Unabridged Journals

[bonnie--belle]

Reader (28.9.2022) I am not a poet - I am the poem’s lover. I am no novelist – I carry libraries in my Red, torn handbag, To and fro across Train rides and planes and Classes and men’s houses. I am not the author – I am the editor; The carefully combing Literary leach, Testing each stanza, Each chapter, Each dialogue For its viability. I am not the remembered – But I will remember Every piece of art And beauty that floated through Space and fell into my Hands off some dusty bookshelf. I am not undefinable – I am myself, and I am found In every text that held my gaze Now lost to the covers, But for the turned corners of Pages that held not my gaze, But my soul.

[bonnie--belle]

Till Death do we Part (24.07.22) Well, now I know how mum felt All those nights I watched her, Sat with her, even, In the bed she was meant to Share with Dad, Sobbing because he told her He was leaving, and he Didn’t come back the whole night through. But, in the morning, He’d be back in the kitchen, Making coffee, and saying sorry, And I would think, Is this a marriage? Is this love? And You show me it is.

[bonnie--belle]

Absconding (26.05.22) Not yet 22, and flying by myself, To meet you in that coastal town, On a Saturday in May. You load my bags into your toolbox, And we set off to our hostel. Sitting down in the Bayleaf, Drinking affogato and chai, And 40cm is too far from your lips. Our room is small, and the balcony is Wet from the rain of 5 months. The bar is dimly lit, and the beer is Not to your liking, so you Order whiskey, but they mistake it for Scotch. I sip water with lime, and We walk in the rain to the next Pub. You hold the umbrella over me For the entire trip. On our way back To get ready for dinner, we stop in A liquor store, and I find your Favourite beer, but you opt for A pre-mix can. Tacos and tequila, And I’m tipsy and kissing you In the back of the elevator. I wake up early and walk to the beach. The waves hit my ankles, and I’m cold walking back to you in bed. After movies inside, we share focaccia and Mozzarella. I say I’ll miss you, When I leave tomorrow, and you say, ‘It’s only a couple days.’ A minute is too long.

[bonnie--belle]

Coffee and Carmex (26.05.22) Well, my Sundays now, Are filled with spectral rays, Fighting to pierce through the Mist on your window, once you Lift the blinds – not for us, but for Your devil’s ivy, who has creeped Behind the screen to sneak Extra sunshine.

My Sundays now, Are filled with slowness, and lingering, And stillness in the sheets, with no Rush to rise, and no need to leave, Except perhaps for coffee, To which we might take the car, And maybe your dog, For a little trip, to the local bakery, Or the franchised café a little further on, If we can find a spot on the main street.

My Sundays now, Are filled with Carmex lip oil Being applied after kisses, And sipping and chatting, During breakfasts, and movies, And drives to the next town over, During afternoons where it is suddenly 5pm, and you ask if I want to stay An extra night. My Sundays now, Run into Mondays, and the Working week, and the rush hours, And the darkening skies on Weeknights, and the worries of Life beginning all over again At 9am, and never easing, Except for the relief to which The weekend might bring, That is now week-long, with you.

Well, my Sundays now, are yours.

[bonnie--belle]

Normal People (24.03.22)

‘I love you, I love you so much. I know I’m drunk right now, But I really do love you.’

The year I spent, As not yet lover, not yet ex, Seems time well spent, Now to hear these words.

Even in memory she will Find this moment unbearably Intense, and she’s aware of It now, while it’s happening.

Excerpt from Sally Rooney’s Normal People

[bonnie--belle]

To the Girls I Knew and Loved in Highschool – 2/2 (01.02.22)

I am surprised to see That the ocean is still going on.

The revisits to art galleries, before the Collections were updated; The sifting through of audio to mp3, before Spotify and Apple playlists were collated.

The alleyways with hidden bookshops, That sold church-sponsored erotica; The electives we studied and the people we Loved, amid our exclusive exotica.

The gluing together, and falling apart, And love letters to them both; Sweet chaos, lulls and tides, And incandescent growth.

Dearest, Although everything has happened, Nothing has happened.

@inthehouseof @for-the-love-the-north

Excerpts from Anne Sexton’s Letter Written on a Ferry While Crossing Long Island Sound

[bonnie--belle]

To the Girls I Knew and Loved in Highschool – 1/2 (01.02.22) There go my dark girls… drinking the sky

The morning air at Tayla’s Was so much crisper than the morning air At home, not that I often felt it, For I didn’t like to sit alone, But it was okay to sip my tea, With Tayla by my side, Early in the day when the others Were yet to rise.

The scattered books at Zara’s, Felt cosy over cluttered, The scrunched-up sheets at the foot of her bed, Were just like mine on rushed school mornings. And it was okay to sit and dote Upon her dog, when I felt lost and foggy, Late in the day when it was darkening And the Bulli air was muggy.

And I have ripped my hand From your hand as I said I would And I have made it this far As I said I would.

@inthehouseof @for-the-love-the-north

Excerpts from Anne Sexton’s Letter Written on a Ferry While Crossing Long Island Sound

[bonnie--belle]

The Last Poem of the Year (30.12.21)

Shades of golden and Luminescent tones Are floating through the Ever incandescent zones Of liminal and transient and Transitional days ahead, In which I shall read my Tarot cards and remake my bed. Slices of lemon to purify And garnish and flavour The chilled glasses of tea And water I savour, With sauvignon blanc and Lime cordiale and caramel coffee, And vodka, and your lips, And Christmas pudding toffee. Sunlight and yellow petals and Divisive temporal schemes, To which I can mark the Sweet surrender to all my longed-for dreams.

