Mum was right. The

Tales from the Watchtower blew up, people couldn’t get enough of it. The profits were given

to companies that help young people finance their talents, whether that be art, music or

writing. I think that’s what he would have wanted.

The Watchtower is now out of use and abandoned. Fans of the book regularly visit the hills,

and there’s even been a train stop placed outside the tower for them to get back and forth
from town. I still feel a sense of jealousy because now I have to share my dad, but I like to

think he’s still there in those hills, living amongst his dreams.

The Basement Gig

It was another helpless night at university. I quickly got bored of people watching on the

bench outside my accommodation – nobody interesting had walked by for at least three

minutes. I decided to star gaze instead; no stars. It was when my eyes returned that life kicked

off. A short girl, about the same age as me, with blonde hair stood in front of me. She tried to

say something. Stunned, I forgot about the sound playing in my ears.

‘That sounds funky, what are you listening to?’ She asked, smiling, taking a headphone out

of my ear. I liked the confidence and she was digging the song. She continued, ‘Listen, I’ve

had a falling out with a friend I came to visit. I’ve got two tickets to see a band tonight.

They’ve got a classic rock edge that I think you’d like. You could come join-’

‘Oh my God! Let me grab my wallet.’ In retrospect, I probably should’ve showed at least a

little bit of hesitation but before I knew it we were walking into town and waiting in the

queue. We got to know each other, but the conversation was heavily focused on music and

bands. She had the bluest eyes I’d ever seen, and I wanted to fall in love with them on the

first glance, but they didn’t reciprocate it. I pushed aside the thoughts and decided to just

enjoy the night for what it was - a spontaneous delight.

We were finally out of the queue, we headed down the stairs into the basement, and over to

the bar. I bought her a drink as a thank you for inviting me to the gig. You could tell the
walls, floor and ceiling had all been painted black once, but time had worn it away. I

suspected that it might have been from the intense humidity that quickly attacked the crowd.

The band invaded the stage like infantry men, and from the opening riff, the girls at the front

started screaming. You could hardly hear the lead singer, not that it mattered as the drums,

bass, and guitars were overpowering any voice in that room anyway.

After a while the crowd started getting out of control, girls were storming the stage like

animals. The sweat started to drip off the ceiling and poured over us, but nobody cared as the

sound from the amps created euphoria. The singer thrived off the attention and got more and

more creative in his movement across the stage. The energy was being batted back and forth

between the crowd and band.

During the second half of the gig, a man in the crowd started bellowing homophobic

comments towards the singer. The crowd booed him, but this only fuelled his aggression

towards the singer. The security failed to stop him. I looked at Isla and could see that her

blood was boiling. Before I knew it, she was marching over to the heckler and giving him a

piece of her mind. The guy didn’t quarrel but looked viciously deep into her eyes, turned

away and sauntered towards the stairs.

As she walked back towards me, the people who were watching praised her. The band

continued to invigorate their troops whilst those wild enough surfed the crowd and dangled

from pipes on the ceiling. I was starting to dehydrate before hurrying over to the table where

our drinks were. Isla and I smiled at each other, clinked our glasses together and guzzled the

booze down. I looked at Isla, and although I told myself not to, I couldn’t help myself falling

in love.