Carve upon my bones
Your esoteric alphabet
The sharp edges of your tongue
Your instrument of inscription.
Your words are ancient but indelible
Etched upon lichen bones you used
To divine our omens. When my blood
Was not enough, you left these ruins
For another city to conquer.
Your runes are carved on my ruins
If I run my fingers against them
I can almost remember:
Your ruins felt like magic
Paisley rocks, flowered stones blossomed in your eyes
You told me to follow your chartered constellations, but
I was only led to distant, crustacean shores. Here,
Your words wash against me, foaming gangrene seaweed in your wake.
My ears, curled with the same canals of a conch that
Remembers the ocean’s voice to sing in memoriam —
So will I cup my ears, to hear your voice once more
These murmuring sirens, calling you from an alien shore.
You are still cetacean, impenetrable like evergreen
On cerulean coasts, bewildered and bent but never broken.
While I wait, I will sail your tessellate, undulating mind
So I can navigate you like tides of my turquoise night sea.
Apologies for my prolonged absence. In the past month I had to deal with a seismic shift in my life, including completing a university degree, moving houses and going away for a family vacation. But now that these tectonic plates have calmed down, posts will resume regularly.
We are protozoa swimming in a soup of confused existence
And my mind is amoebic slush, trying to fit together pieces
Of a jigsaw puzzle that will never fit. This is the only way I
Can make sense of the bedlam, the confusion of bright fluff
Like friendship and love, why their absence sucks out the
Mitochondria from all our cells leaving us in a static, listless
State we label ‘Depression’, ‘Anxiety’, ‘Loneliness’, ‘Insanity’.
But if we are protozoa then we do not have mitochondria or
The ability to produce complex energy. Guided by a nucleus
Of lofty ambitions and delusions of grandeur we phagocytes
Consume others in our path and recycle their essence to make
Ourselves ‘better’. We then leave our legacy on the world by
Binary fission or budding. This is what writers do. Some can
Rapidly reproduce parts of themselves on paper. But for me,
Writing hurts. I am breaking a part of myself into the world
That cares not whether we consume each other or die tomorrow.
In this apathy it is only the sheer willpower to etch my literary
DNA into this soup of chaos that drives my pseudo-appendages
To extend themselves and cast a shadow long enough to be seen.
In this agony I need the impregnation of inspiration to procreate;
The electric and impassioned touch of a literary muse to spark
The tips of my first words and to keep the subsequent flowing.
Maybe asexual reproduction is not the best way to write after all.
Follow me down to the Blue Elm tree
Where the river babbles around your knees
There she waited for him, and him for me
Her eyes screamed ‘robbery, robbery, robbery’.
You remember her swirled in morning mists
As her hair swept over her wistful lips
Wading between the reeds, silent and swift
And in an instant gone was her silhouette.
Slipped upon white eggshell stones
Adorned by layers of moss overgrown
Her bones upon the water did float and roam
Lost to dancing iridescent foam.
If you look in the Blue Elm tree
Though gnarled and white its skin may be
There lies a man in the alcove, collecting debris
Waiting for her, and waiting for me.
Splayed open for all travellers to see
His bones as white as his beloved, deceased
Picked apart by ravens for their winter feast
Scarcely given a chance to bleed.
There will be a day you forget the Blue Elm Tree
But until then will you wait for me?
She lies in the water, transparent and free
He lies in his nook, in her thoughts and my dreams.
I was (still am) burning up with a fever in bed when I received these notifications. Never in my limited imagination had I thought I would receive so much support for my work, and so quickly. Thank you, all of you, for following and liking my posts. When I find it hard to continue, your support is what compels me to sally forth.
On this occasion I present four fraud facts:
When I was four, I was given a piece of gum
Lolled it, chewed it, shaped it back in its wrapping
Gave it back to my uncle who had no inkling.
When I was five, I pretended to see angels.
My parents believed pious children saw angels
But the eyes beneath my desk must be angels, or else
They shift in the dark, and grin toothless terrors in the night.
When ten I forged my father’s signature
It was a better alternative than admitting my failure
My teacher knew that the lines were too wobbly
To be my father’s confident strokes, but she too understood
Forgery is better than the receiving end of the cane.
At eleven I read poetry that moved me so much
I scribbled it down with my own inscription.
Plagiarism starts from the home, it seems, as
It was so good my parents said I should be published
But they did not see me burning the original poem, afraid
Lest my acclaim be shoved down my throat as shame.
Since then I have not written poems for over a decade until I started this blog. Rest assured, all works on this website are my own unless otherwise indicated.