#objectivecorrelative

[thomastalliscreativewriting-blog]

A Christmas bauble, by Martha McHardy

A Christmas tradition

The most sentimental of sentiments

The Liberty decorated Christmas tree

The scratchy feeling of glitter is a particularly special feeling when paired with different colours of glitter glistening in the light

The Christmas pudding hangs from the tree

To mark the first year of a tradition to be long kept

Red like Rudolph’s nose

Frankincense, Myrrh and Gold

The string that ties the bauble to Christmas 

is the string that ties the family together 

[thomastalliscreativewriting-blog]

Objective correlative, by Milli Lewis

I am yet to light it. The leaves of the waxy succulent fitting into the palm of my hand are faded, or perhaps designed that way; to be a pale, mossy green. Fake soil supports the plant in a literal clump, textured lightly for more accurate visuals. Soil, real soil, still remains lingering in the corners of my mantelpiece, from when I let Astrid fall to her death, and had to operate. Astrid. My real life succulent. I’m a terrible parent to plants. Astrid keeps the candle company, mocking her I imagine.

“I can photosynthesise and you can’t. Ha.”

I’m sure the candle doesn’t mind. Or maybe it would, if it were sentient. The wick remains unscathed, upright as if triumphant of it’s achievement. There I go again - adding sentience to the inanimate.

It is unscented, smelling dusty if anything, because of course, I’ve let it grow old and cracked on a shelf, not even given it the chance to set alight. I suppose denying it of it’s purpose is disrespectful. But can you disrespect something if it doesn’t know it’s being disrespected? Perhaps I should light the candle, just in case, or a cactus shaped one (I have several variations), letting heat prickle my skin with imaginary spikes, hearing the soft flicker of a tiny flame. Or I could leave it here, put it back on the shelf, and let the dust settle over it like snow.

[jrmilazzo]

#objectivecorrelative

[thomastalliscreativewriting-blog]

The Chessboard, by Martha Uberg

You stole it from her,

it lay by the sideboard,

on the shelf, did the box stir.

Inside were two sections,

red and white, white and red,

chips, scars, imperfections,.

They were not separate.

They are now.

Sixty four squares were shared,

now only sixteen each are spared.

A vast space now lies between,

a king; without a queen.

[thomastalliscreativewriting-blog]

Jacket, by Emily Warner

In May, you put your jacket on my shoulders when it started to rain-

Let the droplets hit your face so mine could stay dry-

In June, you twisted the sleeves of your jacket around your finger- stumbled on-

3 syllables I’ve never heard sound more true.

In July, you lay your jacket on the floor so I could sit-

Let your arms and legs come out in goose bumps so mine could stay warm.

In August, I told you I was Pandora’s box- you don’t want to open.

In September, you left.

In October, you placed your jacket on my knees so I’d stop shivering

Let your teeth chatter so mine could stay silent

In December, you handed me your jacket before we even left

Not understanding my words when I said I wanna know how the world feels.

In February, you gave me your jacket so I could be protected even when you weren’t there,

I just wanted to know what droplets and goose bumps and teeth chatter felt like

And what was I to do when you left, if I couldn’t remember how they felt?

In March, you wrapped the both of us in the cocoon of you jacket,

I felt the squeeze, and I knew it was too tight.

In April, I left.

In April, I thought that made me strong.

Last May, I thought the day someone let me wear their jacket was the day everything became clear skies.

In April, I said goodbye before you finished your hello

In April, I thought that made strong.

In May, I put your jacket back on my shoulders- I forgot how hard rain fell,

Neither of our faces could stay dry.

In June, you left.

In June, you said your head wasn’t working right, but I thought that’s why we borrowed jackets?

In June, I told myself it was summer; and who wears jackets in summer?

In June, I tried on jackets with labels I can’t remember now.

In June, I wondered how this is the same month last year I heard those 3 syllables- I wondered why I believed them?

In June, I wondered how long dreams last.

In August, you put your jacket on her shoulders.

In October, I watched the walls you built separating us completely set

I watch you and wonder why the ground under your feet looks so much like the ground under mine.

  Now, you perform in the play of “I don’t care”

The leading roles of acting as though our scents didn’t once intertwine in the fibres of a jacket

Featuring, together never meaning you standing next to me

I stand in the wings

I’ve been reading my script. I just can’t remember my lines.

In November, the curtain hasn’t fell.

In December, I finally understand-

A second hand jacket get holes more quickly.

[thomastalliscreativewriting-blog]

The mug, by Naomi Blackman

I’d sip and sip wherever I’d go

drinking in places where no one would know

holding it firmly between both hands 

making me sweat in the glands 

for with it’s loyalty, 

and generous use.

The cup that i cherished,

has decayed,

chipped, cracked, become crooked.

Just like everything else I’ve owned,

but,

it has lasted beyond my wildest dreams.

14 years and counting.

Since the day I was given it as a present of sorts 

you’ve stayed in my reach, 

and longed in my thoughts 

For, the warmth you provide,

the smooth, silky touch.

How could i get rid of it,

as i carry it with pride

with every single life stride.

[thomastalliscreativewriting-blog]

A Skeleton, by Megan Rayner

You were made from its marrow,

I think, but it wasn’t fully formed when air met you.

Its wrapped in skin and muscle but can easily broken,

or even worn as your skin becomes wrinkled.

Its hidden away, even from you.

But you can see it, shown in your mouth.

it starts white, but with years and experience it becomes a washed out yellow.

It walks with you, inside you,

Its all that is left of you when you die.

If no one remembers you,

It will. 

[thomastalliscreativewriting-blog]

The Towel, by Yasmin Arnavout

You used to wrap yourself around me- I’d be a newborn in her mother’s arms where I was safe, content, enclosed in the heat and energy that you so easily produced. Though, now I think you were merely protecting me from the cold.

I’d be searching you for what felt like Infinity. And for something so difficult to find You fitted me perfectly- A puzzle piece connected, not parted, Neither too small nor too big. Perfect.

You wrapped yourself around me, Shielding my vulnerability.

I took advantage, you see. Dragging you across the sea’s sand that he had so delicately broken into Shards of softness. You were softness, but now I have broken you, abused and Tormented.

I dampen you to realise that I cannot wrap myself around you.