AWOL Exercise 7 Responses

AWOL Exercise 7 Responses

Please Can I Have a…

In the Selima Hill poem ‘Please Can I Have a Man…’ she deliberately overdoes the language to make the poem funny and striking, using over-the-top similes – ‘like a duvet stuffed with library books and shopping bags’ and rather unusual images.


I’d like you to write something with the title ‘Please Can I Have a…’ (add anything you like!). You too can be playful and over the top in your language or do the opposite and keep it as simple as you can. It could be funny, or it might be serious. It’s your choice. It doesn’t even need to be a poem, it could be a story, or a dialogue.


Can I please have ………..   by Jodi Glass

Can I please have ……….. 

can I please have a chocolate marshmallow

                                a blank book

                                a TV filled with long lost memories


can I please have the moon, Brie and cranberry flavoured

                                the soundtrack of a typewriter in my ear

                              the biggest pizza ever made


can I please have my life, reprinted

                              your life, happy

                               our life connected


can I please have where mountains start

                                the seas end

                                where the sky reaches the middle


can I please have the future, the future now?

Jodi Glass


The Legs of Fred Astaire   by Anon

The Legs of Fred Astaire 

Bring me a man who gives in to the bright side,

who knows he’s alright when he knows he’s not right,

who reaches for new gods and gives in to their will,

who doesn’t have a problem swallowing bitter pills.


Bring me a man who won’t pity my existence,

who isn’t the epitome of cold indifference,

who won’t surrender to hell or leather,

who doesn’t ever check the weather.


Bring me a man who can see the future,

who leaves the past stitched up and sutured,

bring me a man who can live for today,

whose only conviction is that he might sway.


Bring me a man of more than just stature,

who doesn’t think to manufacture 

words or acts or even thoughts,

whose free mind can never be bought.


Bring me a man who knows how to dream,

who knows how to sing and when he should scream.

Bring me a man with unclenched fists,

who’ll bare his arms to save his wrists.



Fight and Conquer   by Lotty

Fight and Conquer  

As i put on my cold metal armour, getting prepared to fight, and hopefully conquer, the army of loneliness and spinsterhood. Hopefully I won’t become a person like Ann Widdecombe – close-minded and rude. One thing that does separate me from her, I know no I’m not a bigot and a racist trying to hide behind pedals and a twin-set salmon-pink suit.


So once more this one is at war with her insecurities and dark thoughts. She believed after a period of therapy she had packed them away. Unfortunately, in these uncertain times, they have found their way back and seem eager to play around with me. Even though I’ve prayed and ask to be set free; but unfortunately, no luck! 

it was then that one’s mind was made up. That God didn’t really give a fuck.



Grant me, please, a modicum of common sense….   by Kathy Low

Grant me, please, a modicum of common sense….  

                  “oh do please, do some housework please, and hoover up that crumby carpet…..”

                           (but I put on my best red dress and danced till 2am, the rhythm resounding for days)


                   “oh don’t go out with him, oh please, he’s wild and unreliable…..”

                           (but I did go out with the Man Who Would Be King and had wild adventures all summer long)


                   “oh no, you really can’t be serious! You can’t go there on holiday! Nobody goes there! There’s nothing to see!….”

                            (but I did and the villagers took me to the secret valley and the meadow thick with a myriad sweetest ever wild strawberries)


                    “you really should be saving, you know, for a rainy day….”

                            (…..but the sky was purple, and the growl of distant thunder, and soaked to my skin, I turned my face into the storm and

                                                                                           shouted aloud with joy………and understood my common sense was fine, thank you)

Kathy Low


Please can I have a ticket home?   By Peter Marshall

Please can I have a ticket home?

I’ve felt the air around me move through uncapped hair and half sensed, half imagined that it was nudging at my whole body.  I’ve trudged wearily up the gentlest of paths over sand-dunes, certain that those distant slopes which you call hills would, to me, be insurmountable mountain peaks.  The silver-white of glistening granules of sand, each separate and uniquely shaped, lie in dam expanses, inviting the probing of my adventurously bare toes beneath the cool surface, making ruffles and cracks as they wriggle deeper.  That sound of water stroking at the beach-edge, which I have come to recognise as so deliciously characteristic, and yet a sound for which I have few words in my vocabulary.  And that strangely delirious whilst slightly nauseating sensation when floating, buoyed upon these enormous, enviously immeasurable masses of water as they undulate in waves which should be predictable but seem, even now, to take me slightly unawares. 

I’ve thrilled at following the bends and dips of seemingly random paths through huge clumps of trees, each towering their intimidating selves, crowding above me with rustles which, the more I listened, the more they sounded silent.  In contrast, you describe these woods as ‘quiet’ and ‘peaceful’ yet the noises are near deafening from a relentless cacophony of birds, seemingly with nothing better to do all day.  Gaps between these mazes of trunks have opened out to reveal sun-speckled glades.  Here the aromatic forest odours reluctantly give way to more subtle, though heady mixtures of scents and pollens captured in the stillness above the vivid green of low leaf and grass, peppered with the whiteness of daisies and swathes of lilac-spiked cuckoo flower.  There are those boldest of glares from dandelion everywhere, self-confident in the knowledge that they will form miniature white globes, elevated balls of fluff resembling hundreds of full moons perched above the meadow, proudly waiting in challenge of the slightest of breezes.  White globes provoking my eyes to scan the sky, searching. 

What really does it for me are those clouds.  I’ve seen people wandering about beneath them, disinterested or unaware, as the forms continually morph and flow across the sky by day and night, sometimes even caressing the ground in insubstantial grey swirls.  And sitting at a window watching the sun kiss the horizon behind high cloud gifts a mutating scene of multi-coloured glories which takes my breath a pause.  It is all too overwhelming.  I’ve more than had my once in a lifetime holiday tour this last month. 

Please can I have a ticket home to my safe, cosy, predictable, sterile habitat inside the lava tube below the northern rim of Aristarchus Crater?

2020 05 05 Peter Marshall 


Can I Have This Night   by elisheva katz

Can I Have This Night  

She stood lost, like a beaten dog without a home in the inky black night, looking far beyond the pink cherry moon and all the dancing stars, sparkling bright. Little diamond tears fell from her haunted eyes as she softly whispered:

“Everybody has regrets. Everybody! But Mister God – please can I have this night – just one more night is all I ask. I need to know if he still loves me, if he ever loved me, ever will.

Time slowed down to half of her heartbeat. She knew the end was near. A silent thankyou left her lips as she began her journey into the unknown wilderness – of a woman’s love for a man.

written by elisheva katz❤️x
May 4th 2020

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