Poetry
poetry is not a luxury. It is a vital necessity of our existence ~ Audre Lorde
Untitled
I find it hardest to write
When I’m happy
When my emotions are stable
Chemically balancing
Stimuli vanishing
Feeling much less like therapy
And more of a challenge
One comprehensive mountain climb
Melancholy is a tonic
That only the sad comfortably stomach
Makes the jolly man vomit
Maybe it has to be this way
Maybe I must
Absorb myself
In it’s state
Maybe by ruminating
Too hard
The happy would erase
I fear to dissect it
Lest it turns to dust
And I adore it too late
There’s a transparency
In those windows
Riddled with mildew
That the happy glass
Doesn’t have
It I struggle to see through
I wish to able to to find
Inspiration
In sunshine
In rainbows
In faerie gardens
In flowers that sit in pretty rows
But I only know how to really
Talk
Speak
Voice
Debate
Pain
And how it freezes you
How the downs in life
Reduce you
Like a jeu
But produce the best in you
Too
I want to swing from rafters with glee
And write about these things
Unapologetically
But the human in me
Sees happy as
Defeat
As far too neat
Not abstract enough
Not deep
When I’m happy
My grasp on language
Simply retreats
Maybe I’m stuck believing
Torment is living
And contentment is giving in
And that’s why these happy states
I don’t stay in
I can’t hold my happy too tight
Or like a butterfly it just might
Fly far far away
Out of my sight
So I keep worry to the side of me
And despair in my pocket
So that when I’ve lost it
That joy
That harmony
When from it I’ve been accosted
I can slot right back in
Back into the gloomy
Semantic glory
I know best
The safest kind of nest
And lay my writers block
To rest
by Forest
If/Make It With You
i replay the record till it scratches and skips,
i keep repeating the same old verses even when
they start to stink; it is good enough that the smell
is there to remind me of you, and every inch of
your stupidity that once endeared you to me,
somehow i do not have it anymore and i can
only find it in shallow lyrics where i pretend there
is a better story than this, some sort of alternative, but
i just know i would have made all the same mistakes
only to swear by my innocence—if i bleed white
then so be it, it is proof only to me and no one else;
if i bleed red, then let yourself be marooned by me,
when i know i could launch more than a thousand ships.
track 1: accidentally in love - counting crows
i secretly grew tired of this song, and now i resent it
even more, even more now that it only reminds me of
you—it uses the word “love” every other verse and no
longer do i want to associate you with that grotesque
word, no longer do i want to know what you do or who
you’re with, but freedom is cruel now that i have it,
and so were you when i had you, i do not want for any
more in this world, i take everything i own for granted.
track 2: kiss me - sixpence none the richer
it is better, a source of relief even, that this is one track
that does not bring back the thought of you, i think of
autumns i have never visited, and leaves that do not fall,
i am alone and none the lonelier, but i have friends that
i dial up for days and nights and answer to every call;
there is too much love that once i had for you, that now
is just all up for fifty per cent off, i let your love go; it
wasn’t my call to make but i do not ask for any payback.
by Leya Kuan
The Fall of 2024
Today I tried to write again, but my mind is empty and
So are my hands; I have spent them all away, on
Blouses just to prove that I lost a couple of pounds,
And bits of some things to show myself that I have more
Than a couple of pounds—my mind is far, far away, and
Yet—but—so—and—half of me has been here to bear
Witness, to bare what is left of me before it all chips
Away, a way to remember the words I have used only to
Pour the ink all over the curves and blur it all back
Together, but at least this is what remains, and what is
Left of me, the last bit of common sense that I will
Never use, from the beginning to the present end.
I am still young, I tell myself, and there is still so much
Time left in the world, all of it, time enough for only
you and I, in the lateness of the morning and the early
Beginnings at the end of the year, but every candidate For my affections brings this old feeling that only you
Bore, by land or by sea, whatever it is, there is still
Distance by heart or by proximity, so I keep ringing up
The couriers and reminding them of my free shipping,
I keep calling you up so you know that I am living, who
Cares to live if it is not for your love? Spill that apathy
From my lips to your faithless country, spit that venom
From your faith to my fate, let it go every time we touch.
