Poems

Illness and beauty

to appreciate our beauty 
is to appreciate what goes on behind it
the very production
the machinery 
that ticks us on
that is the true beauty
that all our bodies work 
keep us all alive
but like with all hard work 
sometimes it struggles
sometimes it fails
seeing beauty in ourselves is hard
to find beauty in ourselves when it feels
the very production
the machinery
that ticks us on
doesn’t work
can feel harder
our bodies feel like weights
that drag
the invisibility of our suffering 
a struggle in itself
whilst putting on a brave face
and hiding the pain
green 
green 
green 
with envy
of the beauty of normal 
of a working body

our beauty 
is in our armour 
our ability 
to keep moving
to care for ourselves 
to both accept and deny
our beauty 
is worn everyday 
whether it’s in our tears 
or in our smiles

Nancy Loud
(@nancyloud)

 Lovely just the way you are

Wear your kajal or not

Soak yourself  in frankinscence   of lovely lilac scent or not 

Drape darling , with how you are ,

Drape darling, in  who you are 

Ornate bands of jasmine or not 

Buttery skin as sunshine or not 

Come darling with the essence of your love ,

Come darling with the essence of  bird flight and doves 

Blemishes as pink as the horizon havened in sun kissed dusk 

Or tans as swarthy brown as sandalwood skin ,

 Rise, ravish, pirouette, with all your mulmul soft heart.

Darling dwell daunting ,

dancing in the Meadows of topaz tiles ,

frolic in the gardens  abound like Babylonian highs.

Be as you are,

Explore the glistening sheen , the touch of skin 

The body a house of precious jewels 

Own the adornments in its art

 And

 Love yourself,  lacquering  love in your skies . 

S. Rupsha Mitra 

Modern Woman

When you can’t walk in safety through the streets,
When you can’t learn to kiss a little later,
When you must drink;
Drink now, drink fast, drink soon,
When being sober and sensible is a forgotten necessity,
When you must wear fewer clothes and more slap,
Peel back the layers, pile on the concealer,
Reveal and hide at one and the same time,
When you feel your identity swept away and made homogenous,
When you question the prevalence of the word:
Identity. Your identity. Self-identity.

When these things concern you more than what once concerned your forbears;
Eating, drinking, living, bleeding, voting, heating,
When you forget the travails suffered for those rights,
When all of that is submerged beneath today,
Mindfulness and meditation force the now,
Ignore the morrow and forget the yesterday.
When such things concern you,
You will walk in my shoes.
What is it like to walk in yours?

Anonymous

I have two mothers

I have two mothers
One who bore me, raised me  
And the step mother who’s lap I fell into 
One nourished my soul
The other taught me how to be whole
One’s love kept me furled 
The other showed me the gigantic world 
A step-mother? I say, surprisingly  
Yes, I never wanted you here
You simply were never part of the plan
How did mum allow this?
How did she accepted help from another woman
to raise her child?
She says a twinge of jealousy shot through her body
When I said I was happy here
But today I sit here thinking 
How do I solely become one’s!
I belong to both equally 
I hold myself responsible for them both
Mrs.Back-home and Mrs.Home 
Stepmom taught me all the clever tricks 
Which I then used to improvise mum’s wholesome ways 
I never wanted mum to feel she’s lesser in anyway 
I wanted her to walk the modern way 
For if one day, stepmom abandons me
Back home is ready to embrace this evolved self
For if one day, when stepmom taunts me on my past
I can prove her wrong.
You see, I don’t know anymore 
Who do I belong to more 
The heart is divided, maybe that is the reason it is not at peace
I carry the fear of being unfair 
Today I live in a limbo 
Torn and empty 
Tired of proving my love for both 
Today, I long for both 
Neither I hear mum’s cries 
Nor I see stepmom’s glorious skies
I ask, were my plans foiled?
Even though our situation is peaceful 
I pray that one is never in it
but if they ever find themselves here 
I promise to set an example for them of 
Coexisting in two distant worlds

Yours truly,
Miss.Immigrant 

Fatema Kiani
Instagram: @fatemabayan

 

For the Millennium

Jennifer told me about 
unsolvable math problems–
people work for years to find solutions
only to realize the mathematicians before them were right:
there aren’t any.

