Poetry Spilling Forth

Sometimes the words seem to consume me and the only thing I can do is hold on // Let's drown hand in hand - I'll never let go

[writtenconsiderations]

Writers Crush: @poetryspillingforth

This has been long overdue, but I finally was able to sit down with Ice of @poetryspillingforth for our FIRST WRITERS CRUSH INTERVIEW. She was able to answer the riddle for the contest I was holding back when @writtenconsiderations was still “AtlasConsiderations.”

(For newcomers and people who played but never guessed the answer, the riddle was a series of poetry prompts. Three prompt “types” at varying levels of difficulty. X, Y, and Z were the options people could choose. The answer was Conflict. X was Man vs Man, Y was Man vs Self, and Z was Man vs Nature.)

Interview with Poetryspillingforth:

Atlas: So, how did you come up with the answer to that riddle?

Ice: I’m not sure honestly. I was kinda thinking about what makes the center of every single story and the first thing I thought of was “plot”, but either you said it was wrong or it didn’t fit. Afterwards, when I was checking out some writing blogs, one of them said something along the lines of “your main character must have a reason to tackle the problem in the story” and I just thought of the answer from there

Atlas: Nice. Sometimes it helps to have a bit of inspiration. In your opinion, though, what is the most important part of a story?

Ice: Tough one. I think the most important part of the story is building a sense of emphathy or a understanding of characters. A story could be simple and describing daily life but personally I’d still enjoy it if I could feel what the character feels and ride an emotional roller-coaster with them, without feeling like an impassive bystander

Atlas: Being able to emotionally connect with your characters is important. Are there any novels or stories in particular that do that for you?

Ice: I’d say Turtles All The Way Down by John Green. It was really interesting being able to understand things from Aza’s perspective, which is far from yet still similar to daily life because she sees it with different lens. It was also a good read because the whole book was basically centered around her way of thinking about the world.

Atlas: John Green is known for the emotional emphasis he puts into his characters and their day to day encounters. Do you write with an emotional emphasis or do you base your works on “in the moment” type feelings?

Ice: I try to write with emotional emphasis, but I’m not sure if I’m quite there yet, haha. What I usually do is write a scene in which the main character is just living, with no conflict or even any real plot, just to try to let the reader familiarise themselves with the main character before they get to the main story. When the plot starts to pick up I try to make the characters be as relatable as possible, especially with dialogue.

Atlas: Draw the reader in, I get that. What are some of the challenges you have dealt with in writing– whether it be poetry, prose, fiction, etc?

Ice: I find it hard to describe places, especially in prose. When I imagine somewhere, I have a mental image and no matter what I type, it somehow corresponds to it because I’m already thinking of it, if that makes sense. For me it’s pretty hard to let the reader imagine the scene that I’m trying to set, so that’s something I’ll have to work on :D

Atlas: You’ll get there! How long have you been writing?

Ice: I’ve been writing since 3 years ago, but I only started poetry a year ago

Atlas: What challenges do you face with poetry in comparison to fiction and prose?

Ice: I find that with poetry, I need to use more imagery and descriptions compared to fiction and prose,ysijg more of the “show not tell” everyone preaches. It’s not a bad thing, and it definitely makes poetry more enjoyable to read (based off my own experience) but like I said earlier, it’s a weakness of mine I have to work on.

Atlas: That makes sense. Are there any famous poets or authors you read regularly?

Ice: There aren’t many authors or poets I follow, since I’m more of someone who randomly browses books, but I read John Green, Sir Authur Conan Doyle and Cassandra Clare the most I think. I don’t really read specific poets much, so most of my exposure actually comes from tumblr :p

Atlas: There are so many great poets and writers right here after all. Do you plan to do anything with your writing in the future or do you see this more as a hobby?

