Category: Poetry

Poetry

Manus in Mano

By Eve Messervy

Manus, enclosed in her mind and

four walls,

staring out at the sky slowly

changing shades as the world rests without her.

Mano, enclosed in his mind

In four walls of packed people like sardines

In foreign waters, drinking like fish,

A fellow stranger

And the monotonous routine of Manus commenced

grip tight on the bus home, a fellow stranger

who is not a stranger.

To that a smile snatched her

so fleeting, she remembered

the transient Manus in Mano

and it rained, he loved the rain.

Manus, in, Mano, Manus in Mano again

On a steep alley in a bar,

Gushing water mollified Manus

Smoking like chimneys, of

a home with a balcony

and she caught a glimpse of herself

in the mirror.

She liked the rain too,

but there was a line drawing of that balcony

on her chest

in harsh charcoal that bled,

it was high in the heavens that she couldn’t quite reach so

she folded the drawing nicely, and

put it under her pillow.

Art. It was art, it was poetry that kissed her

head

it was holy water for a priest

but remember, he liked the rain, so

Manus

Mano

Once again,

For their fate was hapless from the start.

Poetry Uncategorized

Sand

By Ludwig Hemel

Ludwig Hemel is a poet and musician. Find him on Spotify under his artist name, IXMES.

Sand

Holy sights have been buried beneath it.

Still digging to find relics of the past,

Trying to understand what was intended, what is behind it.

Only blood dries for centuries on it, but cannot be covered,

It changes colour and cannot be seen,

But once you walk upon it; it is what you feel.

The relics of the past suddenly become real,

Although we all thought, it is a fear of the past.

Up in heaven, it is divinely green

Pastures of body, old olive trees

Down in the South, it is grey and dark

Eagerly hopes, for the sand to bury all marks

Poetry Uncategorized

Log Na Coille, somewhere west of Lourdes

Post author By E. R Fletcher
Post date February 8, 2024
No Comments on Log Na Coille, somewhere west of Lourdes

By E. R Fletcher

My empty ribs and sallow, sunk

Eyes dart around my frescoed

mind, and there you are. Dear,

Confess! Just to hold your gentle face.

My soul rejoices at your visage, do

Look with favour, your lowly servant

Supine at your shrine- Oh,

Much Less! Kiss my curled temple.

I’ve loved you since I met you-

Maria- every day the same, and

Growing- I scarcely sleep, my thoughts

undressed- I’ve made such an awful hames.

Look beyond my eyes, I beg-

God! Bless, my perfect shame.

Image Credit: PJW Photography

Poetry

On a Boat with Day-Lewis at Dawn

Post author By Emma Large
Post date February 2, 2024
No Comments on On a Boat with Day-Lewis at Dawn

By Emma Large

For my grandfather

There was a ship on the starline

Where the water met its flank, up

And out and up like a quiet breath.

A day, he had dared Day-Lewis,

On its starboard bank; his arrogance brined

With spirits, the curdled wine from the engine

Tank. A day to beat you at your craft. The cleft

In him ran through it, as it did his life,

To fill that floating place: the eccentricity of

His kindness, his fluency for endless speech

That flew without taking shape. I don’t know

How his poem read (the things

I’ll never know) – but he went, gleeful, to the poet’s room

As the sky was laced with morning. Look!

Your craft is mine; smugly, like a new-born;

Standing out on starboard side, yawning in the sun.

I am never too far away from here: this

Is where I am from. The ramblings of a try-hard poet,

On a boat with Day-Lewis at dawn.

Poetry Uncategorized

Kelpie

By Jake Roberts

An old statuette demands supremacy

From the safety of the mantelpiece.

Yours, up for good this time, you smile,

This time we promised. Flecks of paint,

Faint from here, returned to taunt

The drab shallows of newer portraits

With their clammy, photographic sheen.

Not she, all gloss and grin, crafted,

Polished, matchless bride

To interior pining. You dance

Your way around the sun, hours snap by,

Night washes in, I elope backwards.

Morning comes early. I race its breaking

But find a glib dawn at the window,

Your skin pooling like wax, hot pain

Like the tearing of ligaments, a smile

Still – not that which I had seen before.

The crackle of denial from a smirk

Scratches my nostrils like spilt perfume

Or varnish; my breath is repossessed.