(It doesn’t stop them from trying, though.)

We all think that we can be the exception
be the one for whom
the piece of the universe fall together
the one to create something simple
from the realm of the impossible
to have it be so
because we believe.

Rae Rozman

Rae Rozman (she/her) is a femme dyke living and working in Texas. Her poetry, which often explores themes of queer love (romantic and platonic), loss, and education, has been featured in several literary magazines and anthologies. A school counselor by day, Rae spends her time reading science fiction novels and snuggling her rescue bunnies. You can find her on Instagram @mistress_of_mnemosyne sharing poems, book reviews, and bunny pictures.

What I felt when I found this Blog

Stumbling through rich thickets, 
a woven moss carpet gives way 
to light  
Here is our clearing 
Our stone circle
fringed, not with ancient grey slabs, 
but with words 
Home of unicorns
Where voices rise cacophonous 
Soundless tales of women 
unbent 
Our lives a force 
Which cannot be spent 
A chorus 
of throw your hands to the sky 
and 
Dance 

Madeline Tinson

Sister Witch

Our first grey hairs 
will be a riot, 
a festival 
a bonfire 

When you first taught me 
laughter, 
it was a step 
into your May garden 
everything set a light 
in bloom 

Your hands were made to build
love, 
tiny things 
come alive 
like butterflies 

You are the magic I forgot I’d lost, 
the ancient woods 
the singing stream 
the moon
are your eyes, 
the widest I’ve seen 

Who needs a sister 
when they can have 
A Witch

Madeline Tinson

Memory Wipe

Loom thread under wood-born
fingers, holes in molten core,
memory stitching
life digital through the breath
of ants, wire wiping brows
against leaf weight
as they tread light
on the feet of man.

Sy Brand

Sy is a queer non-binary person living in Edinburgh, Scotland. They write through the haze of cat-/child-induced sleep deprivation to try and make sense of gender, relationships, and ADHD. You can find them on Twitter @TartanLlama and their publications at https://sybrand.ink.

Core Movement

Fleshfall through bent mattress, I catch
floorboard nails with mine
as we tumble flamewards
through earthen blanket
and white-knuckle

Sy Brand

Sy is a queer non-binary person living in Edinburgh, Scotland. They write through the haze of cat-/child-induced sleep deprivation to try and make sense of gender, relationships, and ADHD. You can find them on Twitter @TartanLlama and their publications at https://sybrand.ink.

Fans of History as an Abstract Concept

Push a racist in the sea,
Men that lived abhorrently,

Stone that never taught me shit,
Throw that racist in a pit,

No place for cheers of bigotry,
We’re making our own history,

So hateful views do not transmit,
Smash that racist, bit by bit.

Sy Brand

Sy is a queer non-binary person living in Edinburgh, Scotland. They write through the haze of cat-/child-induced sleep deprivation to try and make sense of gender, relationships, and ADHD. You can find them on Twitter @TartanLlama and their publications at https://sybrand.ink.

Isolation Solo

I

What do I want to prove?

To show that I am strong

I have everything within

Except fear.

I find

Home is the shell I carry 

Not these walls these borders these people

It’s this skin this heart this blood

These tears sweat muscles

Calluses    

Bare feet.

II

This time is a sanctum

An age to be alone, an era to be me,

A stretch to embrace.

This time is a sanctum

A mirrored studio to discover my own rhythm,

A workshop, with myself the great art.

Stretched on the table:

A half-drawn blueprint for me.

This time is a sanctum

A shelter to be emancipated of prying eyes, 

to relinquish expectations,

A theatre without audience, where I can

                                                                             drop the act.

This time is a sanctum

A gallery to roam

To observe my reflection.

To look at myself      and sit with myself.

To ask questions, probe, test.

To run away    

and run back.

To float, to taste, to scream, to sing.

III

Nothing to do, nowhere to be. 

                                                        Everything to do, 

                                                                                                  and everywhere to see.

Anastasia Georgousis

Longing 

I long for the life I built for myself 

With bricks that came from a place within that I didn’t know was there 

With confidence that had lain low for years 

I plucked the plumbing from my chest and built friendships 

And from there the foundations were steady and firm 

We tiled the bathroom with our insecurities and painted over them 

And hung lightbulbs in the dark parts of each other. 

