Poetry
poetry is not a luxury. It is a vital necessity of our existence ~ Audre Lorde
I will not swallow the mothballs you try to feed me
I am at my softest physically and mentally
and that makes some people uncomfortable
(with themselves).
Statues of aphrodite reveal that the goddess of beauty and love
had some meat on her bones, as do I,
but I know I am not the West’s ideal type.
Maybe that’s why I’m not allowed to take up more space.
Maybe that's why I’m given less room to wiggle in.
My ass and tits have grown a bit
when it happened; I didn't realize that it was sacrilege.
I wonder what Taino deity represents beauty. I wonder what she looks like.
Is her hair long? Does she view herself as a her? Does she think she is beautiful? Or does that assessment come from others? Does she even care for beauty? Or is it just a known part of her?
I’ve gone through a metamorphosis and came out the other end thicker.
Who says the caterpillar must become a butterfly?
Maybe I’m a moth.
I like my softness, it makes me sturdier, and don’t we all need some padding
from the beatings of this world
from the beating of our own hearts
from the beating of the drums that tells you to get back up.
The butterfly is drawn to the flower.
I am drawn to the light
in the darkness.
MARIGOLDS
“You’re worth more than marigolds” but less than your shoes. Footprints left on the petals of my skin and the roots of my mind. Brittle and bruised, picked and used by you. Absent of any light or hope, I’ll wait for you. After all you put me through, I’ll wait for you. You planted yourself next to my self-worth and shouted “Pick me, pick me”. As soon as I took you back, you bruised me. A wilted flower in a pretty garden, no one will want me.
The Fireflies Sing Tonight
Murmurs hum in the thick August air like the
beating of a bumblebee's heart, the invisible
orchestra's cadence drawing the final curtain upon
the fox's tail cradling an orange sun.
Mother runs through the auburn fields, coal-colored
braids trailing in the wind. Her weathered hands carry a
tin pot, where she drops moonstones, bluebonnets and
lovebugs in a concoction of sap — "Honeypot tricks," she calls them.
As the sky becomes swatched with indigo hues and
black clouds, I take a wooden spoon and clang it against
Mother's honeypot. The fireflies come to feast upon her offerings
and, in return, show me the path to the city.
Twinkling lights dot the skyline as jazz beyond the bayou
shakes the earth beneath the soles of my feet. Coca-Cola lines
stretch around the curb as ladies in black sequins and
smoky pearls enter golden doors under neon lights. Boys
and girls in summer shorts & pinstripe tees chase the sparks
of orange fireworks.
I follow them but they are lost in cobblestone storefronts. Busboy
caps line the streetlamps as newspaper rags form coats of steel along the
brick walls of alleyways. A man with broken teeth who looks like me
asks, "Got a quarter for me, Missy?" but the fireflies ignore him and fly on.
I sequester myself in a silent theater as a piano crescendo
collides with the rainstorm brewing outside. The movie
begins to play, and I begin to cry for Mother.
Our Unheard Screams
Do you know that plants can be in pain too?
Do you know that they scream and send out distress signals?
Do you know that they too, like us, can feel?
It was true.
But I wasn't talking only about plants.
I was also talking about you,
and me.
About us who have learnt to cry in silence.
About us who have learnt how to bite our tongue for the sake of maintaining peace.
About us who have learnt to dig our nails to our palms than to claw at other's faces.
About us who have learnt to hold the anger within us and silently burn ourselves from within than to sear at another's skin.
Tell me,
have you grown tired yet?
Tired of screaming for help but get nothing but a sore throat.
Tell me,
have you grown tired yet?
Tired of explaining yourself but still, get nothing but blame.
Tell me,
have you grown tired yet?
Tired of bending over backwards to please, yet still expected to do more.
I am.
I am, in fact, tired.
Let's plan our way out shall we?
Maybe we can build a little cottage somewhere in the forest.
Maybe we can live in peace, surrounded with the things we love.
Or maybe,
Let's stop and look around.
Try to listen to those cries.
To the cries that came from others who are just like us.
Let's try listening,
maybe one day someone will listen to us too.
by MG
The Things We Bury
Hold it!
Bury it deep inside the earth at the back of your house.
