This is another new poem.
your words fall upon me
like a thunderbolt from the sky
the air crashing together behind the strike of your speech
every word another stone on my shoulders
weighing me down
with your rage and grief
passing your pain
to me
so you can walk away
relieved
as i stagger on
under your burden
This is a new poem. I seem to be on a poetry-writing streak at the moment.
poetry is my heartbeat
essential
necessary
words are my blood
constantly moving through me
my fingers snap with the rhythm
my feet move to the beat
my brain flickers with phrases
they spurt onto paper
uncontrolled
poetry is my breath
keeping me alive
i move through a sea of words
diving here is second nature
i swim to the shore
pearly poem clutched between my teeth
spit it triumphantly onto the sand
and immediately swim back out
in search of another
This is a new poem.
I have locked myself in a box
it’s a small box
too-small box
gender box
sexuality box
race box
I have locked myself in a box
or was it you?
did you build this box, and stuff me in it?
before I was even born, did you make this box for me?
without asking
without knowing me
you made a box and called it girl
called it straight
called it black
but none of those boxes quite fit me
I have been cramped for years
joints folded tight tight
face pressed into my chest
I have locked myself in a box that you made
I was locked in the box that you made
it was cramped and uncomfortable
I couldn’t breathe
I tried to cut parts of myself off to fit
but they grew back
they wouldn’t go away
eventually I broke the box
I couldn’t fit at all
all the parts I tried to remove are too big for the box
it’s a small box
too-small box
you made me small in the box
sometimes I try to climb back in
it’s not comfortable but some days it feels safe
just my head pokes out
I almost fit
some days I want to fit
it’s easier if you fit in the box
easier if you have the right parts
right face
right brain
right heart
I’m not right
all wrong in fact
that’s why I don’t fit in the box
the small box
the too-small box
I locked myself in a box
as a child
I grew up in a box
a small box
a too-small box
to break the box
I had to learn to see it
I had to feel it crush me as I grew
to feel my breathing constricted
my limbs twisted and bent
I had to let the box damage me
before I could break free
I was locked in a box for years
a small box
a too-small box
and it takes years to break free of the box
it’s always there in the corner of the room
somehow I can never throw it away
the box
the small box
the too-small box
I’d like to throw away the box
but I’m afraid you’ll force me back in it
if you find it lying around outside
so I keep it safe
the too-small box smells of fear
and despair and denial
it smells like where hope goes to die
it smells like where I used to live
but I don’t live there any more
I live outside the box
but I carry it with me
all the time
This is a new poem.
some poems strike like lightning
straight onto the page
some poems trickle like drops of water
slowly filling the paper
some poems are made word by word
like building a wall of letters
some poems blaze fleetingly through the mind
leaving you groping for their beauty
some poems reveal themselves shyly
blossoming over time
i’ve written them all
the easy the simple the time-consuming
the painfully extracted and the meticulously crafted
have all flowed – eventually – from my pen
and this one embodies them all
This was inspired by the fog, or at least it started out that way.
adrift in mist
floating in fog
i feel suspended in time
out of place
positively unmoored
or unmoored positively
open to possibilities, time and space
luminous and emergent
lucid and incandescent
metamorphosing second by second
from one self to another
and yet the same
dissolving and reconstituting
i create myself by an act of will
embodying my identity
i become, i am, i was, i will be
my many sides fit together into the puzzle of myself
i coalesce
and step forth
reborn remade
into myself
This month’s word is unicorn, meaning “a mythical creature resembling a horse, with a single horn in the center of its forehead”.
——————
Everyone knew there were no more unicorns. The last known unicorn had died in a zoo, in 2025. No wild unicorns had been seen for decades before that, despite extensive searches.
And yet, the rumours persisted.
T was convinced they were true. He spent hours scouring all corners of the Internet, following up leads in obscure forums and repeatedly viewing blurry videos which claimed to show unicorns. He even met furtive strangers in dingy pubs to get his hands on hardcopy evidence. He’d plotted alleged sightings on maps, and was saving up to visit the area where the most encounters had been reported. He was not the most prolific poster on the unicorn forums, but he was one of the most persistent.
T knew that if there were still unicorns, he would find them. How could he let all that beauty, that wondrous power, remain hidden? It never occurred to him that the unicorns, if they existed, might have their own ideas about that. There were those who felt that if there were unicorns still, they should be allowed to live in peace, and PowrCorn882 was one of them. They would often argue for hours online with T, trying to change his mind. It never worked; both of them always ended up more entrenched than ever in their original positions.
Although the search for unicorns was the driving passion of T’s life, he still had a day job, doing data entry for a widget manufacturer. It wasn’t exciting, but the pay and hours were reasonable. He had just finished his shift and was on his way home when a van pulled up ahead of him and several masked people piled out. They grabbed him by the arms and hustled him into the vehicle where they blindfolded and tied him up.
T was so surprised he didn’t even struggle. Secretly, he was thrilled. He’d read about this kind of thing happening to other people, but he’d never expected to be on the receiving end himself. He regarded it as vindication, really – if he wasn’t on to something, they wouldn’t have kidnapped him, right? He hoped he was going to meet someone high up in the conspiracy, and not just henchpeople.