We aired our laundry in the open, and learned to love the creak of the crooked floorboards 

We cemented the walls with shared experience and covered them with pictures of us 

There’s no fight in the world a string of fairy lights won’t fix. 

I long to return to the life we all built 

Through women building up women 

Through endless wine nights and conversations. 

I went looking for an education 

And with it found a lifetime’s worth of company 

Robyn Barclay

home coming

coming home is as close to time-travel as i may ever get. the nostalgia drips from my skin. 

it mingles with the dampness of my sweat. it seems to remember the cool swimming hole, & the blue t-shirts. 

my body remembers more than my mind. a smell, a sound, the sensation of an embrace. 

impressions linger longer & i mull the taste of home over in my mouth. it is sweet. 

i can’t help but miss the familiarity. i can’t help but miss the ease. i can’t help but miss 

you. don’t wait for me, at the top of those stairs. i’ll be there when i can, it’s only a matter of time. 

Sophie Nankivell, Poetry Editor

Home:

Home changes.
Some things are static;
my all-consuming bed,
my record player,
the train from Hillfoot.

Some things move around;
my stacks of books,
my battered shoes,
my body.

But home can be new.
Home can be the Pacific ocean,
endless humidity and the
mountains, tall and pale,
framing my life for seven months.
Home can be being underage again,
a city that never sleeps.

Home can be my love,
soothing, warm, elevating.
Home can show me parts of myself
I am often too frightened to show.

Home can be me.
Home is me.

Anna Cowan

Sensual:

In quarantine, I have masturbated.
A lot.
Despite being a pretty sexual person,
this is something I typically never do.
It has taken a global pandemic to pleasure myself.
Who’d have thought?

I light a candle and get a good playlist on.
Then, I’m good to go.
You know the rest.

It is fun, and it is relief.
But it is not sensual.

I miss touch.
I miss sweat, gasping,
clinging on for dear life.
I miss communication, being told
that feels good, yeah, that’s
so good.

No amount of plastic vibration can make up for a lack of human intimacy.
Until then,
‘Jessica Rabbit’ will have to do.

Anna Cowan

Home.

Where within the space between cotton and skin, did one decide that this would be home?
Home is not anything but not the fabric of one’s clothes.
We cannot fashion anything larger than ourselves.
Impermanence is our home and everything around us is material.
So fashion yourself, make yourself your home.
Put ink to skin if you must, cut hair, dye green or pink.
Find leathers, cottons, silks anything to bring you back to your skin.
Home is the coat we wear on our back, collar turned up to the wind.
From walking to sleeping we wear clothes.
Make them your home.
Walk in shoes that never come off at the door but rather welcome you to meet the world.
We are all inhabitants.
Our identity is our home.

Honor Crean

Ladylike. 

Sit pretty. Close your legs. Make some room. 
Sit up straight. Close your mouth. Make some cakes?
You are not a woman, those dirty, horrid things, 
You are a lady – but do you have what that takes?
There’s a rule book, you know. Hope you’ve read every page.
So I’ll hand you the key so you can lock your own cage. 

And hey, you might think some of it was your idea.

Robyn Barclay

Untitled

Be skinny. Be pretty. Be quiet. 
Painted doll lips coated in silence. 
Hollow bodies brimming with thoughts
That I will never be given credit for.

Eyes down, flies down, we all drown. 
Isn’t it funny that mermaids are so popular?
Women can’t speak underwater.
What kind of world is this for me?
What will it be for my daughter?

We watch our fathers lock their feelings in cages, 
Watch our brothers learn online that to hurt is to love, 
Watch our mothers go on diet after diet after diet. 
Forever learning, desperately unlearning the same message:
Be skinny. Be pretty. Be quiet.

Robyn Barclay

Dear Agony Aunt 

Do I look good?
Tell me, I need to know. 
I wake up naked and I dress my face, 
It’s war paint for the workplace.
How to dress in a rush, with a brush, in the car
– Zoella got me this far. 

Am I too fat?
Tell me, I need to know, 
So that I can dress for my figure, 
And figure out what the fuck that means. 
Am I a peach or a pear?
You see, I only have magazines to compare 
and they don’t look like me. 

