Scotch Egg

Preface to “Scotch Egg”

As many writers in history have probably done, although this is called a preface, I am writing this after composing the poem itself. If you prefer to read the poem first to interpret in your own way, I highly recommend you to skip this and if you think, after reading the last line, that it is still worth coming back here, that would make me really happy. Thank you very much.
It was a hard process writing a ballad. It was hard not only because it should follow the style of ballad with rhymes and meters, but also because I did not want to make it too personal, meaning too non-fiction. It is meant to be a creative writing. Not a diary you write in your bed at the end of each day, using dirty words and slangs. What is more, if everything written in my poem were based on my pure experiences, I am sure that it would make me feel as if I were forced to strip in front of people I have known for a long time, such as family and old friends. I do not think that my parents would like to know in what situations and with what kind of people I have kissed before. If you are a parent, tell me how you think about it.
So this is why the poem is fiction but it is, of course, not completely creative because I wrote it. All the writings are, I believe, more or less “non-fiction” or “based on non-fiction stories” because written by somebody inevitably projects the person’s bias. In a sense, it is safe to say that even science fictions cannot be perfectly creative: they should have been constructed through the eyes of writers. I personally do not think that I will be able to be negatively capable as Keats was great at in his tragically short life.
Although it is all up to you to judge which part or how much of the poem is true story, let me clarify the philosophy behind it. Outside beauty, which is a conception as old as the beginning of the world, is not as beautiful as it may seem. Outside beauty is easy, both to gain and to see. However, inside beauty or morality is at the very edge of the bottom of our heart, which is hard to see from outside. It is a troublesome existence as we all, at least to some extent want to be loved because of our personality. The word “beautiful” can be cruel. Yes we humans are egoistic; we want to be beautiful but do not want to be judged only by our beauty. It is also ironic that sometimes our inside personalities get valued not by people we wish they would but by people we never expect to do so.
I am writing this at the age of twenty two and sure that the way how I observe the same topic will be changed as I get older, but I am content by the fact that I have realised this, or have chosen the path which allowed me to be aware. Outside beauty will get aged and it cannot stay young and bright forever, but inside beauty is immortal and only get matured as long as you wish so.

Scotch Egg

One night in July with dried balmy air
Warrent Street where I sleep at
Right around New Diorama Theatre
I saw a play as the only guest

Or I should say it was a drama
As they were not acting at all
Although I couldn’t buy a programme
No need for the further detail

It was midnight the starry sky told
Here is what had happened there
Imagine guy in a suit who holds
The hand of a girl from nowhere

Seated at a step of my neighbour’s apartment
Two doors away from my stone bed
The guy took a hanky from his pocket
Laid it for the girl in red

I could tell that the guy was Scottish
As he spoke like my family
Though she spoke in American English
Her origin was a mystery

Ten minutes passed since the bottle was opened
They drunk wine and spoke about philosophy
Her focus was on being dead
While his topic was about beauty

She suddenly remembered what they bought
“Want Scotch eggs from TESCO?” she asked
He stared at the package and took eggs out
“And here’s your Scotch guy” said and smiled

I remember when I was a kid,
in my parents’ house in Stirling
“Want some Scotch eggs?” my mother asked
Now for two days, I’m starving

The wind from the waxing gibbous blew
He whispered “You’re absolutely beautiful”
As is often the case in a show
Ordinary compliment is always awful

She murmured back “and you should know
I hate to be told that I’m beautiful”
Speechless was he, looked at her toes
The silence she made was so painful

And then, of course she abruptly kissed him
“But I don’t mind you saying that”
He laughed because it was a crime
“I gotta tell you, you are bad”

They stood up and headed to station
When the two passed by my side
Paying no money for the production
I pretended that I had died

But she noticed me, her eyes were tied
to the paper cup from Pret a Manger
with what coins I was given by God
She might think that I was in danger

Fifty pound bill was put in the cup
And she told me “God Bless You”
left her ring too when offering up
I don't know better thing one could do

Elizabeth Ⅱ on the orange bill,
Heartfelt altruism I didn’t beg,
Nostalgia for the North will refill
my empty stomach with a scotch egg