Our World From Up Here

Our world from up here

Vast scenes below then hypnotic

Sunsets far and wide

And warm until memories 

Like a canal flow gliding

Open to us and run free- 

Alive in the clouds but 

Below the moon still 

Glowing black like darkened

Emotion pouring to heal

And your voice to seal 

Echoed cries from their booming


Our Streets

I encountered more people

With faces, sunken

Cut through with a cold stone blade

Blinked- then an opportunity missed

For here, now to give wider

No eyes to see change

Through skin so scaled and rusted

That your copper coin sticks fast

To make a golden impression to

Listen and answer the rattling

Of the links untied through neglect

One by one to convince them

That the world’s hope is to dust

And passers by are too busy to give a thought to change a

World’s eye view


Through a hole in the wall

They now can see the flowers

In the gardens we dance

Striving for wilting dandelions find

Peace of mind to sing of love

We- the deaf who walk close each time

To the silent hum of our eye lined bubble because

You don’t want to know, and you don’t have to

Play- pretend sublimity, oblivious fun

You are the most through dust on the ground

The creaking-jointed human

Kind of the broken wanderer

Who need us as we are and ask for

No more.




Etched emotion opened

A basic can opener

some tainted past

Revealed, oppressed depressed

Stark compression released, deceased

Speaking to break the silence, altered

Alive not alone

Far from the floor

But escaping the lifeless lies through a stiffening door

Glass Half Gone

The World demands your deliberate artifice

But right in the now and hear

You’re Walking alone, along a lonely
Love burnt grey and dust of stars

Streaming ankle level and below

Beneath and between your fears own me
Dawn cracking down on a darkened day

Alive about a sunbeam, once in May

Living a lie, a dream, still lonely
Shipwrecked amongst the living

A breathing hollow and lifeless laughter

Piercing a cry of cold limbs, only
Ended right at the beginning

From A blackened senseless lying

And a deadened deafness, a restless dying

B L E A K 

I kept a years silence though my mind was a fairground

On a circular path headed uphill 

Struggling through a blackout, tunnelling, working

Breaking bones of restless waiting, always onward headed,

Faster, always deeper, further- further helpless wonder

Passed the stand still, pushing, barging past the helpless crying

Running and flying, then falling, dying

Stuck fast in mind with a bleakness headed south-


Which level? Where am I at?


To read

To write

and to cry.

So inspired was I

But then a level passed me by

So I got on it

A level too high.

Stuck on a straight line

To sanity


Who knows?

Grew no more

On a level, falling down

Only below

Decreased and deceased

And falling faster-
Then Bruised

Level 3 from death

I climbed up.

No wall no barricade

No level to wrestle

Only the sky

Limited my view of a level

Below and alone

Dislocated at the seam,

For no one with a curiosity

Of the sky would sit

On a level to dream

Hattie Butterworth

Music, Philosophy and Jeanette Winterson


For Christamas this year, I bought Jeanette Winterson’s semi-autobiography, Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit, for my pianist friend, Jasmin. I thought I would interest Jasmin because of Jeanette’s inspirational story and her connections with Oxford, (Jasmin is awaiting a response from her Hartford interview!) and so it did. So much so in fact that Jasmin forced me down and said, “Hattie, read the introduction to this book, it will change you”. I read the introduction and it was certainly enough to feed inspiration for a blog post!

I’m not going to provide a very in depth discussion around one of Jeanette’s many philosophy’s, only talk about one thing she said that has stayed with me. Jeanette talked about how she doesn’t want to call Oranges an autobiography because she used her own life only as the base for a story. A story, she said, which she hopes can turn her own life into something which has meaning for other people whose experience is ‘Nothing like your own’. What struck me the most was the idea that ‘Memory is not a reconstruction or a filing system, memory is a recreation’. She talks about how we remember the same things differently each time and how the past is not fixed and as we develop and change, so do our memories.

It suddenly stuck me that this idea is vital in understanding and performing a piece of music. Our ultimate goal in performance is to perform as we can imagine the composer would have designed it. Every cellist who puts their heart into the Elgar concerto will get very different responses back. We need to remember that these great works are memories. For example, many people see the cello concerto as a memory of the war or tribute to his wife, Alice. So often musicians get tied down in looking for an ultimate perfection in performance. We need to remember that each and every one of us has something to give back and every musician has the beautiful chance to retell and sell a memory. Perhaps the more successful performers aren’t necessarily the ones who have the natural talent, but the ones who have imagined a memory and found the most exciting, expressive way to communicate it. Just as we cannot remember a memory perfectly and constantly unchanged, why should we be expected to perform a memory in this way?

Jeanette, we love you and thank you dearly for bringing us back to life!

Keep on creating everyone, never shy away!




Finding Home 


 If the home was just a memory that you touched once upon a dream
And even the stars’ brightness faded the closer to them you passed

Where could you lay the foundations of your heart?
If yet you received the greatest riches and witnessed the sweetest music

If you could part the waves and conjure the snowfall 

Where would the core of your heart cry back to?
If you reach the bottom of the ocean or fly beyond the highest mountains 

You must still make a home for your love and a life for your happiness 

But an armchair for the lost wanderer and a fire for his soul.

Hattie Butterworth

Keep Writing- For The World


I always write impressive statements

But can never comprehend

Their meaning or significance to me

So I write them for a friend,

P1110671 (2).JPG


A friend who understands the soul in my thoughts

Who unwinds my tales of love and pain

It matters not if I don’t really understand them

As long as I know them to be true


So that one day they may hep you

Just as others’ advice helped me

And I’ll strive towards the ultimate goal,

To teach myself all I truly know and see

the purpose of art- Poems for Presents 5

I wanted to draw my worldFashioned with watercolour or charcoal

I longed for the gift of fine detail

But my heart spoke little on the canvas.

I longed to compose my world

For my feelings to form a song 

But my hearts expression had different ideas

So I waited and wished for my art to reveal 

I felt through pictures, I shivered for glittering words, I cried at the music 

But I could not myself these emotions create.

So I set to recreation in the hope that some day

The emotions that I feel through my art

Will speak to others in a different way