The ground will welcome it, wrap it in its moist embrace,
in soil made wet by the rain.
Work quickly!
They are only out for a moment, you may use your hands if you want,
When you are done, retreat from the sunlight.
No!
Don’t turn your back to it…back away, nimble.
You may breathe once you reach safety.
Now my Dear, you are clean.
Making Up With the Sun
We need to make up with the sun,
Did I do something wrong?
When we talk about the daylight hours that we are robbed of
on our commute home
Is that why I feel so alone?
The coloured houses share in my sympathy.
They look back at me
They know how I want to go so desperately
To see them
To be filled with the same energy
When life is in grayscale
I come back in Picasso’s colour
(Sharp yet soft
A blend of sorts)
Bright and lovely.
Paintings and you always go together.
Merging like oil paints in the caveats of my memory
How I want to be there so desperately
On top of the molar hills of sickly-sweet greenery
How life felt like a 1920’s Weimar movie
A golden era
I think, as I walk back from the station.
Unable to mention how I feel.
Lips tightened; sealed.
Just like your grasp
Loosely tight
Supposedly comforting in the speckled evening light.
Where was I?
Back to this conversation which reminds me of you.
How I predict that you would agree
That the phrase sounds interesting
‘Making up with the sun’
Making up with you
How desperately I wish things didn’t end
When they had just begun.
by Pippa Hill
Memory Among Flowers
I still see those wildflowers
With stippled white powdered petals
On nimble stems branching off the stalk
They stand tall, resting under my chin
In that large field with the ombre sunset
Layered behind blooming stems
My mother scooped me up in her arms
Before taking me back home
Leaving behind the wildflowers
I was only two years old yet
I can see them clear as day
I still see those young dandelions
With their strands of yellow that have yet
To turn into seedful fluff blown across spring air
I used to give these flowers to my teachers
Who scolded me for giving them weeds
I did not know any better
I still thought they were beautiful
I was only six years old yet
I can see them clear as day
I still see those little daisies
With their pollen deep centers
The same flowers my best friend used
To decorate my braids of hair
During recesses in spring
She was moving to a new school
One where her mother found a job
I still have one of her hair clips
That she gave on the last day of school
I wish I could give it back to her
I wonder if she would recognize me
Without daisies in my braids
I was only nine years old yet
I can see them clear as day
I still see those lush blue bonnets
With their crowded velvet petals
That grew in the field close to my house
Where girls from the local high school
Doll up for prom pictures in the field
With a new beginning nearby
Her parents can’t help but wonder
Where all the time went when they see
Their daughter is a woman now
Posing perfectly amongst the blue bonnets
I was only eighteen years old yet
I can see them clear as day
I still see that pink perennial
With its vibrant blooming petals
That my best friend gave to me
Before I graduated college
From the garden near the science building
We walked past the graduation court
Knowing what was about to come next
The last time we saw each other
Dressed in our black gowns and covered
In colored cords and stoles
The pink perennials never left
I was only twenty-two years old yet
I can see them clear as day
I only wish my memory of yesterday
Remained so clear
Old Perfume
First published in Gypsophila Art and Literary Magazine, Vol II, Issue II
Even still
Every instant is imbued with the
Essence of you
Like old perfume on
Shirts I peel off my floors
(Because laundry is too boring
To do on my own)
So that
Even a blade of grass
Will take me back
To who we were
That sweltering summer day
Of “Where do you want to eat?”
And “Don’t go just yet, please stay”
I can’t
Visit my favourite haunts now--
The haystacks hint at you
So I resolve to remain
Holed up in this room
Until this world is just that and not
Youyouyou-
Beside me in every long lineup
The source of every sharp quip
Your hand over mine with every
Pancake flip
Even still
by Navi
sun
i.
mama said i can
never look straight up at you.
beauty like that hurts
the eyes. yet, you still kiss me
gently—no explanation.
ii.
you ask for nothing,
give just a little too much.
sometimes your kiss glows
bright pink, often the skin burns
right off. quien como la flor.
iii.
i think i want to
be adored like that: fully
and without shame. to
turn towards my lover as
flowers turn towards the dawn.
iv.
