Poetry

poetry is not a luxury. It is a vital necessity of our existence ~ Audre Lorde

Leya Kuan Leya Kuan

My Faith in Fate

You used to be someone—
Never mind who, never mind when,
But you used to
Cry at heartbreaking moments of a talkie,
Sob at the words at the end of a knife,
Do your tears dry up when you’re sixty?
Or is it all gone,
That surface-level sorrow, that lonesome feeling,
At the sight of your first wrinkle in the mirror?

You wished to be someone—
Never mind those dreams, never mind them at all,
Because they are figments of your imagination,
And they linger, still, in the corners of your mind,
Vanishing behind the shadows of your children,
And on the heels of your husband’s leather shoes,
A singer, no, you couldn’t get to the highest notes,
A surgeon, no, you hate ketchup and blood,
Resigned to being somebody’s wife, someone’s mother.

You talked about yourself—
Never mind your name, never mind your voice,
They see your face, pat your husband on the back,
They talk to you through your husband,
You don’t know words, you are deaf and mute,
You are spoken for, and speak only when spoken to,
A child, you are ushered towards the other wives,
Have fun, play with toys till it’s time to go,
You hate them all, the talking heads and drunkards.

You don’t know what to do–
Never mind yourself, never mind yourself at all,
They don’t know your name, they don’t remember,
You are Mrs So-and-So, So-and-So’s mother!
Your mother-in-law is a mother only to to your husband,
Only till you belong to the Earth once more,
To be resigned to fate once is divine punishment,
To meet a coincidence of fate again divine death,
And yet the dirt in between your toes disappears.

by Leya Kuan

Read More
Karolyn K Smith Karolyn K Smith

Sacred ground

What is sacred ground?
Is it a ground steeped in rituals —
poured libations penetrating earth
finding routes to ancestors and memory?

Is it a place that holds the dead
or once-dead?
Is it a place where spirits walk
haunted by the irreverent nature
of those with flesh and bone ?

Is this body a sacred ground?
Does it remain sacred if others
have exploited,
treated it like a mining ground
emptied it of treasures,
planted seeds of death –
Left it hollow?

Is this body still hallowed
if no one is there to say a prayer
for its healing?

(my tongue has found no language yet for healing words)

If ancestors don’t hear it’s cries
to find their way back
to this body

to gift it flight

and
grounding.

Is this body still sacred ground if it’s not seen?

by Karolyn K Smith

Read More
Rachel Barduhn Rachel Barduhn

A Godless Girl

I say my name in a whisper

As I see no point in proclaiming it loudly.

There is not a ring of pride doused in my tone.

For I am far from the woman I was named after.

The first taste of church in my mouth turned sour

When I was taught into submission.

The Sunday school teachers

Claim God’s existence as

if they personally had tea with him.

They felt his presence spiritually

and were left spellbound

by his love.

I searched frantically

for the feeling

to overcome me

in salvation.

I dig in the deepest

part of myself

But not a single piece

of that quartz

could be found.

I was taught our hearts

were destined to be cursed into stone

If we didn’t rent out a space

for him to live inside it.

I know nothing of this

“miraculous” stranger

For we have never

been truly acquainted.

How can he truly love me unconditionally

If I must follow a list of rules almost precisely—

while placing my true self through

the process of extinction?

It sounds rather conditional to me.

Is anyone a true believer

if they pick

what applies as truth?

Hypocrisy at its finest.

Slather it in that one verse

from Revelations

And call it a night.

I can clarify I am not participating

In the immoral.

My guilt is in the form

of maggots swarming

an apple.

It ate me alive

as I starved for the approval

of my peers.

Is favouritism worth a single

ounce of mental torture

If I can no longer relish in what brings

the light to my eyes?

I’ve severed my ties with a man

I will never meet.

For I choose myself

to believe in.

by Rachel Barduhn

Read More
MG MG

My Beloved, My Enemy.

Run.

To the ends of Earth, darling.

To the lands of the dead.

To the heavens or anywhere beyond the hereafter.

But,

not you,

not me,

can ever escape ourselves.

We are but our own worst enemies.

Lurking in the dark.

Exist but not.

Unseen but felt.

Never spoke but heard.

Kind yet cruel.

Oh my lover and my killer.

My salvation and my demise.

My best supporter, friend, and hater.

You are talented, they say.

But you are not, the little voice says.

You are beautiful, they say.

But you are not, the little voice says.

Who to believe?

Those who never understand us, or the one who always stays with us?