Am I too loud?
I’ve heard that’s not good.
Maybe I’ll buy one of those rings, 
So that I can match my mood
To the boys around me. 
It’s important to read the room, 
A woman should never assume 
She is safe. 

Am I too hard to define?
Have I crossed a line
That somebody else drew for me?

I’m tired of the conversation. 
How I look, how I am, is my business. 
Beauty’s in the eye of the corporation. 
And I don’t owe anyone anything. 

Robyn Barclay

Solitude In An Empty Box

If I were a cardboard girl 
with a paper plate and paper spoon,
I’d sail across Blanche’s cardboard sea and peer up at her paper moon.

My mind spins in orbit; love, loathe, like, lust. 
A practiced pace of round and round, 
never arriving, never found. 
The fire and blue of the swirling below 
would surely swallow 
a cardboard girl whole.

As a cardboard girl, I have infinite time. 
I can paint and print and sing and rhyme.
I am recycled, over and over. 
The dog jumps over the dune, and I laugh from my high vantage point. 
Nothing can touch me here,
The stars are so clear.
Who knew that being made by man meant making myself?
Made and remade. The self is the soul, the centre, the mother. 
Why would I need another 
Person to complete me?

 Robyn Barclay

colourful 

they tell you to
taste the rainbow 
they tell you 
there’s nothing to hide. 

the very same people, 
repulsed by your pride. 
if it isn’t a commodity, 
a source of cash flow, 

they’d rather you wouldn’t 
be so open and on show. 
well, that’s too bad, 
I’m sorry to say. 

it’s our space to occupy, 
proud and here to stay. 
this didn’t come easy, 
to forget is to be numb. 

a war hard won,
with battles to come. 
there is strength in numbers, 
so be here with us. 

the red of your blood, 
the orange of a new day, 
the yellow of sunshine, 
the green of the grass,
the blue of the sea, 
the indigo of gems, 
and the violet of light. 

the earth shouts it’s support,
it wants us to thrive. 
and thrive we will, 
whether you like it or not. 

we answer it’s call, 
with “love is love”, 
the planet speaks back 
that “love conquers all”. 

Sophie Nankivell, Poetry Editor

On Leaving The House That Was Not My Home

The heat of August squeezed my lungs, it filled them with pollen and diet hope

When I press my arm to my body, the water pools in every crevice, reminding me that I can seal life in between my folds and winding roads

My hip stretches, you’ve taken a wrong turn

Dust, filtering light, uncleanliness, dust, brain rot, mildew, dust, heat, gently blowing fan, bad water pressure, dust, never clean enough, a scream trapped in my old bed, dust

My mattress slanted to the left from the heaviness in my heart

It slants to the right now, morality

Truth, justice

I’m far away, their poison cannot get to me now

My mother’s trauma is thick like tar, motor oil, egg yolk and feathers, the joke was on no one and the laughing was so hollow

I couldn’t save them, I had to make my own way

I will build this, and it will shine and be so beautiful, and finally I can bring her to a real home

Somehow I always knew I’d never been given a fair shake, but it’s never stopped me

Nothing can, always forward

Forward despite everything that ways to tear you screaming back 

Forward for yourself, your healed heart shining on the horizon

I squint, it looks just like the sun.

Alex Taggart

Thank You, for Your Service

she stands, defiant and brave,
face towards the unforgiving unknown.
a few places in the world
had just handed women the vote and said, “here, take this, if you must.
we’re sure you won’t know what do with it.” the first wave had momentum,
and we knew the break.
Strachey, Lutz, Caraway…
thank you, for your service. 

the clouds were slow to part,
allowing for a clarity of understanding, for that which we had known all along. they bore down.
grey and heavy and not wanting to lift. we were stronger.
we pushed, up and over the mountain. the light pierced through.
Roosevelt, Murray, Pikas…
thank you, for your service. 

they say it takes time to turn a boat, but it helps if the tide is on your side. some of us had time,
the lucky ones. 

the ones who appealed to the expected,
who could wait for the sluggish vessel.
some were not so lucky.
some had to turn the blood-tinted tide themselves. Jorgensen, Coccinelle, Flexner… 

thank you, for your service. 

