I'm still here

I'm not sure if anyone still visits this blog, but hello. I can't believe it's been so long since I came on here - I honestly don't know what happened. I think I got caught up in the craziness of life and just kind of, forgot. I know that sounds terrible. I also haven't written one piece of poetic writing since my last poem I posted here. Uni is always so busy and stressful, and in a cruel way it sucks the creativity out of me. And I don't know what to write about. It's sad really. Unfortunately I wasn't able to take any writing subjects this semester, so it's just been journalism-based and it's, well, dry! I also apologise if I worried anyone. I didn't mean for it at all.
Well, now that I've remembered how I used to write, how beautiful and kind you readers are, I am going to try to start it up again.
I know it's not much, but here are two snippets of something I wrote down in my notebook one day.

I wait for the sound of your footsteps, but they become quieter and quieter, until I can hardly hear you at all aside from your socks softly brushing against the dark brown wood sometimes...


...Soft light trickles through our translucent curtain and your pale cheeks light up and become golden, but I lay in the dark, the sun just missing me. You look at me briefly and simply turn around, back into the dark, like me.


I hope everyone is truly well. x

Bangkok

You kicked the diaphanous blanket off the bed
as the moth-eaten sheet under you began to dampen
around your perspiring long limbs like a
cube of ice thawing on sizzling cement.
The out-of-date air con spat puffs of patchy
cold air, interrupted by tepid, dusty exhalations
that followed with frustrated groans.
Our burning bodies met as we stood
under the cool drizzle of the shower,
my red cheek resting on your chest for solace.
We wrapped ourselves in thin threads
so the rare breeze could graze our skin
and we left the dingy room with our glowing
hands interlocked, cautious but charged
with a free, independent electricity that
fused our endearment and powered
the hostel’s broken light bulbs.
It took our noses time to tune to the smell
of rancid air and exhaust
and we walked through the jungle
of sweaty people and neon nothings,
our white pretense plummeting
like the street-cooked chicken neck
did to the grimy ground.
Tuk-tuk’s grunted at heavy traffic
weaving in, out through yellow taxis.
Wrinkly faces under straw hats smiled
as they pushed bags of fruit in our faces.
Watermelon drinks soothed our scorching
bodies for mere moments and we laughed
deliriously at our exhaustion.
When darkness finally came and refused
to give us relief to the heat,
we navigated our way back through
the labyrinth to our tiny tumbledown room
and fell asleep to the whirring fan and 

dreamt of the iceman.

---

Hello everyone!
I can't believe it has been so long since I last posted. Since studying poetics at uni this semester, I've learned countless valuable tools, and I've noticed that my writing style has changed quite a lot.
Here is a poem I recently wrote that will be going in my final poetry portfolio next week.

I hope you are all well and I can't wait to read all the writing I've missed out on.
x

            The icy window waits for warmth

while sleepers breathe softly—

            the sun wakes

Just a short poem today. Maybe this is a form you will recognise :)

Uni has been crazy lately. I've just been trying to stay on top of everything while still remaining sane. I hope you are all well!




photo by feaverish

maybe i'll melt

  

Azure eyes and thick lips. My gaze upon you, frozen.

I learned the sweet, earthy smell of your skin; two years flew, still look to you, frozen.

The early morning seeps into my chest and icicles cling tight to my lungs.

To say I don’t like the feeling would be untrue; am I frozen?

I stopped wearing the sun in my eyes for you, did you know?

You knew it, and I know you knew it too. Now we’re frozen.

I sip and feel the hot, honey-sweetened tea burn my chest.

They melt these icicles. A brief rescue. Anti-frozen.

I still find it incredible to think about the miracle that is life.

Don’t forget that although it may seem like it’s true, you are not frozen.

___________________

Dear all my beautiful blog friends,

I'm still here, despite my reoccurring absences - I'm sorry! I have not had the best of months and consequently my writing has suffered. I am here, and won't leave for good. University is back on track and difficult. My poetics course is really interesting and has opened me up to many other forms other than prose poetry. This week we studied the Ghazal, a difficult pre-Islamic Persian form invoking melancholy, love and longing. The poem above is my take on the Ghazal. Let me know what you think of it. 

