collector.

you treat hearts as butterflies

and you, the catcher,

proudly displaying all of your beautiful conquests

behind polished glass boxes.

from far away it is a sight to behold,

all of these beautiful loves, but from

up close the silver pins piercing flesh tell

a different story.

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Atlas.

Not writing for a long time is making me feel like a jigsaw puzzle missing its final piece.

 

Critique, please.

 

 

My favourite body part, shoulders.

Before I was old enough to know
what a ladder was for
I would sit atop my father’s and
gather the stars closer.

Before I laid with pillows
I would lower my head
between that space against your neck
where, in safety, I laughed, and I wept.

Before, they were only bones to hold
Now I pretend, I am Atlas
carrying the heavens
For if the weight of the heavens is a death sentence
You, are the most romantic penance.

Incomplete – help me?

This poem feels incomplete, so I need your feedback.

 

At birth, the umbilical cord is cut.

 

From this moment, the now phantom limb burns

deep in our gut, and wonders

how it’s ever going to

feel connected again.

 

Luckily for my generation,

never before have people been so

‘connected’.

 

With technology we can attach,

we can attach,

we can

attach.

 

But there are glitches,

mixed signals,

crossing between what we knew,

and what we now

know.

 

We know using our hands to swipe is a control,

and as such waving goodbye has become

a command.

 

We know that while

our eyes

give the greatest clarity and definition,

they cannot be trusted anymore,

because their shapes do not mirror

our rectangular visions.

 

We know our first words learnt are

‘iAm

 iAm i

Am’

and missing from our vocabulary is

‘we

Are’

 

We know the heart vibrates

when we receive messages from others,

and soon anatomy books will show

it being no longer in

our chest,

but in our pockets.

 

(Though every time we raise it 

to our ears, we are surprised to hear

no beat).

 

We know our ancestors could successfully

navigate all four corners of the globe

by repeatedly getting

lost.

Now we play a delicate

balancing act

walking, heads down, too scared

to deviate from the 5cm

tightrope screen,

we tip-toe to

the coffee shop

right in front

of us. 

 

We know how to like things,

how to like things,

how to like

things,

 

 

 

but not how to love.

 

 

 

 

 

E.

Mind map.

Tonight I attended the Hamilton Slamdown Poetry workshop.  I’ve always been a lurker of the spoken word, and rank ‘George Watsky’ as one of the greatest youtube persons I could ever hope to meet.

I went in with the idea that it would help me improve my writing.  And my comfort zone limit. 

My comfort zone is quite small, filled with large square pillows and a shaggy rug.
It’s cozy.
It’s safe.

I showed up 6pm on the dot. A total of four other women joined me. We introduced ourselves by attempting to find out what we had in common, and what interesting background stories we shared. It was designed to show us it’s easier to start with what we know, and what we know may not have an interesting internal dialogue, but to an outsider it sounds captivating.

Then, we were given one word and its definitions written next to it. We had eight minutes to use five words from the definitions and write a small poem. My word was ‘inequality’. I wrote about the recent marriage change.

Then we had to say it aloud.

Ruh roh.

I went second (ain’t nobody got time for first) and, after a wee stutter plus bright red face I am known for, finished with a smatter of obligatory applause and freebie compliments.

Our homework (a foreign concept to me) is to mind map the word ‘dream’ and write a poem in about 15 minutes maximum. The mind map links are to encourage obscure connections relating to the root (we were advised not to use the word dream in the poem, but encourage the emotion of the word).

Wish me luck!

E.

Momentary variation from the norm.

I want my own Dead Poet’s Society.  

I want a few friends to disappear with into the night.

I want a couple bottles of whiskey.

I want a cigar or two.

I want a beach clearing.

I want battered poetry books of old.

I want a Kindle filled with poets new.

I want paper and pens strewn across the picnic towel.

I want lifeless poems sacrificed to the drift wood fire.

I want unafraid voices carrying the survivors.

I want exhaustion.

I want self-consciousness dead.

I want myself alive.

The daily post prompt asked a question similar to ‘do groups of people inspire you?’ My answer is a resounding yes, and it made me miss the feelings I had at tertiary.

The late-night working sessions,

the coffee induced craziness,

the comfortable sigh of completing something magical.

It seems so out of reach now. 

E.

Parental guidance recommended.

Here’s a poem I’m entering for a fun competition for National Poetry Day. It’s a bit crap but hey, what isn’t?

 

Thanks Tim Minchin for satirical inspiration.

 

 

 

You know what’s great to tell small children?

Lies!

 

I mean.

 

Who doesn’t love the idea of having

a career like Santa Claus?

A jolly old fellow made from cookies and Jello.

(Or so I was told when I wasn’t too old).

He gifted candies to Mandy’s and trucks to Chucks.

But, if you weren’t very nice

you’d up with something icky

like coal,

or lice.

 

Lying to kids is great! And it wasn’t till I was eight

when I learned the truth,

in a ‘That’s Life’ magazine article

which would refute

Santa Claus,

and the Easter Bunny,

and the Tooth Fairy,

and instead make me wary of

poppy-cock fiction adults made,

to ensure their children would

behave.

But I remember the lessons I learned from them,

like how to earn money

from discarded body parts, and

too much chocolate is bad

for the heart.

 

I’m creating lies of my own now

for when I’m all grown, and

have tossed my job in for these

sweet little runts

of mine,

who will probably

morph into

sweet little

country bumpkins

when we visit the zoo,

or the farm with the cows who say

‘moo’.

(You can probably tell I like animals, but any who).

 

I’ve made up one character we’ll call him

‘Billy Banker’.

A business like chap,

with a nice suit and top hat,

who’ll be richer than Gates and all

his tech-industry mates.

 

I can’t wait

for him to tell my kids how

money

is more important than the environment.

His catchphrase will be

‘Trees need solitary confinement!’

Or

‘Forests are a waste of wood!’

And they’ll grow up to learn that

money equals good.

 

He’ll educate them ‘money

is nobler than clean air and drinking water’,

 

I mean.

 

Just look at what global governments have

already taught us!

We can sell our resources, and buy

all-natural food

from the sweat shop countries.

down the road

With their dilapidated factories and

battery caged workers, who

work diligently to ensure

our lives don’t descend

further than the glitter

and gold prospects

money

does hold.

 

This is what they’ll get told.

 

I mean.

 

If we really loved these environmental places,

Wouldn’t we do better

at leaving

less traces of

the completely

destructive,

fucked up thoughts, of

‘what profits can be sought?’

Or

‘what legalities can be fought?’

Or

‘what politician can be bought?’

 

I mean.

 

How do we tell our kids the real truth,

that money

only pays in hands

uncouth.

 

How do we tell them

‘we know how to save the planet, but

choose not too’.

Or

‘we’ve pulled the blanket over our eyes, because

we hate the current world-view’

Or

‘we’re responsible for the damage bills, but

the clean up is up to you.’

 

 

But hey, I’m not the bad guy.

You made it ok to lie.

I’m only following suit, and putting down

the childhood boot.

Educating my kids about disrepute.

And they’ll learn to harvest this

insatiable thirst,

from my lies a blessed curse,

for they’ll grow up to know money

is number one.

And become kings and queens over

the growing poverty slum.

 

Just look at what the world’s already become.

 

I’ll teach them, through lies,

that money buys

everyone.