All we need is rest and art.
Hey!
Writing my newsletter after a long gap and writing it has been one of my ways to wander through some great art, and literary pieces all across the internet and books etc. A lot has changed with my personal space, a lot includes- a lotttt! From my routine to responsibilities, my love for dance, etc has been severely slow and so is my craft for writing poems but I wish to change it soon. I wish to have hope in HOPE again! Anyway…Grab your favorite spot, and let's get lost in the beauty of language together."
and…here I have a poem published in Winged Magazine by Jai Michelle
The Story of ‘I’-Caroline Gilfillan
My ‘I’ landed with a thump. One day
a mother was chasing the tails of two small sons,
the next I was there, orange as an apricot.
Distracted, she bundled me into blankets
and tired cardigans, carried me home on her lap
in the front seat of the Morris Minor. By day
my brothers scurried to the school where they had
their ears tweaked and their bottoms caned, while
I stayed home with a mother who liked to watch
the rain without being interrupted.
I learned to be quiet, to hide under the bedclothes,
until I was able to stand, walk, then run down
Chesterfield Road to the railway embankment
that bristled with a great beard of nettles
that stung my legs. When I tried to keep up
with my brothers, they knocked me over
and tumbled me all the way down the slope.
I got up again, again.
Bent Arrow-BY JT LACHAUSSE
Little Ant, my South Texas bowman,
narrowing your range for loathsome God.
We were thirteen years old. You cried, I said
nothing. What could I say? Here, take my arms.
Now plenty archers have fletched and drawn
this turnip flesh through their nocking sockets,
but these many years, do you remember my Word?
I swore our faggotropics would taste like peaches,
and when string met anchor, was it not the sweetest?
We were eighteen years old. I cried, you said
nothing. What could you say? Here, your arms.
My fucking arms. Little Ant, you were the first,
the final ranger of my heart, where the After
became lesser and the Now so much brighter.
Of course, we cannot slip through Heaven’s arches
without some trickery, these four limping wrists,
my wrought turnip feathers, your pious soft rot.
Whatever, whatever. You know that I will fling high
into that big blinding catastrophe for you, Little Ant.
Just as Ahasuerus lurches on and on
toward that cursed Second Coming, I swear:
Listen for my whistle, I will always come back
until God reaches round for his cruel quiver
and—to his demise—pricks my flaming head.
Sweethearts- C.L O’Dell
One day
either you
or me
as if drugged
will be staring
at a collage
of photos
in an unfamiliar
foyer,
the other
sleeping
in the next room over
inside a shiny box
like a saw-in-half trick
where everyone
seated in rows
is waiting for something
to happen.
I know
I’ll be stuck
in that first room
where old friends
who knew
you briefly
but remember your smile
will hang out,
away from family.
I’ll be there,
almost
out the door,
alone
waiting as if for you
to come out
of the bathroom,
so we could
stand again
like we did our entire lives,
together
in the darkest corners,
making
dirty jokes,
not knowing what to say
to sadness,
eager to leave
when nobody’s
looking,
out across
a silver parking lot
like geese
breaking off
a lake.
Links of the week-
The myth of originality and how to find your voice
The poetry showcase- Devika Mathur
If you are bored- you can visit these random useless websites-
a job of a poet is to observe-interview
Before I end this newsletter, I would be more than happy to feature great poems and art on my next issue. Feel free to reach out!
Hugs
Devika