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