when i fantasize
about a particular
pair of eyes, your light
is ever present, caught in
the brown, the brows, the lashes.
v.
i’ve learned to bury
myself in daydreams like you
hide in clouds, finding
faces where there are none, lov–
ing the ambiguity.
vi.
all that substanceless
white, your fingers breaking through.
people mistake you
for god when you do that—warm,
piercing, kaleidoscope-like.
vii.
it must be lonely,
burning above it all, bright
against the pale blue,
caressing summer lovers,
knowing yours is in the dark.
viii.
at night, when you’re gone,
she appears. a ghost of your
glow, bone white. i miss
you then. your heat, that summer
when life felt cinematic.
ix.
and i tried to love
like you, so warm i’m not for–
gotten, not when i
sink into the horizon,
dragging my colors behind.
THE POWER OF NOW
I wake up in the
morning My thoughts
wonder
in space and time
I look outside, grey skies, thunders
and rain may show up in a
minute. What is time?
Time is an illusion, it is relative and cyclical. It is
neither a succession of numbers on a digital watch or
clock hands moving across the clock face.
I touch my face, to make sure I'm still here,
present.
I think about what's relevant
And what's not...
Declutter my mind, my room and my
life. There is no reason to live in the past or be
anxious about the future, because the only
moment we are in control of is the now, this very
moment.
I am content
Of what I have achieved so far, but I know I
can do more... Content is not enough:
happiness and peace are my life goals and
they both can be found inside us. The inner
work is long and tortuous but an essential and
virtuous
necessary and extraordinary
beautiful thing to do. For me, for you, for
us. Sometimes I feel lost
Lost in my thoughts,
that's why I keep losing my phone...
Difficulties in communicating, but mostly in
staying present, thinking of plans, worrying
about what other people are doing, saying,
displaying.
I feel disconnected, without my phone. It is
everything for me, something that allows me
to stay in touch with my loved ones, to express
myself, to feel less lonely. Trying to find the
answers I have been
searching for in that little but powerful
device.
Technology is a phenomenal invention, but
if it is not used properly divides us, controls us
and drains us.
Injecting ideas, words and thoughts that
are not ours.
Social media can be toxic.
Make sure you're a good person in real
life, first,
which is outside this quick click hypnotic,
chaotic, electronic device.
Don't let your ego take the driver's
seat. I beg you, listen to my advice: put
your phones away sometimes and be here
now, in this moment
and try to realise
that this world can be a paradise
If we connect to each other and create From
the tools we already have inside
All of the gifts we've been told to hide
To work for someone instead of working on
ourselves
Our dreams on the shelves
Full of dust
Let's take them back and start fresh
Before our souls die and what's left Is
just flesh.
by Federica
Scorched Eyes
You can’t poison a tongue
That has already licked thorns
With her head dragged
Through a thicket of rose bushes
Eyes scraped from the leaves
Blush pink petals left messed in her hair
Her crown bleeds yet never falls
A voice tells her to appreciate the flowers
Rather than to speak ungratefully
Questioning how she cannot see
The bright side of this sight
As she picks off the thorns from her temples
Her eyes already witnessed horror
Of streets being set fire fueled by laughter
Cackles from those who set flames
While those who supposed to protect
Run around like headless chickens
As homes burn on the street
She remembers the poor girl
Who was slapped for crying over
Her missing rag doll
The one her grandmother made
She wonders how anyone could smile
Upon the sight of ashes
She will no longer be surprised yet
She will always be shocked
First Generation
Although I try to rest like the sun, Because
I have so much passion inside
to give to this world. not only do I thrive for me,
When I try to shut off I thrive for:
I feel horrible. my mother,
my father,
I feel that I am not putting my sisters,
enough of me in the family legacy. my uncles,
my cousins,
I feel like I’m being too selfish. my grandparents,
my great-grandparents,
But, do they not know and all those who came before me.
that this load is too much?
And that's too much...
I need some self-care to keep thriving.
A little patience, -- I only
love, and support to continue giving. need
a moment
for me
to keep thriving
by Solany Lara
In heat.
It’s the heat that kills.
When I lie in bed and it seeps through me pooling in that inferno,
I forget what the flames eat first, and what evil lurks beneath,
Or within, but I hold my breath until it stills.