Today I remind myself that I am a writer so I must write
But I have given all my words away to the garden of
False fairies and godless gnomes, I claim it’s charity but
I truly only need a facade of generosity for my vanity,
I let myself believe that I have kindness in my heart, so
I may put myself to sleep in the belief of my purity,
You have robbed me of my sentences to string you
Along, now there are no more words to fill up a meaning
And there are no more syllables to make up your song,
You have judged to sentence me to a silent misery,
If there is some regret in you, may it chain you to every
Inch of the servitude that I once volunteered for you.
I carry with me my words and our noises, I recite it with
A couple thousands steps along the way to put me in
God’s way and to my own ease—if physicality is your
Intimacy then you must be as pure as the Madonna, if
Words are my intimacy then I should be as filthy as any
Other smut on a whore, but who are you to fall to your
Feet and declare yourself my friend? And who is he to
Turn on his feet and become a heartless foe? Call it
What you want—whatever lies you may tell yourself
And wherever your heart belongs, whoever you are
Holding me now in your hand, I know a thousand
Poems cannot save me anymore, more than ever before.
by Leya Kuan
A Writer’s Prescription for Unexplained Aches
A large dose of words—
by candlelight and in patterned socks/ to be
found on a shelf within a strong spine/ or passed
through lips/ in song/ chant/ prayer/ apology/ in a
coffee shop with your friend with kind eyes/ cradled
in your lover’s arms/ a large dose of words/ large enough
to fill pages in blue ink/ or overflow your kitchen sink/ repeat
until you see emerald grass and a sapphire sky/ until the night
air is not hungry for your blood/ repeat until the weight of the
world lifts from the small of your back/ until each word lays
a brick for the house you needed since your bones were young
Breaded Chicken Fillet with Egg Recipe
Trigger warnings: implied eating disorder, body shaming
—
One: boneless chicken breast–spineless as you are. You laugh at the shadow of my reflection and yet you loathe yours; you simply cannot bear the sight of your own face dawning upon you. How does it feel to be wretchedly cruel, to the world and to yourself? Two: marinate Italian style. Ride the yacht you cannot afford and come home to your two-storey apartment paid with dirty money. Speak a language you cannot fathom. Call me when you need me, between the lines of “what does it all mean?”; let me ask you the same: how did you mean it all? Ridicule me, please, for not believing in a god that let your most beloved pass as though their existence were disposable. How can you live with it all, carrying the weight of your words like twisting a dull knife pierced into my wound? I make it all about me, don’t I? (I do, I do, I do) If I make this about you, will you forgive me for my untamed wit they all keep chasing me for? Three: eggs. The first crack in the shell is in the image of you crumbling beneath the lightest of pressure. The unfamiliar has always been daunting, hasn’t it? I wonder if you think of me now, between the lines of the poem you so desperately try to comprehend, yet it remains unbeknownst to you. Where has your brain gone amidst all the facade that is your beauty? Does it hide beneath all your grandeur? Four: garlic. Freshly minced to perfection. You do have an eye for it, don’t you? Every crevice of my existence is a sin for yours. All that I am was a pitiful cry for help; the girl meant to be at the back of the photograph—were their preening eyes enough to make a saint out of you? Serve on a sizzling plate. Hot and scorching and burning through your bones. It was debilitating to be known by you. The love I know of now at the touch of my fingertips is a far cry from the grasp of your cold hands. Let me devour what I deserve for it is all mine—none of the food in your mouth is ever worth digesting. I am sorry for choking you with a love you never deserved. I have learned my lesson to not swallow things I cannot fit in the roof of my mouth. All of it now is teeth and gums–a vision you would surely die for. Wallow in the limelight of my glory, would you? The pleasure is all mine.
Happiness Hurts
They say happiness feels like the warmth of daylight seeping in through your skin. Embracing your bones, and turning your heart into a mushy puddle of delight.