Ice: I see this more as a hobby. When I get older I might possibly publish something, but I don’t think I’ll ever be an author/poet in my own right because I think it’ll be hard to force myself to do something I love to live

Atlas: It really just depends on both dedication and notoriety. Poets and writers that make money off their works are pretty much famous. If you were to publish, would it be just poetry or would you like to see a novel in publication?

Ice: I think I would prefer to see a novel in publication, but I don’t really have the dedication to write a full book - I usually write up to a certain scene and then feel burnt out. That’s also why I mostly only write short scenes and poetry.

Atlas: That makes sense. It took me a long time to build up the writing endurance to even produce half a novel, so I’m right there with you. Last question! Knowing what you know now, what advice would you give your past self just starting out with writing?

Ice: Share your works with the world, get them to review whatever things you write so that you can improve much faster. Also, expose yourself to more poets other than specific accounts/people, so you can learn much more!

[poetryspillingforth]

sharp wires snaking into ends, beginnings, tangled mess of rebirth.

a dozen tulips bright in grey cemeteries, a single soul across the styx.

and i wonder: how much of you is gone? your body is here, your spirit nowhere.

a thousand tragedies hurtling through oblivion, leaving only scraps

of happiness behind.  sparks of life breathed into a hollow memory.

you do not ever smile again, unseeing eyes haunting, and yet-

and yet your ghost lingers in every glance. a second life born from imagination.

feeble imitation of living, but will it suffice? i have never visited that stone-cold

reminder of nihility after the first time. let the flowers wilt in the wake of your new existence.

light filtering through the memories, wild harmony of forgotten graves.

[poetryspillingforth]

Grey skies.

are you lost, little child?

footfalls tumbling onto fallen leaves, soft cathedrals

of light filtering into fractals. crisp quiet of peace;

silent stares at hollowed bark, towering guardians

with arms spread to shelter. birdsong thread into flower crowns,

breeze rustling gold leaves, twirling happy tornadoes -

creaking serenity, age-weathered fall. won’t you stay awhile?

//

are you lost, lonely child?

heart always pounding, choked breaths caught in hearts.

pen flying across paper, desperate race for knowledge;

always scrambling to keep up. afraid that someday, 

they’ll see past these stone-bricked walls, see the coward

that lies within. every day gasping for air, hoping for rest -

a rest that will never come. but how can you leave?

//

are you lost, lingering child?

a dozen memories vanished in cloudy glass bottles, flickerings

of black and white, relics for the past, ghosts from the future.

yellowed photographs, dog-eared diaries. a longing

for the long-gone. constant comparison, silent tears falling in the dark.

jagged edges healed and then torn again, a letter sent

to someone already forgotten. will you learn how to say goodbye? //

are you lost, listless child?

pacing back and forth, wearing footprints into concrete,

heart ready to take flight. spinning pens, sending them soaring

over tables, fingers itchng for purpose. cold shivers racing

up your spine, ghost-touch of fear - 

eyes wide open. a coil of anticipation settling in stomachs.

shaking hands clutching at hope; will you be alright?

//

have you been found, lost child?

stumbling through daydreams of crystal winter, feet pounding

against the conrete of reality, always running to light

that seems to die in hopeful hands. do you know where home is?

//

or will you always be lost under these grey skies?

[poetryspillingforth]

Learning to understand

i cannot seem to understand the concept of giving

and taking. we used to hide under blankets,

torches yellow, secret grins and laughter instead of sleep;

emmersed in feeling - not in love but in happiness, in joy.

as we reflected time, we traded pink-red-yellow covers

for the black cloak of solitude. i wore my shame proudly -

hurting, bleeding, staining. i never noticed your wounds -

stitched together with warm tears; bitterness in your mouth

as you ate poison. every breath, and you grew more transparent.

i miss the times when we could see this cloth as protection; starry guards 

against everything. now you are barely here, a silver of existence.

how do i know you have not already vanished? we no longer

invite others under this weight of fabric - you knew i lived

only because you were brave enough to see me.

i do not think i have that same courage; revelaing raw flesh 

when i myself can barely see, but yet i must. please don’t vanish -

i may not see you, but i am trying. can we yet return

to when we were vulnerable together?