I wait and linger and plead, but the darkness wants everything to do with me.
It fills me until the cracks smooth over and I kick at covers.
When I was smaller, you would tell me to leap from the sheets,
Grab everything I could hold onto; now my hands work against me and I no longer use yours.
For a while I held on, cramming the space around me and then it turned to great waves,
No longer driftwood on the strange tides, but jetsam trashing my shores.
I loathed these walls and the ice that crept around me,
Teetering along edges and finding me weak.
When I can no longer reason, it is your name I speak,
Then the flames swell and flicker and part.
I descend further and stop to see your face from below
And remember how it felt long ago to sit by your side and burn
When I used to wait for sparks to take flame.
It is the embrace of time I only know so dear,
Yet I hope to see you come back around here.
by Hannah
Did you make it through winter?
Did you sleep through what you thought was winter
with 2 blankets
only to open your eyes and find
that it was still dark,
making you roll over
and stay in bed for longer?
But then,
realising that troubles don’t last,
did you wake up one day
to the sun shining outside,
finally,
onto dry pavements
and windowpanes?
Has it happened yet,
that you feel optimistic
for the year ahead
despite the chaos all around
and uncertainty of each moment?
Among it all,
is joy filling your heart
slowly but surely from the bottom up,
lovingly threatening to stick around
until the end of year celebrations?
Have you yet recognised
the power to do anything you wanted
as the thing that you carried in your arms
day and night
throughout this season
as the dark sky overpowered
the presence of light in your life?
Are you now seeing what is confirmed
as hope at the end of your tunnel?
They said things are looking up
and it’s the first time
you’ve felt that in months
now it’s real
You made it through winter
whether you dragged, drugged, persuaded, or willed
yourself to do it
in the face of all your tribulations
You did it
and you will do it again,
just like you always have.
The Gravedigger
When I met the fox, he was a gravedigger
‘The years have aged me’ the fox would weep
Every tombstone was shiny
Covered in clingfilm
‘to stop the rain from tearing them to bits.’
In another life, the fox was a criminal
Mother loved bad men
‘I could have been a dancer’ the fox said
‘I had nimble feet’
On tippy-toes, the fox would dance in the moonlight.
There was one particularly special grave
The grave of a badger named Elaina
The fox would scream her name
Pretending it was a performance art piece
I asked him what she did
He replied, ‘she was a master of disguise’
That isn’t a job I quipped
‘and yet she was always working’
Love could not be laughed away
Still every night the fox had a heart for dinner
With a side of fries
‘hold the ketchup please’
I don’t visit the Gravedigger anymore
He calls me on his mobile device
And when he can’t hear me
He calls me Elaina, and I cry
by Fowsia
Untitled
let me welcome you
into the garden that is my mind
graced with thriving vines of thought,
plagued with thorns of doubt
that cause a litter of words
broken and frail
to form at my feet
until i’m drowning in words,
tightly packed
and jumbled up
confused as to whether they could have
ever made sense
and as i sink
into the leaves of insecurity
i can’t help but admire the sky,
glittered with hope
of what these vines could produce
and what could thrive in this haven
of my mind
that has already proven resilient
to the drought of creative flow
and from the drought
came an abundance of growth
a testament to a bigger truth,
that my talent remains consistent
even when the words are disconnected
and the river of creativity doesn’t flow,
my mind has always and will always
be graced with new growth
and my garden will remain
a haven
in my mind.
Untitled
blackberry stains tanned skin,
the periphery of sickly sweet.
days stretch languidly, billowing
wider as the fans blows the sweat from your
brow
sleep an unwelcome stranger,
vocalised thoughts seem
to have more solidity than the dreams that drip from
my
tongue,
sunlight on our shoulders, the stars spilled
across your lips.
heat was always distasteful to me, ironic since the
air was charred upon my birth,
yet the warmth of your breath against my ear,
fingers
and valleys and mountains intertwined feels right.
‘love?’
blurred by hesitation and doubt.
perishes on my tongue
you made me lust for the fever, the burn
scorched skin.
maybe this is it,
love tastes like summer berries.
by Nia