Poet’s Corner #5
As you probably know if you’re a regular reader of this blog, every so often I put together a post to let you lot see a few of the poems that land in my inbox from aspiring poets and ONS readers. Here’s the lastest installment… enjoy!
Marissa Dawson is from a small town in California and is 21 years young trapped in a 30-something mind. Without the pen bleeding her stories onto paper she’d be lost like a chicken with it’s head cut off. She eats and breathes poetry as it courses through her veins and she hangs onto hope that someday she’ll be published.
Fly Away Heart
I hung my heart out to dry
With over sized clothes pins
But the wind was fierce
And blew it away.
Kimberly Wong-Shing is seventeen years old, from Philadelphia, PA. For the moment she spends her days in a little old building called school, where she dreams of oceans, cheetahs and boys. She writes for the people she loves.
Exercise in Line Breaks
it smells like exotic apples I can
feel myself start to breathe it
in and then out is
the natural pattern try it
another way. Another way to
is like a sputtering heart. You
are like a fluttering
shark. You never spoke
to me in the language
that I spoke to you
I will never kid again.
Kat Maher is a fourth year student at the University of Edinburgh, soon to graduate (and very scared about it!). She’s been writing poetry since she was old enough to rhyme cat with mat and loves nothing more than to neglect her work and write poetry about anything around her!
Seasonal Affective Disorder
The cold brings out my cold,
My frozen inner landscape
Just as warmth reassures my warmth,
But it is not safe for you to come out
You are small and fledgling
Not used to be being used
Unaware that it’s ok to be there
And I do care
But I’m cold
And it’s easier to be cold
To turn blue and resent the blue hue
Of cold pain
But it’s just more accessible you see
And harder to be happy
I’m sorry that you’re lonely, but I only use you when it’s warm
And I live in Scotland you see.
Jim Roberts’ bio goes thus: “I’m not sure that I truely belong with the level of writers that you find focus on. No fancy education, and my words are found within the spirit of who you are,and left to linger on the mind. My books are collections of my writings, found on www.Heartofdragon.etsy.com. My bio is no more or less of my spirit. But that is who I am.”
Like the stars of an evening that
fill the sky, lending to each other
to the path of the moon.
Each blending with the other,
all giving their color to the world
as the sun has left the warmth
to rise in the hearts of everyone.
We have only to listen
to the words with our minds,
to share this warmth,
than to live without for another day.
Avi Sarkar was recently diagnosed with Bi-Polar and Dissociative Disorder. According to his psychiatrists, he had been suffering from childhood although it remained undetected until things came to a head in October last year. While being treated at a psychiatric clinic, he was encouraged to start writing again as he had stopped doing so after finishing school in India (he completed his undergraduate education and arrived in England in 1994). He now lives in Essex and is still undergoing treatment for his disorder.
The Stranger in My Head
There is someone inside my head,
I don’t recognise him, my vision blurred.
He takes control of my head and wreaks havoc;
I do things that I can’t explain.
Some actions are good, make me successful, brilliant;
They bring me accolades and praise.
But he also makes me evil, out-of-control;
When he releases my brain, I suffer.
I dread to discover what he has made me do;
It causes me pain, anguish, embarrassment.
I am left to pick up the pieces, repair the damage;
Anger, despair, fear and self-loathing,
He has really excelled himself this time.
My memory is shot to pieces, my intellect defunct;
I wish to slay this being, for he is the Devil.
It will help to know who he is, recognise him;
I try hard to identify him, I strain my eyes.
A cold sweat breaks over me, my head wants to explode;
My chest is in a vice, my limbs give way.
The mist clears…
I am staring at myself.
Saad Merchant’s pen name is Thin Kin Rhymes, and he hails from Mumbai, India He loves talking, writing and observing, contemplating those observations and then ellaborating on them. He also loves music and reading.
Tongue Twisting my Thoughts
Thinking thoughts that threat this thoughtful thinker,
Boredom brought by boring brigands that bicker,
fidgeting frets,fumble and flitter,
straight stayin soldier,still speakin to sinners.
Morowless monotony makin me mad,
Grabbin at goals,Greats tried to grab,
leaping leaps and ludicurously long laps,
though lookin like a lucratively lazy losin lad.
Dreading deceptive drawn down delusions,
which appear as awkward awful musings.
Then fate fickle free frames me felony,
my mind minglin with maddening melodies.
Even joyous gents jump to jelousy,
egging enviousness,evolving enemies.
Securing sometimes successful successes,
life facing pain staking pitiful pyring processes.
Reproaching n ridding ridiculing regrets,
my mind still stayin sickeningly strictly stressed.
Tumults that threat,tryingly testing,
unlike jokers that jest jokefully jokingly jesting.
Negligent knaves nonstop neglecting,
frivolous fools for fame,fidgeting n freting.
Days drone down deathly deaths direction,
Remaining reassured of righteous ressurection…
Death after life,life after death,avoid repugnant ways,
and hope we all pass on to heaven on judgment day.
Nate Tyree’s poetry and fiction has appeared (or is forthcoming) in various magazines including Gustaf magazine, decomP, Heroin Love Songs, Kitty Snacks and The Beat. He reviews books and interviews writers for Bookmunch and Magazine of the Dead. He blogs at nathantyree.wordpress.com.
The problem for poets is
that there aren’t any good metaphors
for the really terrible, the truly brutal
facts of existence
you can’t say that
losing a loved one is like (blank), because
losing a loved one is only like losing a loved one.
We can get clever and play with words
and form and say that
life is like being on death row when
they won’t tell you the date of your execution,
but we know that we are
just playing word games
That isn’t what life is like
that is what life is.
Questions? Suggestions? Drop me a line to firstname.lastname@example.org!