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Ορέστης 35 έγραψε: 03 Νοέμ 2019, 15:16 Don't be afraid to ask your teachers as many questions as you want. Also do have a look around reddit, stackexchange and other specialised forums where people in your field might gather. Maybe even someone here could help. O poet, did you have to do any data gathering back in glorious Portsmouth?

No, the only extensive write up I had to do was for my dissertation and that was all experimental lab data.

Where there is a will, there is a way.

And where there's a wheel, there's a road.

hellegennes έγραψε: 03 Νοέμ 2019, 22:20
Ορέστης 35 έγραψε: 03 Νοέμ 2019, 15:16 Don't be afraid to ask your teachers as many questions as you want. Also do have a look around reddit, stackexchange and other specialised forums where people in your field might gather. Maybe even someone here could help. O poet, did you have to do any data gathering back in glorious Portsmouth?
No, the only extensive write up I had to do was for my dissertation and that was all experimental lab data.

Sounds interesting. Did you play Badminton with the chinese girls at the gym? I payed for a one month membership but only went two times and lifted weights.

That's a wee bit racist, mate. Plus, I am not the gym type. I would consider a membership if they paid good money, though.

No, I actually spent most of my free time walking, going to museums, taking pictures and sitting down by the seashore; writing. Like that:

Voices Along the Coast

Some years after, I find myself heading for the old tower.
Windy the coast as it is -as it has always been-
I find myself reaching for a cover.
As I stroll along the path, laid with wooden planks,
I hear the wind whispering; gibberish, as it always does.
But wait... this time it's different. I can hear voices calling.
I can hear distinct words, if unrelated to each other.
I can hear seagulls dipping in my mind, hauling up memories and words,
reaching from the deepest inner mind, melodies resurface and drown the silent, windy coast.
Silent, for the wind today makes no sound at all.
I tighten the grip on the book I carry with me.
I try and focus on the shimmering horizon of the sea.
So calm a picture, yet so windy all around, both outside and inside.
I stray off the path and reach for the shore. I hearken.
The voices are circling and calling me by names strange;
names that I do not remember having.

No other sound. No sound except the voice. A single voice, now,
saying things I cannot understand; things that maybe I am not willing to grasp.
It says to me I am there, yet there I am, without a doubt, and the reminder bears no meaning.
Or so it would seem to me.
It whispers things I should not forget, yet things I have forgotten.
Stop thinking, the voice says. Stop making up your mind for things that now not matter.
Stay there, by the tree. Stay and sit under its fleeting, feeble shadow.
Leave this land in purest silence, leave its slumpering, pale, old morning.
Leave the sun to set in silence and to rise anew in morning drowsy.
Say goodnight to hoist and shadow, say goodbye to fleet and berry,
say your last and only sorry, to the land that once your home was,
on this dull and grayish coast, on this windy winter midday,
say your wistful wishful prayer, even though you pray not ever.

Then the voice became a million whispering winds,
blowing from the East, the West, the South and North.
Then like glass which in a million pieces shutter,
voice by voice the wind diminished and to proper silence ended.
Blowing from across the turbulent ocean, reaching from within forgotten memories,
startling grass and shuttering silence, wind anew; the small tree wobbles.
Right beside it, under its shadow; fleeting, feeble, faint and pallid,
I lay down and topple over on the grassy slope below it.
I remember, as I tipple, from the single whiskey bottle,
all the things the voices shouted, deep within the rocky silence,
on that drowsy, dreary noon.

After the bottle was over, I pushed myself up and resumed my stroll along the coast.
All in winter, all in silence, all in windy Monday brilliance,
in the land the sun shines wistful, pale and dotty, clear and wobbly
All in secret sacred scripture, listing knights and dames and royals,
all in cosy slumpering madness.