absurday

 

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she,
slots symposiums in envelopes
that she never sends.

he,
has fingers that shiver with reconnaissance
but uses them to play the violin instead.

they,
make drunken contact, sharing
evaporated kisses and a temporary
osmosis of the soul. 

swimming in the lacuna
of disillusioned love
feels more like drowning than release.
they,
emerge from the dream
covered in crushed
butterfly wings.

Continue reading “absurday”

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Goner (Renga)

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Grubby faced player,
toy car takes tree root race track,
ancient magpie gaze.

A stolen swoop of fortune
and changed race track game now played.

Rules lost in the clouds,
the wheels or magpie screeches,
into golden rays.
Continue reading “Goner (Renga)”

here I lie

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Image courtesy of: Qinni 

when was the last time
I cried?

maybe that is why
words no longer roll off
my impatient tongue
and spill across blank pages
like sunlight adorned with
the oddities of a kaleidoscopic heart.

Instead, I am drowning in debris,
shattered glass and cheap neon beads,
mirror shards reflect my inability

to colour these heavy, broken dreams.
Continue reading “here I lie”

the empresses’ borrowed robes

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Photography: Flowerfolio

her footsteps echo through
another nameless tunnel
in this concrete maze,
all the lost ones, left searching.

the train rumbles above
towards its destination,
as inevitability echoes around
the thought of destiny, it ricochets
in her shaking fingertips
passing through flesh, bubbling blood
sinking into brittle bone but doesn’t quite
pierce the soul, she is so afraid of others
but also the dark, of herself,
and of death, leaving no mark.

nobody is born a voyeur
but life told her she is not a voyager –
so what else can she do but wrap the strands
of strange, perfect lives around her like
golden silks embedded with ruby stories
pretend to be the empress in her
borrowed robes, she quieten the child
who wants to shatter these delusions,
and let the rainbow light dance off her skeletons  –
what to be when waking feels like being asleep,
nothing to see but these false and wonderful dreams.

villanelle in the sky

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I have always wanted to fly,
but the sun burns sickly bright,
and I am much too scared to die.

Don’t we all dream of blessed light,
shadowed by wings unfolded up high?
Aren’t we all born wanting to fly?

But mother gifted feathers not fit for the sky,
and life-altering wax is too hard to find,
eyes on the ground, too scared to die.

Then the storm hit in the dark of the night,
the winds did scream and clouds did cry,
heaven is just as absurd as wanting to fly.

Alas, no time to dwell on man-made lies,
eyes straight ahead, forget the idealised,
it does not matter if we want to fly,
life is wasted on being too scared to live or die.

Balcony Shisha Bar, Lygon St.

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The last time I fell
out of love was the
first time I stepped
into a shisha bar.

After the smoke cleared
and mirrors disappeared,
your silhouette stood stark
against the charred stars
and you gifted that bright
crescent smile to your tiny
light brick, as my mouth
filled with soot-stained
darkness.

I learned how vast the universe
could be through the centimeters
of infinite space between our
barely brushing shoulders.

You held the milky way
in your lungs so effortlessly
as I choked on the aftertaste
of faint, artificial strawberries,
to think I held my breath hoping,
that you or us could be real.

Briefly: Sonnets

Hey guys, how have you been?

I’m taking a poetry class this semester and it’s so much fun. I’m learning a lot about the history of various forms, reading so many great pieces I never would have found myself as well as experimenting with these new mediums. I thought I’d ‘briefly’ share what I’m learning and discovering with you guys in the hopes that you’ll learn something too 🙂

Disclaimer: I’ll always try provide the most accurate information possible but if I misinterpret something I’ve read or my lecturer has said or if my imitation of a style doesn’t actually quite work for some reason, absolutely let me know so I can try improve!


This week we learnt about the sonnet, which I’ve discovered can be absolute gems to read despite, or perhaps because of how short they are.

History:

A sonnet is a form of poetry composed of fourteen lines & usually iambic*, originating from Italy with two main subsets: the Petrarchan sonnet and the Shakespearean sonnet.

Francesco Petrach (1304-1374) brought widespread attention to the form in his book – Canzoniere, a collection of 366 poems, of which 317 were sonnets written to an idealised lover, Laura.

Believe it or not, this is where the Petrarchan Sonnet was born.

Form: 8 lines/6 lines, rhyme scheme*: ababcdcd (octave) / cdecde (sestet).

Content: one of the most distinctive markers of a sonnet is the change in tone between the two sections of the poem, whether it’s initially asking a broad question in the first stanza and then providing an answer in the second or something else, there must be some type of shift in perspective.

Interesting fact: By looking at the rhyme scheme, you can tell that Italian has much more rhyme built into its language compared to English.

Two hundred years later, Thomas Wyatt became one of the first champions of the sonnet in England both translating Petrach’s work and creating his own. His friend & contemporary, Henry Howard, the Earl of Surry also tried to do the same. Both men are known for making modifications to the structure to make it more suitable for English, creating what is now known as the Shakespearean sonnet.

Why is it called the Shakespearean sonnet? Quite simply, Shakespeare was good at it, wrote a lot of it and was the one that really popularised the form in English.

Form: 8 lines/4 lines/ 2 lines, rhyme scheme: ababcdcd / efef gg.

Content: the couplet (gg) at the end of the poem is crucial as it differs the SS (Shakespearean sonnet) from the PS (Petrarchan sonnet) in that it could introduce a crescendo to the poem or introduce a quick turn of events and go against everything else said in the poem.

One of my personal favourites, out of the very few I’ve read: (Sonnet 65, William Shakespeare)

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Continue reading “Briefly: Sonnets”

for you, me, everybody

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Image courtesy of: Mitchell Hollander

I do not remember when idles dreams
of fracturing future possibilities
lost their sun-kissed gleam
and we dulled our ambitions into inabilities
with every spare second spent
swallowing bitter scraps of stories
about those privileged to fly; wings meant
for glimmering in their golden glories

but my ink-stained tongue
yearns to taste pages untold
lest we forget till death we are young
enough to be hungry, wanting and bold

perhaps the soul needs a few paper cuts
if only to remember all of this world, belongs to us.

waste-landed heart

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Moving Image Courtesy of: wiffles

once upon a time
she hardly remembers,
the girl with tumble weed hair
and rose petal lips
was not afraid of heartbreak.

she kept her head held high
so she could learn
from birds in the sky
how to gently unfurl
the delicate wings encasing
a heart three-sizes too big
for her hope-filled chest
watch her as she breathes in
the meadow-scented winds.

Continue reading “waste-landed heart”

stars, space & an empty place

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image courtesy of: borda

she remembers that night,
no stars dusted the evening sky
but their residual light
flickered in his wandering eyes
and how she desperately wanted to hold –
his gaze, hand or mind
for them to share a hazy moment
in suspended time

too bad
he was on the other side
of an unfamiliar room
filled with mutual strangers
maybe with enough imagination
they could have been
the newest constellation

already tenuously connected by
some star-struck fate,
but too scared or sober
to name this new feeling or shape
much less ask if he
maybe thought the same

it’s funny how
she has learnt all about
the grand, infinite universe
but her saturday night silence
still felt like the most empty
and hopeless space
that she has ever known