I have missed you all and hope you are all well & happy!

Thank you for your amazingly kind responses about my photo, I am so flattered! Here is another photo, I hope you like it.

Frightened

It frightens me to think that you when you breathe, your hot breath exhales into the air of somewhere I am not. We once shared breaths as I grew inside your womb; my flesh is your flesh. The warm blood that runs through your veins run through my own. Your caring, kind nature dances with my spirit. My memories of your motherly nurturing and love escape me not, will escape me never. And this is why even though you are not physically here in this country anymore, you never actually left. You'll always be with me.
This thought makes my cracked lips turn into a smile, and I want you to hug me like the time I stuck my finger in the airport luggage conveyer belt even though you told me not to. I was being silly and naughty, but you didn't punish me; you hugged me. It hurts that I cannot hug you now, but I know everything will be okay. I miss you.




This photo is by me. I never use my own photos, but I want to show you now and tell you that my other passion besides writing is photography. I will show you more soon.

short story: quiver part four (final part)

Speckles of raindrops fall from a moody grey sky onto a barren field. Dawn shivers and creates a frozen, dewy surface on the earth.

Henry wakes to Alena’s snoring. Her bare breast is exposed, and her head is tilted back, her mouth wide open. Henry’s nude body shivers at the thought of last night. He gets out of his bed and walks quietly to the living room, mindful not to wake Alena.

He stares at the dark man before him through the reflection of the sliding glass doors leading to the small balcony. Icy air rushes down his throat as he opens the doors. Henry leans his body over the railing. He can hear the laughter of children at the bottom, beckoning him to yield to his dreams of falling.

What separates life and death from one another when one feels dead while alive? Life is death, he thinks. Perhaps this means death is life, that it is filled with sun, with hope. Or perhaps death is just death, and life is death, and we merely pretend to live in 'life' and death is the time we can just let go and be. But why do flowers grow in spring, why are babies created if life is not really life? His hair and eyelashes have become dusted with sheer drops of rain. He closes his eyes. A sigh escapes his throat and Henry retreats from the railing.

He walks back to the bedroom, to his life.

He will live, whatever and wherever that is, and pretend he is happy, pretend that he does not dream of death, and mimic all that they do.

short story: quiver part three

Henry brings the crystal wine glass to his mouth and closes his eyes. He swallows the wine like water, hoping the bloody syrup will transport him back to the womb for rebirth, but when he opens his eyes all he sees is Alena’s face. He licks his index finger and slowly circles the lip of the glass. A shrill sound fills the room, over the restaurant’s classical music. The sound is so beautiful to Henry. It drowns out all the meaningless, dull voices. All the thoughts of how he will get up in the morning, have a shower, put on his suit, catch the train to work, sit in his office manipulating people, go on dates and have sex with mindless women, sleep but never really rest, and do it all over again every single say. He circles and circles the wine glass, transfixed by its singing.

‘Henry!’ Alena says staring at the menu. ‘Could you stop that irritating noise? We have to order.’

They place their orders and Alena starts again on money, about work, but Henry drifts off and thinks of when he was a child; he smiles remembering how easily his four-year-old-self made friends. Glances under eyelashes turned into smiles and innocent introductions. With a high voice he softly told his new friend how old he was, always remembering to count quarters and halves of course. His new friend would take him by the hand, girl or boy, and pull him into their imagination, living freely within a world of colours and smells and shapes and sizes. Never did they think of how one day they would grow up and their hearts would die.

Henry thinks about how he used to talk to his toys in the bathtub about things that would never have made sense to an observer but made the most sense to him. Grunts and squeals were music to him as he played in the water that always turned a bit yellow by the time it got cold, and he never worried about the moisture in his skin or whether or not he should shave his genital area.

His mother’s soft chest was the safest place to be. He remembers her heartbeat, and the way her voice sounded when he pressed his ear against her. He wishes he could still feel that warmth.

