Young Writers Society

These are really beautiful Demizzle <3 You have a graceful and distinct voice that really works for you. I enjoyed reading and re-reading all of these.

April 14th:
Really swell. I love how each stanza had a line that seemed to tug her backwards. We're really in her mind and in her actions throughout.

April 13th:
...I have no idea what's going on in reality, but I can adore it as a snapshot scene.

April 15th, here we come!...here we are...now. Waiting.

Kamas and Sarge >> Thanks so much!

April 15th - vr

a cigarette has been put off on the creaky polyester
as if they couldn't have waited until the next stop,
which is less than 200 metres away, actually –-
apparently not today, though, since the railroad is screeching
like a fixated child on the first day of school

dear passengers, due to technical problems –-
ah, it's not like I wanted to be on time anyway
and after several staring competitions with
the landscape that's not rushing past anymore
a sound of a long black coat echoes in the vacuum

and sits across me, of all the seats craving for attention
she has power drills for eyes
and I'm hardly fascinated by the discovery that
even sweat tastes sweet on the tip of my tongue

a bench makes a good place to drown in
as she leans closer like wanting to
examine my necklace a tad closer
and her lips open
wanna write a song with me?

she offers me a wavy sheet of a notebook
that's most likely been in contact with water
and pulls her hand back --
oh never mind, I'm tired, maybe some other time
and after three quarts the trees start to move again
with the empty sheets in her bag, she rises
nice chatting, goodbye

April 16th - p.o.

today the world is being held hostage
and ransom has ceased to exist
but coltsfoots aren't afraid, on the slope
they lie like stay-up stockings, watching

a gambrel roofed house about to die out
and yield for a revolutionary road
mum remembers them building it
and how there lived a bilingual girl
with an absolute pitch

reputedly, her father's obituary was in the paper
just last week, when the first blooms were seen
maybe she dropped her wrought iron skillets
and sang in a-minor through her tears

or maybe it were the cinders that made her weep
like all was lost, though not even a piece of
hand-painted porcelain had fallen on the floor
but which tongue does she think in
and was it mascara or ash that dyed the water grey?

April 17th - orange market

I hold the red-handed retro clock for a second or two,
but leave it in the seam of past and the possible future
as well as the melancholic poster, rien de nouveau
nothing new, amidst all the second-hand love
taking it away would be a shame, nearly comparable to
disturbing the space-time continuum –
what luck it's cumbersome and has abrased frames

near the cashier, there's a guidepost that looks
like it's made of collapsed shacks buried in moss
saying the table with car magazines is a husband parking lot,
and fair enough, they must be happier not knowing that
they're surrounded by several shabby chances of having
a whole outfit in leopard print from hairclips to heels

the real draughts are under the counters,
abandoned moments and forgotten thoughts
hiding like family meetings of bat-ear foxes
and everything smells of studio flats,
failed detergents, doubt and attachment
and we're all holding hands via these pieces we fiddle

only a barred wall separates this world
of mangos and mandolins and discoveries
from dreary concrete and the only thing I really want
is the one I can't have, the sign on the door that says
sorry, we're closed.

Hey Demz - I've been meaning to comment for ages on your beautiful poetry!

I really loved this latest one - Orange Market - it's sweet and simple, but also intimately complex, as is characteristic of your poetry. I'm a big fan on poetry that makes me feel nostalgic, missing something, not getting, wanting, or remembering - and this one seemed to do all of these at once! The tone is conversational, yet poetic and imaginative all the same - and, as per usual, you kind of lead us in by the hand into the pretty scene of yours.

I hold the red-handed retro clock for a second or two,
but leave it in the seam of past and the possible future

I loved these lines, for the clear way they managed to communicate the idea - 'the seam of past and the possible future' is kind of formal-looking at first, but actually not too much of a challenge to comprehend.

melancholic poster, rien de nouveau
nothing new, amidst all the second-hand love

I'd actually recommend leaving the 'rien de nouveau' minus the translation (okay, so I know French, but even for non-speakers the air of slight mystery of a foreign tongue is enticing). And 'second-hand love' was so tender!

nearly comparable to
disturbing the space-time continuum –
what luck it's cumbersome and has abrased frames

This bit I was not so fond of - 'space time continuum' seemed like a scientific thought that was quite out of place in the musky, damp, cute surroundings filled with nostalgia and memories. 'Abrased frames' didn't work for me as well, either.