the colours flowed, fast and thick.
they twisted and turned their stoppers, attempting to plug that which flows freely. explosions of pigment,
unable to be scrubbed off, even with
the strongest bleach.
no more being muted, subdued, hidden.
we stood in plain sight, unapologetically vibrant. Friedan, Java, King…
thank you, for your service. 

we are not precious flowers.
has that not been made clear?
our power is unlimitable, inimitable. our souls, bodies and minds, 

charged with electricity;
given freely by those who came before. “liberation!” pre-packaged and neat,
a whetted palette, an insatiable need. Steinem, Davis, Reddy…
thank you, for your service. 

you spoke wisdoms.
truths, deeply universal, yet somehow denied. your controlled voice of reason,
covered up by the hysteria they wanted to hear. they wanted to claim irrationality,
emotional screaming of the unhinged.
there is no shame in feeling,
you reminded them, with undeterred decibels. Butler, Crenshaw, Attwood …
thank you, for your service. 

we grew, up and out,
in strength, numbers and size.
our roots ran deep,
our branches reached out,
always outstretched, to take back
and reoccupy our rightful space.
the physical manifestation is undeniable. “we exist”, you declared, “we are here”. Bader Ginsburg, Hill, Ensler…
thank you, for your service. 

the century turned, still, you resisted.
freedom lowered itself into the grip of many;
yet, stayed exclusive and unattainable to more. our ancestors had set the stage,
swept away the broken glass,
turned on the lights and pointed them back at you. but you were no longer actors.
you were enough, as you’d always known. Sirleaf, Lees, Walker…
thank you, for your service. 

you walked, with conviction.
knowing, deeply, the truths of being.
love is love
and autonomy is empowerment.
single words, “yes” and “no”,
resonate and that which you choose is so.
of course, some tried to extinguish your brightness, nevertheless, you persisted.
Obama, Given, Thunberg…
thank you, for your service. 

for all i have said,
for all there is to come,
we cannot possibly scratch the surface. our lives had been taken,
held in the hands of those with power. you take it back,
piece by piece, and hand it to us; gently.
for this, we say,
“thank you, for your service.” 

Sophie Nankivell, Poetry Editor

Slow

There’s lines all over my life 
Some stand between myself and others 
Building boundaries where I am finally comfortable 
Others are queues I stand in watching everyone get goals before me 
Grades, graduation, validation, varying 
Levels of success that others say are normal

Years of learning to read a certain way 
This works for everyone so why cant it work for you? 
A high school’s worth of adaptation and confrontation that 
This isn’t working for me but I found what does.
The lines in my life move, scrambled like scrabble 
3 points for a B but only if it doesn’t look like a D.
Years of minding my Ps and Q’s because apparently they differ
Pardon my politeness for I am slow 

Reading aloud always sounds like a eulogy 
Mourning the loss of the words I meant to say 
Instead the brain substitutes and institutes an easier alternative 
For me to manage and say 
Or stutter and stammer and try to force out 
Only to be told
you got it wrong again 

Numbers make sense to me in a different way 
I can read it once then say another 
Yet warped, reversed and wrong 
Calculations feel like abrasions, after a while it got better 
Chipping away at the wall between the eyes and the brain
Eventually gluing things together 
Excuse my intelligence for I am slow

Diagnosis is a word I can hardly spell 
And something I hardly gained 
Hours of ‘tell me what is wrong in this line’ 
when I’m looking at a circle
Expressing myself and grasping for explanations I can’t find
I know the words but I don’t know the words
An adult treated like a child because it took too long to notice 
Reconciliation works slowly and silently 

Getting to the right people was half the battle 
The other half is writing my name on the moving line 
Extra time for reading and dreaming of when 
My ability matches my capability.
Frustration of how little I can push myself but, 
Forgive my fortitude for I am not slow 

K Robertson

i’ve built a house

i’ve built a house upon my shoulders
there i will reside
until there comes a time
when it is safe to go outside

i live alone, but every night
a stranger comes to stay
She never introduced herself,
but i’m too shy to say

it’s dark inside our nest
my lamp, the guardian of the tide
the chimney’s always smoking
but it’s still so cold inside

i a baby bird, and She
the swallower of my screams
the monster who knows all
but is unknowable to me

we built a house together
but She’s thrown away the key.
i hope She lets me out tonight
for i can barely breathe.