[poetryspillingforth]

there is a grey-boil hunger within this forest of mine,

a desperate longing for more than monochrome leaves -

I am looking for friendship within these

shattered skies, these white-grey-black clouds that do nothing

but judge from above; it is easy to hope

when you have nothing to lose. it is easy to not notice

the slow drip-drip-draining of colour until you finally remember

that grass is green, that apples are red. that perhaps

you are not worth as much as you hope. my forest wishes not

for magic, for revitalisation; all I can merely grasp at

is to breathe - yet somehow that alone is too hard.

e, do you understand now? I am not a good person -

I am not the one slowly sewing back leaves into brittle tree trunks.

I am the one hurling stones at the sky, not caring

even if they hit me. can blood lack colour?

only I notice - the grass drinks it in anyway.

maybe someday you'll understand, when your own sky

turns dark. I will mourn you in these graves of nature.

maybe I'll see you again if I dream of colour once more.

[inkskinned]

i said yes to him, maybe more than i should have. yes was easier than arguing about it. this was a quiet sorrow. our relationship wasn’t that bad. but i would close my eyes and leave my body and say to my bones: turn over. you don’t need to like it, you just need to do it.

i think about this a lot. where i learned it from. i have the same mantra at the gym. i have the same mantra over salad. i have the same mantra at 3 AM while doing homework: it doesn’t have to feel good, but it does have to happen. 

where did i learn it from, that life is a thing to be endured and not celebrated. that each moment is either a bad space or bracing for the next wound. to hop from catcall to grope to spiked drink without batting an eye - this is just something to live through, turn over. to minimize my space in trains, to maximize his needs, his desires, all without complaining. to say yes when it is unearned.

my keychain has a whistle on it. this is not uncommon. most of us have been prepared for The Emergency since we were old enough to be told what to wear. did i think that the emergency had to look and act a certain way for it to actually be an emergency. did i think that, under the threat of something worse, the silver of this violence was something smoother. this isn’t The Emergency. this is the yes, and i did say yes.

worse things happened to me. they deserved a loud whistle and a bright red light. this is not worse. i don’t have to like it, because what i do like, i will be mocked for. i just have to deal with it, and i must do so prettily, without pouting, without complaint. how do i phrase this to my therapist. at the time it was just easier. at the time it was just how things worked between us. i have been a good girl all my life. i have always been quiet and thoughtful and ready to drop my own needs at a moment’s notice. this was just another version of being good. i was keeping us together. i was helping out. i was just doing what was expected of me, and i can’t regret that now.

but what do i get? at the end of all this, what happens to me? why does asking that feel selfish and nasty?

[poetryspillingforth]

i used to feed the birds with scraps of seeds, cold wings

fluttering slightly beneath snowflake-mountains. cowering under nothing but great sky -

though the sky itself is weakness, ashes piling up like gravedirt, endless omens

of days to come. yesterday was too heavy a burden to hold alone, bending under the weight  

of “almost”s, of “what if”s, of waving foam blades with eyes squeezed shut to ward off destiny.

you roared from the heights of planets that you were hurting, but also that no matter what,

you were still a flower and that you would bloom one day; star-struck novas of hope;

until the heavens soothed you with song. you felt for the dead burying in the dirt.

i spiraled into you and somehow winter multiplied into spring; tucking thorn crowns into your pockets

i could see the stars again amidst grey city-lights. we were immortal, a curse that thread itself

into a tapestry of eternity; serene lakes filling our empty hearts. when you needed to cry,

i would hold your head until you ran out of diamonds to pierce.

we existed, an outcry to the storms that maybe everyone could find their own hearts blooming.

then the stars rearranged, and the sparrows i used to stroke pecked once again at our feet.

i wish i could seal the dreams we had into a letter and soak it with tears, but hollowness

cannot contain even sadness. it is not an injustice; mere sorrows seeped in time. 

i knew where you buried your dead. you knew where i had collapsed into pixels.

we made the right choices, and now there is no “we”. if i had one more question, i would ask

how to let go of your threads without writing your petals down on inked paper.  

friendships aren’t meant to last till dawn, but somehow i find myself dreading the light anyway.