The second stanza was great. Not worries there.

everything smells of studio flats,
failed detergents, doubt and attachment

These were mmy favourite lines in the thrid stanza - although I really don't think you needd to spell it out for us - the fact that 'everything smells of..doubt and attachement.' It's so vivid from the first two stanzas, I was already breathing in that scent before you mentioned it.

we're all holding hands via these pieces we fiddle

This seemed a little clunky to me. 'These pieces we fiddle' sounded odd, especially on the end of the stanza, and more so because that phrase is not continued on in the next one. But it is a small thing to rearrange!

only a barred wall separates this world
of mangos and mandolins and discoveries
from dreary concrete

Firstly, here's a small question - to me, the shop sounded like it was filled with odds and ends, a second-hand store with all sorts of things, objects. But I didn't expect to see fruit in there as well - mangoes? And then I looked back up at the title and wondered where the oranges came in.

Secondly, I love the wording - dreary concrete, barred wall, this world etc. - but it echoed too clearly what I was thinking all along, anyway. So...is it needed?

only thing I really want
is the one I can't have, the sign on the door that says
sorry, we're closed.

And THAT was a MASTERPIECE ending. It was so suffused with nostalgia and wanting, and a light bit of humour as well. Well done, and yes, I do read them all, and I do love them all, but I comment on my all-time favourites.

Navita, thank you so much -- again.


April 18th - flat

ants crawl up her legs as if they're late
for a bus stopping on the knee
or running a marathon in a fruit garden,
but it's just her new shower gel

when she uses her fingers as a comb,
she thinks she's going bald
and split ends make the creatures retreat
like harpoons on tanks, but she can
still sense their tiny feet on her skin,
proceeding like shy nails on a chest for the first time

ten pairs of black-and-white eyes on the wall,
she's never noticed them before
and they say throw those withered roses away
fold your skirts in the closet and take the carpet out

but she decapitates a gummy bear
and chucks it on the floor with toothpicks –
just before the trespassing ants reach it,
they suffer from a falling doctor zhivago
and it wasn't even a paperback.

I love this one. Your imagery is great, especially the first stanza and
"when she uses her fingers as a comb,
she thinks she's going bald."
The last line is very effective.

Thank you Jas


April 19th - anteckna

her hair looks like it was washed by a dog
texture and colour completely licked away
and eyes circled with belladonna, upscale scarves
and litres of fragrance can't really compensate –
if she could hear herself as we do,
stabs all over with a blunt paper knife
but still drained like water in sewers,
she would indubitably lower the volume
and the dumbfounding number of write-this-downs
delivers an obvious message:
if I had to, so will you

three hundred times she's detested
ninety-nine times feared and once written about
but she won't find out

and when she leaves with her red alfa romeo,
her face doesn't give out who she's going to –
a husband, a goldfish, unopened phone bills
but hardly, she crawls in the sofa corner
with ice cream and cries for her lost youth,
everything in her gives it away,
everything to the patented clacking of her heels
delivers an obvious message:
her grammatik and understrykningar
are the only thing she's here for

until we're proven otherwise.

April 20th - trinity

she was going to
express her respect, but you
didn't let her talk

today's not her turn,
but she makes dinner for all
without a thank you

when it's time for bed,
she says her prayers holding
the god delusion.

April 21st - ex libris

mother and son whisper behind the bookshelves
but they're far from the children's department.
she's wearing an unbecoming turtleneck
and he reaches for the endangered animals of the world,
but it's too heavy and she doesn't help,
she goes on and he follows like a comma

a short-sighted girl in black stops in front of
the books about alternative medicine.
sucking them with her eyes as if she's about to go through,
she finally picks a few bricks titled the magical power of plants
and such, but witches don't wear sweatpants

stories from different worlds make many look twice
but none of them step closer or hold out their hands –
the elderly man who looks like someone's neighbour
is clutching a plastic bag behind his back and only
watches; the start of the hunting season
is likely to overthrow the eddingses

one in the lower right-hand corner has menopause
in big letters, and heads turn to big bang
if there's a pair of eyes having swum across all these pages,
how can their days pass with them having lost
the sparks of untouched leaves and knowing
the scent of every book in existence,
what can be left after that?