A child’s scream snaps Henry back to the present. Alena turns around to the wild child, flinging his arms in a tantrum.

‘That mother needs to control her son’, Alena snaps, shrivelling her face into a hideous expression.

Blood runs to the cheeks of the crying boy’s mother as the restaurant’s guests snicker. Henry smiles kindly as she tries to calm her unruly son.

Henry looks into Alena’s eyes. Black ice plagues his body. He dreams of the feeling of the sun gleaming through the bedroom window, warming his skin as it rises, pulling him to consciousness. His tired muscles give way, and Henry falls to the floor. He looks to the sparkling, white restaurant ceiling, closes his eyes, and opens his mouth wide. A cry escapes his lips. Henry’s arms flail and his body writhes on the ground. He cries for his loneliness and the hatred he feels for this city, this avaricious, monotonous life. Narrowed eyes stare at the adult man screaming on the floor. Henry pulls himself up, and yells into Alena’s mortified face.

‘I WILL NEVER LOVE YOU! Don’t you understand? I will never touch your skin with tenderness, or sleep happily next to you. It is people like you that make me quiver! You are everything I despise!’ Henry turns and runs through the still restaurant and out into the cold.

‘—Henry, more wine?’

Henry’s eyes blink away from his trance. Red wine trickles into his empty glass. 

short story: quiver part two

Henry walks into his apartment and to his dusky room, and crumbles into bed. He pulls the sheets over his head.

Outside the fifth floor one-bedroom apartment, out in the distance past all the other grey apartment buildings, trees stand still, soulless in a small field. They are anaemic.

Henry lies under the covers with his eyes open, pushing the sheets up with long arms to create a small tent. The last hints of light create a white glow in the space, and Henry is brought back to when he was a little boy playing in his cubby. He would hum to himself, fixing the white sheets to pieces of furniture with pegs, and become irritated when a peg flew off and made a sheet drape, letting in too much light. He read picture books and pretended he was in a cave, adventuring through an imaginary world. His mother let him sleep there in his warm cave, and he dreamt of riding on an eagle’s back and waves of colour.

Henry now thinks of his first love. He remembers her brown curls, the tenderness of her pale skin. He still remembers how her skin smelled. His soft seventeen-year-old lips would kiss the nook where her neck met her shoulder and it always smelled the same: sweet and earthy. He used to stay there and breathe her in as she stroked his back. They would giggle and explore under the covers, their breaths fusing. They whispered about never growing up and loving each other forever. They would have if her mother and friends hadn’t told her to grow up. When she finally gave into their demand she lost her youth and left Henry and love behind, and after a few months with an aching chest he decided he was to grow up too.

Now here he is, alone, under his sheets. He kicks off the covers and picks out a black suit for tonight. He runs his lean hands through his brown, dishevelled hair, licks his cracked lips, and heads for the front door.

‘Henry!’ the young woman exclaims across the large, chatter-filled restaurant. Henry watches his date quickly pass her large coat to the gentleman at the door. She is quite attractive. Her legs are long and slender, her loose, light brown curls shine in the restaurant’s wall lighting just like his first love’s hair did at dawn, but her eyes are too wide open, too eager. Henry stands up from his chair, and thinks how her blue cocktail dress and well-done makeup have just gone to waste.

‘Alena, you look lovely,’ Henry says as he pushes in her chair. He tries not to frown once she turns toward the table.

They make pleasantries. How happy Alena is to have this dinner, how successful Henry is at C&G Bank, how the annual report is looking great, how Alena is soon to be promoted, how he’s looking to get a new leather couch in his office.