[bonnie--belle]

Submersion (28.12.21)

You said you could still feel My hands running over you The same way One can still feel The waves lulling them After a day in the ocean. Well, I can still see The ripples in your iris Pooling out into tiny swirls Of mist, which I fall into. I am, in fact, swept, into the Current of your breathing, As your chest moves up and Down, below my cheek. For so long, I felt as though You were at such a low tide, That I’d never reach your Infinitely unchartered depths, But I feel finally that I am Immersed and irrevocably Sinking.

[bonnie--belle]

Fairyland (27.08.21) On a Winter’s evening that Felt like Summer, with the floating Pollen of approaching spring, And the garden’s dampness its own Weeping: two bodies lay beneath Big bright stars, with their souls Hundreds of miles away, Conscious of neither time nor space. Such a delicate and transmissive Equilibrium that inanimate objects seemed Endowed with two or three senses. Although the trees have inquisitive Eyes, I am not afraid of Outdoor Things Just now, especially with everything so Green… but there is dejection and Indoor fears of life in general. The flickering flames of the dying fire Are the same as our passing corporeal blight. Ever balanced on the edge of a passion; Surrounded here by flowers, leaves, and Other ephemeral creatures, like me - On the debatable land between Predilection and love.

[bonnie--belle]

The Vale of Blackmoor (16.08.21) ‘Tis fitting that the Sun, With reluctancy and delay, Should return to its dear prodigal After such a Winter’s day. In this sheltered tract of country, In a valley of delicate scale, Where the fields are mere paddocks, And the pigment ne’er pale; Should the rays emerge so softly, So languorous and sweet – So that on a day of devotion, The Sun and Earth might meet. By the sea, under the Sky, Perhaps by Universe design - The two powers of light and life Should inextricably align. And to a mere observer Or wandering passer-by, One may have missed The fleeting glimpse Of photosynthesis to the eye - But it was not amiss To my own lips, When they pressed upon thine… It was not amiss to I.

[bonnie--belle]

Road Verge, Mid Afternoon (26.07.2021)

Today, Hardy’s Tess and Angel Settled into a golden azure daydream – In their private haven by the rolling hills Of green and gold, to which the man-made Mist and fog hid them from the sunlight Settling. Was it Monet that sat outside Those car windows? Or was it the Cote d’Azur of Southern France?

It was more than mere countryside With scattered ferns and tufts of life. It was a smiling Sun that gazed upon the Scene of amber rays below. And inside, it was more than white lace And soft breaths, and sweet haze. A halo blessed their hue, with a horizon Of languorous intensity.

Every day, every hour, brought to him One more little stroke of her nature, and to her one more of his.

[bonnie--belle]

Untitled, We Are (12.07.21)

The body, at least, would name this Love Sitting in my car with you, Pink hues floating through the windscreen As you and I talk about anything And Everything But us. Splashing in your spa, one night, Past 10pm, under a lack of stars, And you babbling on about A fear of the dark, when what you Really fear, is My love. A 2am beach walk is not the Typical romance of a couple, But, we are not that – a ‘couple’ - So, it will do Just fine. Crying in your arms To a children’s animation, But being oblivious to Rose and Jack is Suiting. As is you saying The Sex is so good You almost said I love you When you don’t, and I do.

[bonnie--belle]

Victoria’s Secret (26.03.21)

Diazepam and daylight daydreams Of You, and Our Love, and The checkered blue sheets on Your Single bed that You Swapped for grey when You got Your Queen, that we shared.

Valium and virtue and Victoria Who may in fact, have Violet sheets, for all I know, But I wonder if You Think of me, when You tangle Yourself in them.

Percocet and perkiness and purpose Is all a myth entwined in my Identity, which I try to regain After making Your bed, and leaving, Because You made Your bed To lie in.

Trazodone and torture and Tori, Elude me and preclude me, From all the views of Happiness, that I tugged onto With claw marks, On Your pillow.

Sarisol and sonnets and so-longs And Victoria’s Secrets All through the songs You played in the car, That I sung along to, saying Someday soon, it will be The Same.

Fluoxetine and floating and fuck You, Goodbye to all of That on a Friday, In a freezing four wall fortress - Fighting for Your heart again, In the first place You ever Fell in Love.

Naltrexone and neverminds and no, You can’t have it both ways And so, We will then part ways, And know, that it was not so Simple as We’d hoped, Although It never is.

[bonnie--belle]

Scarborough (5.10.2020) It is the way with you; It is the way that we would Sit here, in this rapturous view And bask in the midday sun At the brink of spring And lull with the waves Unintentionally. It is the way that we should Spontaneously arrive At a roadside pub and Drink tequila at noon When the rest of the world Has begun the 38th week of the year. It is the way that we shall Add this to our haze of golden As we stroll back to your car And drive for hours too long Into nowhere, talking of Love that is lost because it was not Like ours. It is the way, with you, And how I love that it is.

[bonnie--belle]

Bass Point

Rock fishing, rock fishing, Bottega, I’m dead. Leave love and love lust, Strawberry red. You win some, you lose some, You spiral and fall. Bollinger, Julio, Bellissimo walls.

[bonnie--belle]

Perte (Mon 15 June 2020)

Tea leaves that read ‘forget about it’. Golden tea and yellow wine and Vintage lamps and Brain damage. A woman I could have been in Rose silk and stilettos With only half a glass Smiling. The shade and light and Veuve chiquot And lavender in Risotto - From a year or two ago.

I’m the water lost in The sand when the wave Hits the shore And the rest returns to sea. My life is loving The afternoon But being in constant Twilight And having the light Slip, Slip away.

I’m most alone on A night squashed by A crowd or in the Morning when I wake First, and Remember.