I am lifted by a mocking thunder,

A palimpsest of grief smeared

On every bone; pinched, dragged

Before a howling jury, I miss the verdict.

They send me whence you came,

The backs of my legs bruising

As they smack against attic stairs.

Alone, my fingers claw a final word.

Poetry Uncategorized

Mama

By Sara Zubaidi

These familiar syllables that did frame

The feeling of perversion in my throat

For naught the bilabial nasal sound

That echoes a child’s sleepy melody,

A fleeting sprite in invention’s reverie

Felt in the birthing cries of her labour

Nor because it vibrates as the soft hum

In chambers close, untold tales softly thrum

Like notes lost in the void’s quiet breath

To hymns where willing spirits intertwine

Instead, repeated syllables throb keenly

Posing as the vivid evocation

Of how my mother preaches about her

Mama, as if she is speaking of God

Poetry Uncategorized

Melted Sapphire Seeps

By Eve Messervy

You are the face I saw in rain

So fragile; melted sapphire seeps,

Crying gushes rivers, sleep

Through flooded webs of long – lost lust,

Windows healing, questions burnt

Of widows leaving stone and dirt,

Howling prayers that wilt away and

Dissipate to nuanced day,

Another unjust pneuma utters

Words so empty, ink that stutters,

Gutters flood from monsters grief,

They’re broken heroes

Alone they weep,

But we squint our eyes,

In attempt to see, the lines of lies that

Will make us free, rain

That drips like melted sapphire seeps

Cold as stone; as silent as sleep

Yet all in all a stone alone

A face that fades, a face it formed

Through unfelt fingers and

Eyes blurred stiff I sit by the steps

And list ‘what ifs’

Poetry

Stockholm Syndrome

By Izzy Weinstein

Loosely held in the palm of your hand,

Your Midas touch I’d reprimand,

But my impotence at your commands

Cries insolence to my heart’s demand.

Your secrecy marks cowardice,

Detested but I do not challenge it.

I am seemingly so powerless,

Plead mercy but you’re tireless.

I hate the way I don’t fight back,

But curtsy under your attack.

I’m fragile like a paperback:

Your words cut deep and don’t retract.

Embodied as a trauma symptom,

I wonder, is this Stockholm syndrome

Poetry

What’s mine(d) is yours

What’s mine(d) is yours

What’s mine is yours, a pact unseen,

No question raised, a quest routine.

In every touch, in every find,

Yours to claim, in object and mind.

Dappled waters, unfathomable deep,

My labour’s ripple, a secret seep.

A silent poison, I inadvertently weave,

Unknown to me, my people grieve.

Knowledge given, a double-edged sword,

Your wisdom guides, yet risks ignored.

In the village, my family, that’s my cherished gold,

Yours, your secret untold.

Suborning your wealth, my veins entwined,

Choice is yours, in shadows defined.

Yesterday’s plea to cease the churn,

Yet, for family, I dare to earn.

Against the tide, I persevere,

In the face of caution, I volunteer.

Today, I halted, a lone decree,

As you persisted, relentless sea.

In the corrupt waves of Suriname,

What’s mined is yours,

Even my name.

By Lizzy Balls

Poetry Uncategorized

Painted like Klimt

By Eve Messervy

To be a woman is to be perfectly

destructive;

To be painted like Klimt

Bleeding gold

With a faint smile.

I met a woman who kept me asleep once,

Uttering such words

She made me cry.

She had not the gift of motherhood

Nor the touch of love,

Her hands were hard-worked,

her skin weathered.

She wore lines of lust and love

And torment

Tear burns beside her eyes like

companions to the lenses,

The mark of sorrow stained.

To be a woman is to be perfectly destructive

She said

Holding my hand as I slept

I see a sacred subtlety in the eyes of a women

A stone cold fire

burns the smell of florals

And feels like linen on naked skin.

Early morning beams of sun

decorate the sheets.

I open up my sore eyes

To an empty palm, I close my fist –

It dawns on me

As my reflection looks back

Into the tear burned eyes

Like companions, to my lenses.

My tyrant mind

Plays tricks with me

And dances like I used to dance

It conjures up the girls from Klimt

And bleeds gold

into my dreams.

wayzgoose

wayzgoose

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