[poetryspillingforth]

I have taken the recipe of immortality and thrown it into human weakness,

I have taken grey clouds tinged with colour and screamed them

in uncaring canyons. it seems that this poem is another storm-touched

apology to e, because now even I

have felt the loss of shattered glass on rotting carpets,

brown wood soft under hushed tears. it is difficult not to grasp

at night skies and pull back with nothing in our hands but soft sand.

is this fate, doomed to be chasing rainbows in the downpour of frozen droplets?

or have we become something more, prowling in withered grass

to find purpose in our graves? hurling question at autumn leaves

and waiting for the stars to move has given me no answers,

but I still dance below emotionless glitters of gas

and hope with flowers clutched in trembling hands.

is it possible for promises to come true, if all I do is hurl wishes

in the path of falling dreams? are shooting stars more than simple echoes?

again I end up with more questions than answers, in this earth

invisible and unseen across the galaxies. give me one last cold breath

trapped in the ribs of humanity, and maybe ashes will fall from starry nights

and paint our faces with something other than loss.

[seventhskywords]

She was oblivious

She was

A sunshine that dressed like moonlight

A rainbow that wore black and white

Dreamt of a star, unaware that

Her heart was glitter and stardust bright

She was

A dim midnight disguised as shadow

A reflection of moon on the window

Dreamt of a flower, unaware that

Her soul was a radiant roses meadow

-Arshi (@poetic-inks)

[savage-words]

I think of myself in parts. Bones. Skin. Veins. Aching. Rage. I am a calamity of mishaps and I’m still learning how that can be beautiful. But i think of the stars- half drunk and poison burning through the darkness, lighting up the night. And I think Galileo, half mad and hated, devoting his life to watching them dance. And I know I am poison and I hurt more than I heal, but maybe somewhere there is a Galileo who would offer himself on an alter for the chance to watch me burn.

_______________________

written and submitted by @abbyharris578

[poetryspillingforth]

Unending.

you've only been gone for seconds too short even for hourglasses,

footprints in snow not even realising your presence.

I have been waiting, hoping, but no more prayers. we have run out of prayers

in this ashtinted dystopia. today I walked your words

alone, feeling twisted smiles under this unfeeling stone.

e, you asked if I would miss the moon if the sun blazed

brighter than the night. I cannot answer right now;

when will these frozen stories melt in my warm hands?

you are - staying up at night, hoping for promises of fall -

you are humanity seen through the glass of eternity.

if I reach out, will you be there?

if I fall, will you dance in a pool of sorrow?

not knowing is better than waiting for tomorrow's sunset

amongst the dawn of today. let us be free.

[poetryspillingforth]

Prompt: The Horizon at your Fingertips (Apart in Wholes, Pt. 1)

I can feel golden felt under frozen breath, the hope

of broken souls rising once more. in this still air, how much of loss

can we sustain? it took too long for us to see

that mountaintops aren't the only thing that can empower us -

achievement isn't enough for us to get drunk on,

we need depths of hope and the rises of longing. human nature

is perfectly imperfect, isn't it? we could fall

and still see the sunrises, we could reach out,

waiting for clouds to deem us as worthy. we can do anything,

suspended in joy, suspended in futile wishes. hopelessness

is the only death we know. immortal under blue skies,

isn't this the life that we've all dreamed of?

there isn't a "you" in this poem because the world is full

of endless "you"s. we are all desolate creatures,

tinged with stormy skies and roaring suns. the stars themselves

will scream out names, what more could we want?

the horizon is still waiting for purity.