Henry notices her thin lips now, how her eyes are too far apart. The waiter pours the expensive red wine and her eyes widen even more than before. They toast to success, but Henry secretly toasts to warmth as he waits for Alena to take the first sip of wine before he does so. Alena stares at Henry with affection, and he tries to mimic her expression. She believes it. She briefly strokes Henry’s hand and begins saying how handsome Henry is. Henry doesn’t blush, it’s not a compliment. Good looks don’t make him feel full of worth or bliss; it merely reminds him that his face is now adult, that his childhood is eternally gone. And gone with it tenderness and simplicity. 

short story: quiver part one

Dreams of falling endlessly prey on Henry’s mind. The sound of children’s laughter echoes around him as he plummets. They call for his existence, his warm blood. Henry wakes every night covered in his own sweat, his pillow wet with tears. He wonders if he should succumb to his subconscious and perish, for there is darkness in both worlds, un-living in both worlds.

The flickering light of the train illuminates the death in all their faces. Are these people really living? As the crowded train slithers through the dark underground, the constant thud of the train meeting the tracks feels like a heartbeat, quickening when it fastens, dying as it stops at each station to let out its passengers. Henry stands among the swarm, crushed by the human statues. He is a young man but the dark circles that pull at his eyes make him seem older.

The heart is beating fast now, to central, and all the people stare ahead with jaded eyes. Smudged red lipstick, 5 o’clock shadows, stale perfume, and reddened eyes fill the carriage. Henry’s eyes glisten as he stares at the strangers he wish would thaw and become warm and tell him this life is worth living.

People do not look into each others eyes; the tiny specks of colour in their irises never align, and when they do it is by accident and they quickly look away and try with all their strength left over from the day to resist the urge to look back.

Strangers bump knees in the bustle and cringe. A hundred sweaty palms cling to a grimy pole and form a beautiful vertical line of pale skin, dark skin, wrinkles, large fingers, small fingers. The hands are so close to holding, but their owners are careful not to overlap flesh. Henry sees the icy blood stream through their veins, the bitterness in their stiff faces. Warm blood still runs through his body, but his veins too are becoming arctic. Not long now.

Henry looks down the carriage and watches the shaky world through the scratched windows disconnecting the carriages as though looking into a mirror. That world is identical to this one. The same faces, the same jobs, the same lives. Henry even thinks he sees himself.

The heartbeat slows now, the screeching begins. The doors open and Henry watches the bodies flee, leaving him alone with the buzzing fluorescent lights.

Dreams of falling endlessly prey on his mind. They call for his existence, his warm blood. He wakes covered in his own sweat, his pillow wet with tears, and wonders if he should succumb to his subconscious and perish. For there is darkness in both worlds; un-living in both worlds. What separates life and death from one another when one feels dead while alive? Life is death, he thinks. Perhaps this means death is life, is sun-filled, is hope. Or death is death, life is death, and we merely pretend to live in 'life' and death is the time we can just let go and be. But why do flowers grow in spring, why are babies created if life is not really life? He scratches the whiskers on his chin and sighs. He will live, whatever and wherever that is, and pretend he is happy, pretend that he does not dream of death, and mimic what they do.

photo by paul phung

Warmth filled her little heart not as her frail bones grew to the sky. Her mother pinned her to gloom and away from her stony soul. She never saw the way her daughter's eyes changed from a warm brown to black orbs, now incapable to feel tenderness. The little girl walks through ghosts, hoping to feel.

photo by sergio albiac

Azure eyes and thick lips.

The moonless sky

Made you flicker in my eyes.

Quiet soul, let me near.

Absorb me, watch us grow.

You hauled me into light,

I pulled you too.

Salty skin and sweet sleep.

Hard to leave without your heart

Consumes me wholly.

Tired but in love.

photo source

Could you come a little bit closer? It's hard to see the galaxy in your eyes when you're so far away. Hold me, let me see the planets and stars and space dust swirling in your irises. Blink if you will, for when your long eyelashes open I see the galaxy once again, locked up behind those soft lids of yours. It's my secret. 

The faint freckles on your face are constellations I match up when you sleep. I found a bird once, and I kissed it. I can't help but find it special that you are my heaven.

photo by patrick hoff

summer

The bitumen boils in the summer. The insomniac streets are home to all bodies; they sleep not during this season. 

