The Critique And The Ambassador and Other Poems by Charlotte Wood

disneyland, hotel, appearance-4088333.jpg

The Critic and The Ambassador

My critic is myself, the enemy so close.

Standing on my doorstep, haunting like a ghost.

Staring in the mirror, teetering below the surface.

Waiting for the hand to strike the time of chaos.

My eyes are not always my own, the critic they belong to.

They wave my work around, dancing it over a fire.

I mark my work with stars, I’m a liar, liar, liar!

They rip up the pages, using my hands as tools.

A puppet in their foolery, and I am the fool.

My critic is myself, myself is my critic.

Critic is my Montague, the ambassador my Capulet.

Swarmed up in a tornado, praise and hate on guard.

My critic built a wall, brick and brick on top.

My encourager brought a wrecking ball, ready to bombard.

Bricks and ball collide, a match burnt to cinder.

Wax and wick apart, the flame does not hinder.

The critic and the ambassador, what a lovely pair.

Dashing in their differences, always praise to spare.

Taking down that wall, blocks and all.

The critic could not resist and felt the pull.

The critic and the ambassador knew that they were me.

They wed in moonlight that evening, I was even there too.

The Girl in the Prom Photograph

Draped in net curtains,

a misunderstood person

attempting to mimic

all those unknown lyrics.

Wearing dusty cream tulle

oh she feels like such a fool.

Hobbling on old wedges,

the dread settles into dredges.

Confined by crinkled silk,

her skin pales to the colour of milk.

Shaking on wonky heels,

how out of place she feels.

Being forced to smile

feeling like she has run a mile.

The cold, blank, stare 

because it just was not fair.

The girl who went to Prom.

The girl in the photograph.



That caresses the canvas and stains,

And the mess!

Sparkle travelling, lurking

Finding its way everywhere and anywhere all at once.

The ink

Spilling like a leak, like the

Words that have simply failed

To hang around and find a place to settle

In the most habitable or homes

That decays and falls,

An abandoned house,

Swallowed by leaves of ivy.

Decades passing I

Peek at it through the bushes —

Beams rotten and unstable,

The sink come plant pot.


From the empty caverns of my mind, false thoughts

Dictate a life.

My name is Charlotte Wood and I am a 19 year uni student studying creative writing in London. I enjoy all forms of writing, favouring fiction. My instagram handle is @charlotterobertawood.

Scroll to Top