@writtenconsiderations

[poetryspillingforth]

Giving up.

I am sitting on the edge of nothing - of e's nothingness.

there are thoughts below, reach out a hand and grab one -

what secrets do they bury in these unhearing smiles?

e told me to let go instead of staring into snow-muffled

fear. I have not yet learnt the secrets of this silent voice

who finds reason in emptiness, this hope that once lived

in the grey breaking-of-day. I want to write of questions,

but how can I think when the roaring of sharpened blades

wander into these cold stone-papers? I cannot write

or think, not with their unending droning of humour - will there be refuge in the fall?

I know the wind will scream my name if I scrabble at these cliffs

and wait for a mark, but perhaps the air's judgement will be less chaotic

than these echoes. you told me I've grown up,

but if even e can't acknowledge these lines worn into spiritual flowers,

then how did you know? the clattering of gold upon tarnished metal

does not call the greedy, so maybe no matter how I yell

for answers in this void the noise is only in my mind.

[poetryspillingforth]

Hope's introduction

today my poetry caught breaths falling from heights

and I touched your song with shaky fingers -

a pang of loss

hooks its fingers through woven nets. sudden loneliness is not being

alone, it is the lack of oxygen when the last time

I've seen you is disintegrating. your absence isn't heavy,

it's the memories that make me blink and hope.

will I laugh at nothing while holding on to everything again?

we were happy then, we were desolate then.

we burned bright and alone, until we weren't solitude

begging time for another chance. are you there,

listening to my song? or have you left behind me

sitting on the bus, lyrics in our hands?

[poetryspillingforth]

Missing Oxygen (Apologies Pt. 3)

when your weathered cloth meets my gaze I look away - it's hard

not to lose myself in screens when life is full of sleepless nights.

isn't it funny, how your song asks me to stay when you've already left me

behind? don't take my salt-soaked soul in the depths with you.

when you see wings you see flight, when I see feathers I see poetry -

I see air weighing down the things that matter most. shredded leaves

have tried to dress you - you, a snowflake! - in autumn. hey, e, if I

try to follow in your too-large footsteps, will the sand part for me, will cold stone yield?

there are no wolves tonight, only silvers of fireflies amongst trees.

if I make a lantern, will you clasp it in your hands and blow out

the candles? or will you float away too?

[akaiiros]

oh, darling, have i ever told you what it’s like to let go?

like the first breath of air you take when you walk out of the airport, like finally taking off your formalwear after hours at a stifling event, like stepping foot inside a memory you’ve hidden for years only to realize it doesn’t cause you pain anymore, to sing along to the song that once belonged to them

what it’s like to be free?

to forget about the meaning of pain because it’s been so long since you’ve felt it, to run away and leave everything that doesn’t matter behind, to drive alone at night and to cover yourself in a blanket without feeling like you want anyone next to you, today

what it’s like to be at peace?

to be where you would’ve been lonely and feel only calm, to hear the sounds of the brook and the whisperings of the wind and lay down on the grass, to forget how to write because you don’t need to anymore

darling, i’ve told you about the pain, and now i’ll tell you about the beauty of it all

the glimmer of the stars under city lights, the feeling of healing and being healed, sundresses during summer and bare feet on the pavement, waterfalls creating rainbows and dancing beneath the spray, climbing to the top of the mountain just to take in the view

and by god, it’s worth it

[poetryspillingforth]

A letter to the stars

the galaxies of darkness have swallowed the lukewarm sun,

frozen stars staring time in its weathered face, droplets

of liquid stardust laced into a seashell necklace. a kindly

smile, and the universe finds its breath. dear e, how many wars

have you tasted on your tongue? smears of red

etching life into spirals of cold grey, please hold my hand

when shooting stars sweep me off my feet. you have done

more than enough, e, and now the lullabies of golden

snowflakes are what guide me now. dig this grave into

molten lava with me, and let us burn. sometimes

the world needs to catch fire.

@starlitpoems