They say happiness is yellow.
Bubbly and bright.
They say happiness smells like cookies and cupcakes, and a plethora of flowers blooming between the butterflies in your stomach.
They say happiness is the laughter and smiles you share with your loved ones.
Lingering. Heartwarming.
If so…
Then I never knew this thing called happiness at all.
To me, happiness felt like a dream trapped in a distant screen.
Like the reflection of the moon upon the still water surface.
Visible.
Impossible to touch.
Like scraping a rock with your nails desperate to feel.
Close.
Impossible to accomplish.
You will only be left with blood and mangled fingers.
You will only be left with an aching heart and a hollow chest.
How wretched.
It was merely another thing outside my grasp.
Exist to tempt.
Impossible to get.
by MG
Doll House
Did you enjoy sitting around with empty cups of teas and dolls and friends only you can see?
To be someone you're not.
A princess, perhaps.
Hosting tea parties.
A sovereign over the imaginary.
Playing with puppets.
Our will is their will.
More sugar, more tea.
The party isn't over until I say it's over.
Smile, smile.
Be grateful.
You enjoy this as much as I.
Even when you do not.
How many of you realise you're the puppet now?
Do you enjoy sitting around with empty cups of dreams and promises and friends only benefits hold near?
To be someone you're not.
A commoner, perhaps.
Working towards a goal.
A glorified slave of the unseen.
Playing with your life.
Their will is your will.
More trials, more suffering.
The play isn't over until they say it's over.
Smile, smile.
Be grateful.
We enjoy this as much as they.
Even when we do not.
How many of us realise we're just dolls in a house?
Shh…
silent.
We’re not supposed to see beyond the stage.
Do not question.
Do not seek.
Smile, smile.
My dear.
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.
peppermint
melancholy lingers
like the itch that oppresses dry skin.
christmas spirit is the air,
so there’s no time for frowns and despair,
only smiles and jolly tones,
exhibits throughout the year that are rare.
yet, i can’t help but feel sad,
drown in the lingering melancholy.
for someone like me,
i guess it’s inevitable, really.
i suck on one of those peppermint mints,
while everyone else has fun,
the little aftertaste burns a cut that’s on my gum.
i whimper,
and the melancholy i feel deepens.
sadness is inevitable during the holidays, i told you.
by M.S. Blues
Dear Mom
Dear Mom, They keep me safe here It’s not worth knowing that They’ve chopped my hair I look like a boy, now But My flesh is fragile, still At night
Dear Mom,
They keep me safe here
It’s not worth knowing that
They’ve chopped my hair
I look like a boy, now
But
My flesh is fragile, still
At night
The cold water freezes my nerves
Do I have a choice of not washing their dishes?
Had not my bruises remained raw,
I’d have waited to write
Their ointments are
Guarded by grandeur
Even when my blood
Shrieks out of my skin
Even after all,
They keep me safe here
She is gone now
The sight of flour on skin, age spots form an archipelago across your arms. a clutter of dusty pictures and rosaries under your bed.
The sight
of flour on skin,
age spots
form an archipelago
across your arms.
a clutter
of dusty
pictures and
rosaries
under your bed.
Life, you’d sometimes think, hadn’t been that good to me.
Girdles that
squeezed
your fibroid
infested womb—
An old hallowed out
home to five
Barricaded
Against
Life.
You comb
your unruly
hair back;
look uncomfortable.
The look is not you.
I love it when you just
Let it be—
rather than tame it
And look like a scared
Old lady
Instead of the courageous
Heroine that you are.
You still store things
Away
In overflowing drawers
And cupboards
Afraid that one day
You will need
Something
& it will not be there:
What trauma
Gave birth to that?
You say,
I feel your mother
Is doing something
To me—
Like I can’t put my
Fingers on it –
Your hands, exasperated go up in the air
Only to slowly come down
And rest, at your side
Powerless.
We loved each other once.
The nights
I fell asleep
under the
symphony
of your snores:
Uncountable.
