Young Writers Society

April 11th - mirge

the dark wood furniture in this musky library
are such observant witnesses of
this encounter you know nothing about –
with my fingers running over the backs
of the books that have seen it all
and the hesitant sunbeams that
penetrate the lattice windows
like schoolgirls entering a misty chapel
make your hair glow in all the shades
of a campfire –
I dare not but look from between the
shelves, afar,
and you too would see you and me
merge
into a bestseller, classic
in the making,
if only you looked up from one hundred
years of solitude
but still, what's perhaps
better

is the fact that you don't

You do terrific poetry. I love it. ^_____________^

Thank you Gahks


April 12th - prinsengracht 263

it's difficult to decide whether
the dismalness behind the dusty staircase
is my saviour or
my traitor
but I suppose it's better to fear
in hiding than in the street
bearing stigmaed coats –

if only that bore didn't walk around
with his cat when I had to leave mine!
how miserable it must be, poor moortje
though it's better off than us –
without the beans and ashen carrots
in lukewarm water
for dinner

father and I hang curtains just in case
but there can't be an uglier way to cover
my chestnut tree that – though old –
is the only thing alive in this city,
to be unlabelled is to live
and now that is taken from me,
again,

but I will live too
I know

April 13th - ;

you only befriend people inferior to you
especially if they've got "potential"
as you would say
god, I hate that word
well, want to hear something that
sabre-tooth's teeth missed in sahara
yes you do, of course you do
but that you won't ever admit

it's okay for slugs to get lost in glass jars
and it's okay for ladybirds to hit and run
but it's not okay for you to

and when I say this, I really mean
something quite like the total opposite but nothing at all
nothing at all
echo
you would know how that works, yes
like gear wheels in a kid's head
on the first day of school, except yours
were rusty before you were birthed

and with all that potential being
silently cremated and tossed into a creek
I relish the sounds of a person choking
in honeysuckle

(I don't even know what that is)
and all I'm asking is,
please
just

April 14th - time and relative dimensions

a cosmic wedding in another galaxy;
one lonely turtledove holds up
the bride's smoky veil as if it were
an earthworm to feed her babies
flowers everywhere, her hair is
a floral highway and the groom
dressed in sunset shoots
roses with his golden
bow

what they fail to notice is
the lack of guests and butterflies
as ringbearers
and Saturn behind them, looming
with her pondering circles reaching
for his rainbow wings
but there's no one else they need
at the reception in
supernovae

and it'll go on forever until
the last star is dead and a newling
born

April 15th

the earth is asleep
with a single pan flute note
she opens her eyes

April 16th

home alone tonight
her red electric guitar
shrilling in the dark

April 17th - venusians

is venus reborn?

whispers of poppies, hearsay,
giving wind and cliff edges the chills
and in someone's homely kitchen
noodles are simmering, unaware –
if it were true,
fauna would tell flora and vice versa
but there's no sign, it's not like her
to be this coy, cunning
the world has been smiling all day
but somewhere dark, in the limbo of

now and soon

there's she, the evening star,
sniggering at the mortal ignorance
smug at what will happen, what they can't prepare for
is the queen's entrance, glorious,
provocative,
like a courtesan's ballgown, a false rumour
to be the sole reality
and on a significant but subtle morning
in seafoam, rose shell, royal blue

venus is reborn

April 18th - so long, farewell

to them, the sparrows
I may be a sunflower seed
dull and grey, one in thousands
but I will do my best
to position myself horizontally
in their throats
and should I feel like it,
pay a visit in the trachea
like a steam train with broken brakes
and when they cough me out,
the south east wind will kidnap me
and fly me across the channel,
far enough for those who will
take me and overlook
my edibility

April 19th - dear juliet

do you think you would
have married him?
don't answer that, unless
he was ink on your parchment,
f sharp in your blues –
if not, I'm not sure whether to
thank or scold you:
on one hand you're a lunatic,
but it's you everyone sees
in sun-bathing tiles in rose gardens
and balconies
and it's you who we are
sometimes,
once,
so do you ever read
the letters they send you?
somehow I think you collect them
at evenfall and inhale
the various scents of love –
I'm sending you one
so maybe one of them is
mine

April 20th -

unessleeTHO,
idunnTHEEnk yanno
whah'eye kandoo
– o' kahndoo –
ayem juss eh in
juss EH in
meh-a-bee yshud TH
ink twys
o' w'evayre gone-uh say
jusNO
tha'isle larf
in yoh feys
foh eh LONG,
long taim

April 21st - it's called a thursday

why is it so difficult to want something
for a long time?
I know a dream and I will make it true
but after a blink or two
it feels like a duty, just because
they weren't as enthused
as me – let me want!
I'm not looking for riches,
I'm looking for a life –
do you really not think it's/I'm worth it?
and why can't I be independent of what I know
so that I would know, not just everyone else
who say I'm so brave and spontaneous and
listen to my heart – but when has it ever
been more than thoughts?
I know I want this, so what's the boulder on
my door and will I manage to blow it away?
it's chance and adventure luring me
as will-o'-the-wisps and then fighting
sense and safety on the plain dotted with blood
afterwards –
but whose blood?
I know who I want it to be, but still
it doesn't feel like winning
and honestly, I'm not sure
why I should think of anyone else but me
who I know will regret not giving
the finger for those in #18
and it's only for a while, it's not like
I can't come back:
but I think I need a compass
to find my way out
of myself

April 22nd - falafel butterflies

i.
did you know that nectar of gods
tastes like tuesday mornings
soaked in dishwater
and those dead metaphors stare back
with their empty sockets, crouching
behind the barrels they
always knock down
in the mid-snack hysteria

ii.
and I run
toward the maze,
the giant game of lottery
maybe I'll find the right exit
which will take me to lions and glass beads
or the wrong one:

iii.
ships full of oranges,
five-teethed combs with dirty nail beds
and a cancelled wedding
but the real winner is whoever finds
the nucleus

iv.
is it you

Falafel Butterflies

Your poetry makes my soul so happy, Demi! This flows beautifully, language and imagery are wonderful as always and I love how the stanzas are broken up.

Wonderful stuff.

When I say, write. Write girl! This is lovely. Your NaPo is lovely Your general existence is lovely.