Aaaawww, Demeter - long time, no review! But yeah, I have still been reading . And you know I love them.

April Nineteenth's poem was powerful. Poignant and sharp. The way you begun was arresting, and it only got better from there. I love how you never overwrite anything, and retain that determined sense of purpose throughout - by being controlled with your phrases and imagery, the poem retains a sense of beauty that is rarely seen in such literal writing. It's funny, because the third stanza is not really that new - but the way you wrote it was new, and interesting - even though you list things, I think it's the order in which you list them that makes all the difference; the ordinary, with the bizarre, to keep our curiosity piqued, but not overwhelmed. And the woman - I empathise with her so completely.

April 20th - ha, I only just got what you meant by 'trinity' - three stanzas, each with three lines, right? Clever cookie but I found the poem too-bite-sized for my taste, actually. Not enough to digest. Not even a mouthful. It is any wonder that you still managed to get a message of some sort across after all - that of, well, the unthanked mother/wife who does so much, but rarely gets rewarded or acknowledged.

Ex Libris - how do you DO it? Make such simple phrases sound so sweet??? I cannot comprehend it; the lines by themselves are not all that brilliant, and nor are the word combinations special, but the stanzas as a whole are stunning. I feel really attached to all of your characters whenever I read your poems - even when you maintain that slight distance between the audience and the poem by not naming people. I mean, I don't know what it was that I found captivating about the 'short-sighted girl in black,' or the 'elderly man who looks like someone's neighbour,' or the laugh-out-loud line 'witches don't wear sweatpants' - but these are unbearably, terrifically sweet, and innocent in their simplicity.

When I want something that I will instantly connect with, this is what I will read. You have an endearing way of drawing in the reader into the story behind the poem, and I like it.

Thaaaank youuuuu


April 22nd - the u train

on permanent marker it says "I was here"
under the window with rounded edges
like a screen door on a submarine
no one has painted over it nor collected
the papers glued to the floor with chewed gum
even though the ticket inspectors are so strict
about feet on seats

when lampposts and shacks on fields dance past
to the rhythm of the down-to-earth clanking
of the rails, I'm on my way without sunglasses
this is u, the slowest train, and after stopping
on every halt the clanks have smoothed down to
swooshes, like the nike logo bit without streamlines

and I'm scared that the pink lady in one o'clock
will keep watching me even after I look away
but then she answers her phone
but the relief only lasts for ten seconds
leaving her eyes circling me with colour from the 80s

but eventually we get there, all of us two ninety poorer,
and very few gained anything since they didn't travel alone
after clanking and swooshing they screech and stop
and they'll never see that I was here again.

The first verse is brilliant. I especially love;
"even though the ticket inspectors are so strict
about feet on seats."

I think "dance" is too much in the second stanza and jars a little, and the same with "rhythm."

The third and fourth stanzas are great. I love your imagery and the poem progresses beautifully as a whole.

A pleasure, as always.

Thanks a lot, Jas!


April 23rd - m&s

between the fruit shelves he picks up her gloves,
smiling and her nail polish is flaking
which is noticed only by the dozens of apple cultivars
who sneer and gossip in secret behind their flushed cheeks
and an air stream slaps granny smiths (envious and the worst)
behind her back when she stutters a thank you for him,
barely audible and he keeps grinning

and he taps on his chin, discreet as powder snow,
only then does she realise her mouth is open –
yeah, she has to go, must fetch some cereal
and mentally slaps her forehead, that sounded dumb
but he laughs and says he should introduce her to
his favourite kind, crunchy and sugarcoated
and she in turn makes him promise to try
the cranberry juice she has every lunch with ice

he gives her a ride in a shopping trolley,
and she has long forgotten about the cereal and coffee
her mother asked for that morning and unfortunately
she set her phone as silent for the day
and they squeeze bread to see which one was baked today
and try to distinguish between crackers and biscuits

when it's time for cashier, she opens her mouth again
you know, maybe we could hang out some time
but before she manages the first letter, his phone rings
and he looks at the screen and picks up, and
smiles to the distance, she's seen that look and then
she vows to forget whatever she was going to say
and when he doesn't look, she takes his cereal away.