Sleeping,
side by side
A woman, and her grandchild.
You say,
Pointing to
A brand new
Press, you say,
Look at that
What my
daughter
Buy for me—
You know what she say?
She say,
when you die
I’m taking it back.
What kind of thing
Is that to say? And you
Schweups at the
callousness of your
Child.
You’ve got:
Two kitchens,
a Toilet
without a door,
social security
checks
deposited
In
Brooklyn.
We walk
down the street
and you smile at
a stranger,
and giggle like
a child...
But wait nah,
you say, stopping,
in a daze. I
thought that was
Nen-nen, but
nen-nen
die long
time now...
What is happening to me, you ask?
& no matter how
hard I try,
I can not answer:
Alzheimers.
“we’re not alone”
4.10.22
[ i experience ]
a restless synesthesia of sensations
my soul its own dimension
of loosely woven associations
And
nuance
sometimes i think i pay a little too much attention
my jaw perpetually clenched
strained by the daily omission
of ineffable prose
so today i embrace my sensitive observations
indulging in the union of all things
i notice what’s not necessarily there
i talk around and not through
i challenge claims of irrelevance
and forever hold
that “far-fetched” is a cowards favorite word
because yesterday i felt seafoam green
And
this room smells like winter
And
my skin squirms like earthworms
when i see bumpy trees
and that’s the only way i know how to put it
my love language is longform
i let my teeth tear away at the succulent flesh of a cherry
and savor it as i would a lover
picking their brain before reaching their core
the juice dripping down my lips as it fountains from their hips
a delicious mess
i don’t just take note
i see the universe in you
i think in words
i speak in pictures
i feel sounds like textures rippling through my veins
i walk backwards and run forwards
And
i am never satisfied
i am the consequence of an infatuation
prolonged
by a silver tongue
and resulting miscommunications
so it is in my nature not to be straightforward
pheromones released and a love drunk mistake
bore me:
a curse from the cosmos
an /enigma/
to the masses ;
[ [ a living, breathing retrograde
] ]
- A.
Midnight Morsel
Picking off the strawberries
From the chocolate cake
Eat them individually
Chewing up small bits of health
Throughout the entire week
The water jugs judge me
Sitting in the dark
When the light switch
Stands next to me
An arm’s reach away
Next to the jug
My body longs for water
Dragging my finger across
The rim of frosting
Rectangular slice
Licking my fingertip
Taking a deep breath
For the rich sweetness
Before closing the box for the night
Alone and Free.
Do not pay me any mind.
Do not be kind to me.
Do not ask about me.
Do not talk to me.
Just leave me alone, why don't you?
Alone and free.
I do not need your attention.
For it always comes with a price.
And I'd rather starve, be lonely, and sad.
Please.
Just Leave.
Do not force me to pay for something I never bought.
Please.
Just leave.
Do not act like you've done something great.
When all you do is rob,
and rob,
and rob.
by MG
Letter to My Body
As I press my pen to the page—
Do I state my truth in shrewd elegance
or does one
Simply scribble their deranged
Thoughts until the blank paper
Transforms into an otherworldly colour?
Otherworldly.
Such a word graces the page boldly.
As I peer into the mirror,
It is what I see
when I place judgment
upon my shape.
I find it peculiar.
Unlike anything on earth.
Undesirable.
I’m not plump in the right places.
Not the body one would see
On the cover of a magazine.
Not the girl everyone longs to be.
Unless she is between worlds
Of slim and thick.
I’ve prayed by the bedside.
Hoping someday,
I would not be overlooked
But perhaps treasured in a gallery.
The ideal piece of art
Gawked at thoughtlessly
To be admired by all.
Studied for centuries
As the highest regard of beauty.
If this mirror were a book
It would tell you in sheer honesty—
I am mismatched.
They forgotten to create
A category for me.
If I smash the glass in a fit of rage
Does my blood reject my point of view
To spell the word beautiful?
Because what would moving
my body into a box do for me
If it only suffocated to exist as I am?
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
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 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