We were dressed in sheer clothing, our skin touching as we walked. Our lips were red, cracked from the dry heat, our hair golden from the sun. Our smiles were so bright and warm with the daylight. We always looked the most forward to the afternoon rain in the summer; it was as though the day's steam danced up into the clouds and magically turned into thick drops or rain. They began to fall from the sky, and the rest of them packed up and left, but we stayed, finally alone. That airless, musty smell filled our noses as the rain simmered on the hot street. Our browned skin became visible through our wet clothing, and you pulled me to your body and kissed me. We peeled off our clothing and ran into the empty sea, the grey sky grumbling above us.

 _______________________________________________

I deeply apologise for my absence. My only excuse is that uni has made me think academically, not so much imaginatively or creatively. Today, I'm doing both. I will start doing both more often. Thank you for your lovely comments, I'm in the process of catching up on your delightful blogs now. Much love, x




photo by coolhandluke

..

Our paper hearts bled a ruby syrup; our real warm blood had dried up years ago. We drank it, hoping we would swallow life with it but alas, we remain arctic.

The trees seemed to become anemic before our eyes, just like our spirits. Winter is eternal here, no warmth has pervaded us since that night in December when you whispered in my ear your deepest secret. It suddenly began to snow and my trembling lips froze, unable to speak to you no longer. From that moment onward, we feigned happiness and love through fruitless affection and forced smiles. How can it be that words change everything but we remain stitched together in an unbreakable bind? And what is to be done now, when all we can do it lie, staring into void with no desire for new creation? 

Our paper hearts tear and tear, our atriums frosted within. 

photo by aela labbe 

untitled

Quiet footsteps float to Isabel’s sun-kissed room. The only movement are the dust motes dancing and stirring in the soft beacon of sunlight streaming through the only window. Her daughter’s eyelashes still cling together, her face peaceful. A warm finger strokes a silky cheek as thoughts and fear race. Isabel’s mother observes her beautiful sleeping child, wishing her own face would reveal such innocence, such naivety. ‘Come, my love’, she whispers, and with a swollen arm she slowly reaches underneath Isabel’s body and pulls her up to her chest.

The strong morning sun shines heavily through the bus window. The wind rushes past, bringing a tear. Isabel looks to her mother and her cheeks are wet, but she’s smiling. She’s wailing and she’s smiling.  

A short extract of a story I wrote. 

Sorry for my absence, dears. Everything is happening so quickly lately. Much love to you all. x

photo by neon tamberine 

your dark daze

He hauls me to a dark daze, where flickers of light become eternally lost beneath the blackness, where wind makes mountains shiver, where life bears no child. 

When the moonless, meandering path appears through the thick blanket of mist I will run from you.

________________________________________

I've had such a busy week so far. Uni is so busy and vibrant, it's exhilarating! I'm looking forward to Monday when the lectures begin, but until then I'm just going to (try to) relax, sleep well and have some fun with some lovely girls I met. I don't want to jinx it, but I feel like it's all going uphill, I just hope it lasts. Apologies for the short piece, I can't seem to sit in one place long enough to write something of decent length. I do hope you are all having a lovely week. x

photo by vinny gillian 

i love you, my dear.

With all my heart and deep within my heart, I feel utter love for you, my dear. Forever I will adore you, for you are my first love. Once-awkward mumbles have become a peacefulness so comfortable I feel eternally warm inside as we stare through each other's souls. Your warm embrace, that once felt so unfamiliar and pristine, feels like home now, like safety, like magic. I once yearned your soft lips as you did mine, and as I kiss you now I feel the same as I did the first time our tender lips met; like wings of moths fluttering in our bellies as though our love is a light they swarm to. I'm so happy the we found us, my dear. For if we hadn't, I'd still be searching for you.

