There are lines in my skin,
A wavering taunt;
But I’ve grown old a thousand times
And I will die a thousand times more
I’ve been married twice,
Had children, not all with names,
Some I don’t even recall.
But I shall marry again, perhaps even twice,
And children; a thousand more.
Sometimes I die,
In a room, in a bed
Or on the floor.
But no need to scream
‘Is she dead’?
For I will die a thousand
This poem is about looking into the future; how we go over events in our heads that haven’t yet happened or may never happen. If we live moments enough in our mind, can they eventual seem real or at least strikingly familiar? I’ve particularly thought of this with regards to getting older and life’s impending death. (You can always trust me for an optimistic spark to your daily reading!)
Also, by thinking and imagining the less fortunate futures, do we tamper with our present?
I blossomed in
Held swiftly by
Safe unto your bole.
Until the cold came
Like a curtain call
Veins turned dry.
You let me go in the fall.
This poem attempts to interpret a literal meaning of the term ‘family tree’, contrasting the strength of a family (or ‘blood’) bond by the fragility of nature and, in my case, the fragility of humankind.
Not so long ago a friend and I were out one evening and decided to dance, using this term especially loosely of course, and did so in the darkness of a Winter night beside a river. That same week a body was discovered in this river and this string of events hasn’t left my mind.
Our fingers traipsed
The glistening molecules
That made up a river
Turned by the moonlight
Into a stroke of jewels.
We danced in the darkness,
Felt beneath the sprinkled light
With breaths of cold
And bustle out of sight.
But under the veil of darkness,
Beneath the façade of springs
Laid a girl of no dance.
She lay as still
And as cold as the night
Under the cloak
Which stole her breath
Our ceiling was a
Crowded moonlight sky
But the only backdrop was death
If you were lucky on Valentine’s day you may have received a bunch of flowers, some chocolate and perhaps even a sonnet or two. But if you were especially lucky, your lover may have cooked you up a few of these hearty delicacies…
Because nothing says I love you quite like Lidl’s finest novelty encased dead birds!
A friend of mine made the ingenious remark that if Lidl had made them with actual chicken hearts it would have made this gesture even more romantic, although given the questionable quality of the shop and its produce, purchasing actual meat product would be perhaps more of a stroke of luck than anything else.
I actually like this product but not in the way that would have led me fill my freezer with them, rather, I’m fond of their delicious irony. Ultimately, they exhibit a juxtaposition between death and love, i.e. although the nuggets were made with the death of chickens and thereby a very unloving process, their carcasses have been used to represent love nonetheless.
In other words, they are heartlessly formed hearts. (That may or may not contain actual heart!)
And thus my English-wishy-washy mind continues to over-analyse, and seek amusement from, even the most secluded of freezer corners.
As my body continues to be bound by the ailments of the ill, my mind is left to drift amongst the more despairing of possible thoughts.
For example, have you ever thought that you were going to die?
In fact, I was so sure that I wasn’t going to survive my Iceland trek last summer I even wrote a woeful will and hid it somewhere in my bedroom before my departure. Presumably, for my heartbroken family to stumble upon after the news of my decease and somehow be less sad, or at least more content at the realisation that their Anna was a complete idiot anyway for leaving them such a thing!
The worst part is that I can’t actually remember where I put it.
So I figure that either I will find it in around ten years and the whole scenario will feel like one of those films where the protagonist realises -due to attending their own funeral etc- that they are no longer alive and have become a ghost. This of course will be followed by me alarmingly asking the next person in sight if they can see me and if I’m alive– which will inevitably lead to them concluding that I have completely lost it.
Or someone else will find it, see that I am perfectly alive, and will think that I have completely lost it.
Perhaps, therefore, I should start writing the will of my sanity.
And there’s me looking more alive than expected in Iceland!