#sgpoet

[subpoetess]

Earthchild

The stars that twinkle in the sky These are thoughts of you that accompany my night Every meteor is the breath of my sigh Even shadowed by the moon’s bright Search my heart, search the dark Earth’s child

[subpoetess]

Waterfall

Your important days have become mine too And I try to remember the me before you What sort of insignificant things had I done? Was it not a seed that had taken root, that shook the earth and moved the sky? It seemed as though the stones beneath a waterfall Polished pebbles shifted over sand Into the spaces just perfect for them Laid a path led me to you The horizon is eternal I cannot see its end but I know the ending that I want Not for you to be mine, instead, for me to be yours.

[subpoetess]

Briefly I let the dream live And then I let it pass I would have felt pain I would not have let it last.

4 March 2004

[overcomingalexithymia]

The Weaver Girl Waits

One year, he turns up cradling an infant. Sorry, he says. He turns to go, and for the first time, stumbles, the magpies dipping under his weight. 

But he had stolen her clothes. Married her. Killed his only friend and worn his hide to follow her across the sky, pledging eternal love before the Heavenly Mother and she cannot understand 

how it can be over. The weaver girl can only keep weaving clouds in her exile with nothing but the babble of the Milky Way for company. She thinks on how mortals promise forever so easily, when they know so little of it. 

(overcomingalexithymia)

Tumblr | Instagram

[overcomingalexithymia]

The Selkie Bride

When he got home the first thing he noticed was the smell: brine and rotting fish, though he’d moved far from the beach after the wedding. He found her in the tub, something the ocean washed up with her flesh pale and bloated, seashell lips parted to accept not air but the water long gone cold and pink, fingers still clutching the ashy sealskin he’d burned the night before as he promised that he would never let her go. Her head was turned towards the sea, still waiting for it to draw her home.   

After the myth “The Selkie Bride”, in which a fisherman finds the sealskin of a shapeshifting selfie and hides it. Without it, the selkie is unable to transform to her true form and has to follow the man, always longing for home.

(overcomingalexithymia)

Tumblr | Instagram

[overcomingalexithymia]

a poem is a chat between two friends in public, where one person is denied the right of reply. the poet will pretend indefinite pronouns protect the pride, however prejudiced, of the poetee. (i do not want a poem done to me.)

- joshua ip from "poetry reading"

[overcomingalexithymia]

He would push me away whenever I tried to kiss him on the lips, 

so instead I kissed his fingers, the palm of his hand, the space behind his ear, pressing nose instead of mouth, folding the salt of his skin and the curl of his hair into memory to live in over and over again 

as I moved into the unexpected: his elbows, his wrists, the crook of his knee,  discovering his body in the moments 

before he shuddered and remembered to gently  tug himself away. 

(overcomingalexithymia)

Tumblr | Instagram

[overcomingalexithymia]

Don’t Date The Girl Who Posts Facebook Poetry

Don't date the girl who posts Facebook poetry. You're just asking for it. Don't be charmed by her hipster-specced eyes and Lang Leav quotes. She will drag you to open mic nights where you will have to pretend you understand what the wankers are handwaving about. She will take you to BooksActually to pet cats and support local businesses. She will only eat organic greens and nut butter. She will be nuts, expect you to read her poetry about her exes and you will have to smile and ask when she will be publishing her anthology.

When you break up the world will know because her timeline will skyrocket with Sylvia Plath and The Best Of Janice Heng. You do not need to delete your Instagram selfies because on anniversaries (or whenever she feels like it especially in the middle of the night) she will repost them with Charles Bukowsk's and Sarah Kay’s words on loss. You can unfriend her but she will immortalise you, every April, with poetry of her own and Facebook feeds will echo her words on the shit you'd prefer to forget you did together if she decides to be nostalgic. Or if she decides to be vengeful they will know your worst habits (did you pick your nose around her? Did you ever fart in bed? Because this is how Facebook will know you now). Meanwhile you will go on oblivious while your friends can only look at you and think of what she wrote.

(overcomingalexithymia)

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Written for kicks for SingPoWriMo Day 28