A small collection of the many poems I wrote for my love at the beginning;

i love sleeping next to you, 

your breaths so deep and heavy.

it is a lullaby

and although i can't sleep

because you're next to me,

your breathing and faint wheezes

pulls me to a dream-like place.

i know you're fast asleep and dreaming,

though you ever-so-slowly in your lovely state 

shuffle towards my curved body,

making sure to stop before we touch.

because we're just friends.

my belly is sleepless but

my

heart

feels 

so

alive,

like it's burning.

but we're just friends, 

and we can't be anything more.

i squint my eyes because the pain

of not having you hurts me so much.

i'm so close to your strong body

i can feel your warmth,

and smell your wondrous fragrance;

cologne fused with your virile skin.

i miss you so much when i don't see you it's pathetic.

i'm so sorry,

i can't help it.

i've tried so hard

but my heart has just

grown

so big 

for you.

sometimes i can't talk to you

because i don't know what to say

and all i can do is stare.

i feel so stupid,

but i love you

and i don't know if you love me back.

'so soft,' you say

as i feel your forehead and cheek with the back of my hand.

'i don't think you have a temperature,'

i reply,

breathless.

how can you take

all of my breaths away?

it's not fair,

and you must stop.

i know how to stop it,

but i can't get myself to,

to not see you

to not hear you.

i can't.

i can see you looking at me 

from under the floral pillow,

and i see you

but i won't tell you i see you

and that i love you

because we're just friends.

i can feel your loneliness

but who am i to say you love me?

the room was dark aside from the bright computer screen

and i can feel the way you are looking at me.

oh, but i can't see you

through the darkness,

because we're just

friends.

p.s. he did love me

You are my lullaby.

When I lie in your warm, soft arms 

I feel there is a wall surrounding us so thick 

no one could ever hurt us.

Your breaths soothe me,

The smell of your skin dazzles me,

Your strong muscles beneath your skin, holding my frame to yours,

Your top lip so full and plump, waiting for my own to kiss it.

So hold me,

I love you,

Hold me.

If I didn’t have to eat,

Or drink,

Or shower,

Or work,

Or needed not to see my others,

I would stay here forever,

For you are my lullaby.

I love you.

photos by

maria dangelo 

spinning pieces 

tamara lichtenstein 

bunny jenny 

home with the sea

'The sun had not yet risen. The sea was indistinguishable from the sky, except that the sea was slightly creased as if a cloth had wrinkles in it...' Virginia Woolf whispers to me, soft and sage. And as she breathes these elegant hand written lines to me, my pallid eyes fill with warm tears. My  lashes hold on to them, unwilling to let them fall away, but I blink and tears run down gaunt cheeks and drop on to her words. Ink spatters on her pages as I ache for the sea; my home. I see the waves reaching up onto the shore, clinging as long as they can, and finally letting go. I smell and feel the salt, the sprinkles of ocean on my sun-burnt face. I feel my mother's soft hair, fluttering in the wind and brushing against my briny skin. I close my eyes and hear the gentle hush of waves, and the ceaseless, calming sounds of the sea echoes and pervade my sense. The waves whisper to me, 'Linger, you are at home,' and as I turn to go they crash against me and try to pull me back. I feel not at home, not at home with the sea and the ones I love. Woolf whispers to me, and I become lost in words and imagine I am with the sea. 

photo by jon estwards 

artist profile

Egon Schiele 

I just wanted to share with you one of my favourite artists, Egon Schiele. You may have heard of him or seen his work, and I think he is something truly amazing. Protege of Gustav Klimt (another of my favourites), his work is intense, erotic and accordingly controversial. His paintings and drawings feel unfinished to me and I think it's a reason why I love him so much. Why does art need to be complete; so we can feel complete? Because really, when do we ever feel truly complete? But I deviate... Many deem Schiele's work as inappropriate, pornographic and even grotesque, and to all that believe this I say, 'You're fools.' Nudity, sex, and death are a part of life, why conceal it? How can art reflect the painter, life, the world, if what is represented is merely the false, G-rated exterior? It can't. Furthermore, Schiele's use of colour and bold contours to represent his figures make his style so brilliantly unique, you seem to find it hard to forget about his work.

I hope I haven't offended anyone and I really hope you enjoy his art work. It's so important to never forget about art and artists, especially now in a world that makes me feels like art is dead.