I find it hard not to write poems about people.
To pick roses over beating hearts or half-smiles
on the underground. My little sister sleep-talks
and sometimes it’s sweeter than birdsong. The coin you
toss to the busker catches the light better than
any ocean, even on those bright summer days.
The hunch of the old man’s back thrills me more than the
sinking, rising hills.
I find it hard to write poems about an
uninterrupted view – empty skies and desert
stretches – when there’s a girl who shaves her head then uses
hairbands to hold her notebooks shut. When there’s a boy
with six fingers on one hand who, when anyone
teases him, says that for every ten they have, he
has eleven. Says that wanking with his left hand
feels fucking awesome. When there’s a person in between
who avoids cracks in pavements but walks under ladders
because it’s not always important to decide
on anything apart from not to decide on
I find it hard writing about buildings when there
are bodies inside, or about bodies when there
are breaths inscribed on every mind without us even
realising. When was the last time you reminded
yourself to breathe? Was it when you saw the sun, rising
over the trees? For me, it was the day you scraped
your knee, or some other mundane thing. The day I
realised I couldn’t walk down a crowded street
without hearing poetry, but could stand atop
a mountain, feeling full to the brim, without my
fingers twitching or my ears hearing anything.
Also posted on tumblr
I made a poetry/writing/salivating-over-literature tumblr! A proper one that I’m going to keep going with, here. But I’m going to try get back to posting my stuff here as well (or, I guess, cross-posting). I’ll probably spread out posting stuff from the tumblr over a couple of days so it doesn’t flood anyone’s emails/updates or whatever.
I wrote this for creative writing – sort of inspired by ‘The Lark Ascending’
you take my hand like you’ve
got strings instead of fingers and
my palms are made of rosin.
I take your hand like I would
hold a violin bow and
your knuckles beg to be played.
Baby, I know there are days
when your chest is a concert hall
and all I’ve gotta do is hear the
performance of your heart
but before I get there let me start
lower, because sometimes
all the answers in the world hide
in the hidden parts of you
like the ones finely tuned
to the staccato step of your shoes.
Or let me start higher because
an orchestral heart means
a mind behind the eyes that must
sit in the gods.
this morning I woke to an unformed poem
I’d written in my sleep
slipping away with the last
remnants of a dream
once I breathed in oxygen
and it was the sun that stung my eyes
now my mouth gapes around your skin
and it’s the moon I live by
a mix of words that make your heart do that squeezy thing in your chest cos they're just so damn happy, and words that make you wanna slam your hands on the table cos hell yeah
01. shake the dust anis mojgani 02. gorgeous rives 03. hurling crowbirds at mockingbirds buddy wakefield 04. s for lisp george watsky 05. thinking about you mike taylor 06. single life dufflyn 07. dear 12-year-old self stephanie dogfoot 08. how it ends andrea gibson
I forgot to say anything but ngl I’m kinda proud of myself so I will now – I took part in my first ever poetry slam last Thursday and came second! It was run by Farrago Poetry, and it was a lot less scary/a lot more fun than I thought it’d be. The winner was Sara Hirsch (p sure she has a wordpress but idk the url…) and she’s really brill and yeah :)) it was a great night *bounces*