Young Writers Society

across the breadth of the world you have come to me


#1

the limits in my hands
articulate a function
of decay
that sinks sinister and whole
into my marrow;
bull ants making their way
though artery and bone
until they have found
their home; the untied
expanse of skin and sinew
behind my knees.
while they burrow there
my nerves begin their chime,
one day and then the next,
until we are at last
Whole.

#2 - i didn't ask for this

Untie my hands now,
Send forth the maids
And the men
And wrap my wounds
In gold and fur -
Are they not rested now,
Those that struggled,
who were lain bare on the boards
And we took from them
The burning light
That slipped between their lips?
Were they lies that i took
Between my hard flecked fingers -
The heat which cracked into my palms,
Sharp and thin words that sunk
Into the pale folds
Of my digits and awoke
Between my eyes.
Cure them now, these simple cuts
That were never mine to take.

#3 - burden

Grief is my mistress's son,
I have known him in so many faces
All leaning toward the light
And looking away into a distance
Not yet formed over the horizon.
I learnt his name in Here
And in Now - the aching
Vowel sounds of my youth
Returning the echo.
I have seen him again,
The apertures of departure
Lingering on sharp cheekbones
And offering reflection.

My mistress lingers there too,
Nails pressing into wristbones
To imprint there - as everywhere.
At three am I wonder
About the tattoo beating in my veins
And whether it is mine or hers.
And does it matter when all i have is her
Love and grief.

Nom nom nom! I love waking up to these, it's like my gears get turned up! <3

#4 - wisdom?

The well of the world
Suffocates me;
In the tumble waters
I prevaricate
(Calliope could forgive me
But our mouths have never
Met one another's names)
Lodging there the silvered weeds
Collect about my ankles and thighs,
A former growth I'd thought
Shorn off in rage and drought.

#4 - fortuitious

How the land sinks
Below your bare feet
On the way to the orchard.

Last week the rain kept us
At bay, staring through the thicket
Of grey like so many silverfish
Squirming through your fingers.

It left our soil weak and pliable,
Crushing mote to mote
Between your toes.

How far is that walk?
How many do you pick along the way?
Sweet juice running below your chin,
Hands scraped against the bark
For that natural clean.

And no one to hear you
Soft like the earth
Crying into the summer
Turned spring.

#5 - fracture

It doesnt matter where you are
The limits become known
In the tightest of circles;
Rolling in and out and together
To make the parentheses
That guide every sudden intake of breath.
In the now there is only
The stuttering heart lying
dormant

#6 - Rapt

The Rape of Prosperina,
Bernini tells it apt
With marble fingers
Clinching tight
And she the arching
Bow strung far too tight.
Her agony revisited
In every art studio pencil,
The tablets made for the veiled
Recreations skimming truths
And much else from her cries.
I look too at the fury of ownership,
The passive aggression
Of the demand -
I marvel here,
At the thin pressure bending
Rock; yes.
The rape of Prosperina;
Bernini tells it apt.

#7 -

Our meeting was ill concieved.
Lying on the bank of different rivers
We tried to connect through currents;
The failing winds and too few sails
Taking from us even the sightlines.
We shouls have known it is too far to go
To know oneself and another within
the same moment gone.

#8 -

I forgot.
My mouth opened
And in the end there was only

In summer i collect cicadas
Or would if the trees had not been cut
So the bees linger by undergrown stumps

I ate lemons here
In cheesecake and tart and butter
The quick scent of it lay under my tongue

Half burnt grass crunched
Beneath quiet footsteps in the dusk
Of the auction hammer

I opened my mouth
And there was only

#9 - space

Unknown like so many others
We crawl toward an untold future
So many hands and feet grappling
Flinging themselves into the unimagined.

#10 -

awake
can you remember this
the way his hand and your
limitless potential
inking listlessly into the fabric
of his old leather couch
and the way the cracks burn
just a little against the back
of your knees, pressing so hard
and empty against the broken skin
the way his hand and your
crinkled blue dress became complex
in geometric lace burgeoning
and unravelling or not so much
undone but rebraided and transformed
the way his hand and your
blonde streaks met before the moment
the springs began to give
and the blue dress split
and you stood up because
Well wasn't this fun
your hand on the door and his
Still waiting

#11 -

The rot sets in
The dining room first
Like tendrils of ancient fern
Clawing up the plasterboard.
Each moment the house falls
Deeper into the mire
And all i hope is
It isn't catching.

#12 - hills hoist

Anguish lives beside me,
Though i had not known til today
He has been slinking in my yard
All arms and knees and that smile
That stretches fake and thin
Across the expanse below his nose.
We met once or twice before
In darkened street corners
Before the curfew lifted.
But now he is beside me,
Heavy hands guiding mail into the house;
Innocuous patronage that imbues
Everything i touch with his oils.
I ask him not to - dont touch my mail
Dont lean from the window
Dont call from the breaking shingles -
I won't answer any more.
Still the scent lingers on my dresser
And through the kitchen and halls,
Legacies of what came before
The front door and beyond.
All the while i know what waits
Now the curfew has lifted
And anguish is left to fold and refold
My left over washing dry from the line a year before.

I always look forward to your poems, Penguini, and I'm really enjoying reading these ones. It's a whole sensory experience - the cicadas and lemon in #8, the soft earth underfoot in #4. I keep coming back to #10 - you tell us a whole story, by focusing in on the little details like the cracks on the backs of the knees, and it's really masterfully done.

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