Those who only saw our facade, or the one who saw our wretched face?

Tame them and win, darling.

It's always the little voice over the voices of others.

Morph them, darling.

Control them.

Befriend them.

Cause they are you and you can get them to believe in you more than yourself ever would.

Cause they are your biggest supporter and one who would always be there even if no one else could.

Your beloved,

or your enemy.

The right to decide has always been yours to make.

by MG

Read More
Pippa Hill Pippa Hill

The Children of Yemen

They cry before they learn to smile,

In the eye of the bloody storm,

The children of Yemen,

They play in the rubble adorned with

concrete toys belonging to boys in governments,

Who value money over man,

The slaughter over the lamb,

And the land over famine.

As they take their last breaths,

Their mothers are behest with the rancour

of rockets that fly ahead,

Keeping them awake when they sleep in their beds,

They imagine another life where they can eat food and bread,

And not worry about the daggers that drop

from the sky,

Whilst they whisper their last prayers to the shining power up high.

But God will not save them from the static deserts,

Where rows of stony slabs make morbid pavements,

Yet we forget the Holy infants that lie beneath,

As we sit in our living rooms sipping milky cups of tea,

Whilst we waste the abundance of what we have,

May we remember the children of the golden sand.

by Pippa Hill

Read More
Rachel Barduhn Rachel Barduhn

The Utopian Truth

Utopia is rest.

Without the fear

of becoming subservient

Looming above like a curse

Rewinding history.

It was what the older generations

Have strived for.

In many variants of pain.

It always began as a journey through

The dreaded swamps–

Thick and waist deep.

Forests swallowing the lost into obscurity.

A moment through shallow waters

or clear pathways were scarce.

While the destructive world aimed

their vile glares.

After all the nightmarish turmoil

Sinking in their skin.

All our ancestors pleaded for was rest.

To gaze upon the land in pride.

To absorb what was deserved.

Lay underneath trees bared in ripened fruit.

Sleep afternoons away without the jolt of expectation.

Spend the waking days surrounded by family.

Every day will become a celebration of life.

No more hungering for bluer eyes

or accepting life sentences to drag

culture through a genocide

But dancing under sprinkled joy.

Utopia is free.

Without the weight

Of judgment becoming a prison

Feeding into reality.

Without fighting till the afterlife

calls their name.

by Rachel Barduhn

Read More
Rae Lee Rae Lee

Ramblings of a Born-Again Sinner

For the kingdom of heaven is like a landowner who went out early in the morning to hire workers for his vineyard.” -Matthew 20:1

We see what the kingdom of heaven is like... But what is god like?


We didn’t fail god

god failed us

God is like a child with a “Do Not Enter” sign on his bedroom door. You draw closer, he draws

further way.


With each step toward him, he takes one back.

God is like


a father that walked out on his child.


The child abandoned asking what they did wrong.

god left his people


Long before the “salvation” in the desert.


Long before the exodus.


God left us in the garden


half-naked


exiled.

The first father

Walked out on his first child

Sins of the father as they say

God is like


a distorted mirror


We were created by him


In his image.


How vain


With the task


to love him.


How selfish.

To create something Just for it to love you.

How pathetic.


God is like


the child that


Tires of a toy after he breaks it.

Tossing it aside to collect dust.

God is like


the Fuckboy


That you want to feel closer to

Promises of


Love


Safety


Security


But


Sin disfigured us.


Made us ugly to him.


Ghosted by the Holy

God is like


the teacher that fails his students

Testing us


But


He created a test with no right answers.

And told us to pass.


Knowing we’d fail.


Fuck the test.


He failed us,


Not because we ate the fruit


but because he already ate it too.

God is like


The therapist


You go to at


Your most desperate


Weakest


Most vulnerable


He mocks your weakness


Twists the knife


In your mind


Mutilates your thoughts Nothing left but a

Lobotomized husk


God is like


The rebel leader


His gaslit torch


Promising


Rebellion


Disruption


Revolution


All the while Sowing seeds of

Conformity

Corruption

Suppression

His perfection is a lie.


Thinking if they were better


Then dad would have stayed.


The father failed his child.


God failed his children.


God’s not dead, he’s just not here right now.

God is like


The landowner


That hikes the rent


He works you in his fields

Only for you


To pay him back the wage

As you toil for your pennies

He snatches them away

Yes, god’s kingdom is like a landowner

who went out early in the morning to hire workers for his vineyard.


by Rae Lee

Read More