As a result of this thought process, T was surprisingly chipper when he was dragged from the van and into a small room. He was pushed into a chair and then the blindfold was removed. T blinked a few times, his eyes adjusting to the light. He was sitting at a table, with a masked figure seated across from him.
“You have to stop trying to find unicorns,” the figure said.
“You’ve proved me right,” T replied. “I must be on to something or I wouldn’t be here.”
The figure sighed. “I thought you’d say that, but I wanted to give you the chance.
“I’ll never stop now,” T replied.
“As you wish,” the figure replied. They gestured to the people who had brought T in, and two of them stepped forward, grabbing T’s arms and dragging him to his feet.
“Wait!” T cried. “Don’t I get to know who you are, or your plans, or anything?”
“It’s not a movie, T, it’s real life. I’m not going to monologue. You had a chance, you chose not to take it.”
T stared angrily at the figure as he was dragged away.
“Who are you?” he shouted. “At least tell me that much!”
The figure shook their head, standing up and walking away from T. They vanished through a door on the opposite side of the room.
T was dragged out another door, along a featureless corridor, down several dimly-lit flights of steps, along another corridor with rough-hewn stone walls, and into a small cell. He was dropped unceremoniously on a small bed. His captors cut his bonds and left the room, locking the door behind them. T stood up and rushed to the door.
“You’re just going to leave me here?” T asked incredulously, peering out through the slot in the door.
“Yup. You’ll be fed regularly.”
“Yeah, we’re not animals.”
The two exchanged a glance, laughing.
“But… But…” T stammered.
“You’re going to die here,” the first explained. “That’s the end of your story.”
They strode away, laughing. T let go of the bars and slid down, burying his face in his hands. So this was how it ended. He hadn’t seen that coming. The rest of his life, in this tiny cell.
“And I never even got to see a unicorn,” he sighed.
This is a new poem.
a single leaf
in the middle of the corridor
lonely
and far from home
discarded duvet
in the street
wet
and muddy
a flattened can
in the middle of the road
crushed
beyond repair
items misplaced
and discarded
scattered scraps
isolate
seem to signify
more than they are
© bardofupton 2018
Meril sighed, putting her chalk down and staring glumly at the glyphs she had attempted to draw.
“I swear I actually get worse the more I practice,” she muttered.
She grabbed a cloth and quickly erased her writing. Even though it was just chalk, and not ink, the habit of destroying any work that was unintended for permanence was ingrained. Also, she didn’t want anyone to see what a bad job she’d done. She knew what the glyphs should look like, but somewhere between her brain and her fingers that knowledge seemed to get lost.
“Precisely why I should do something else with my life,” she said aloud.
“Like befriend that wizard?” Paro inquired quietly from the doorway.
“No, I was thinking of a job,” Meril explained.
“Didn’t you read that book I gave you?”
“Yes, but I’m a terrible inkwarrior. My glyphs are misshapen, so they don’t work. What’s the point of keeping me?”
“You know our secrets, though.”
“I wouldn’t betray you!”
“What if this wizard you’re pining after asked you to?”
“I… I wouldn’t.”
“Easy to say, Meril. But not so easy for us to believe. And we can’t have wizards knowing our secrets.” Paro sighed. “And it’s not just up to us. Even if the guild would let you go, the priests would not.” He patted Meril’s shoulder. “You’re not the first to want something different, Meril, but that’s not the world we live in. You need to make the best of it.”
Meril sighed again. “I know,” she said sadly. “I know.”
“Keep studying,” Paro told her as he left the room.
Meril nodded, but stared out the window instead. Maybe her wizard would walk by. It was around the time they normally did.
She’d first noticed them a year ago, rushing past in the bright pink robes of a wizard’s apprentice. The robes were meant to make them stand out, and they did. It was the pink that had attracted Meril’s attention that first day, as she was staring aimlessly out of the window. And then they had dropped an item, some kind of glass container, and it had broken. She’d seen the look of horror on their face, and felt a pang of sympathy. She too had destroyed important objects, and paid the price in increased chores and angry scolding.
The wizard had looked around furtively, not seeing Meril at the high, narrow window, and had muttered a quick spell. The shards of glass crawled back together, and Meril felt a strange thrill at seeing something forbidden. She knew that if she’d had that power, she’d have used it for the same purpose. She also knew that she should report the use of magic, so that the inkwarriors’ guild could check for cracks in the real, but she had no intention of doing so. It would be a secret between her and the wizard.
After that, she’d looked out for them every day, and gradually come to feel that she knew them. Loving them was a simple step from there. She had still not actually met them or learned their name, but she was determined to make that happen. Somehow.
This is another new poem.
the lowered voice
trails off
silencing itself
shrinking away
into myself
hiding
making myself small
and swallowing my voice
my anger fear despair grief
trying not to offend
not to take up space
not to be myself
because i feel myself undeserving
unlovable
and deeply wrong
unworthy of love
or friendship
capable only of loneliness
and afraid
of love
Meril stared at the book. It was extremely thin, more of a pamphlet, really. She hesitated, then flipped it open. At least it was a change from studying.
Elise was the child of a soldier and a weaver, and would therefore have the choice of either career. Her father hoped she’d choose to be a weaver like him, and stay close to home in safety. Her mother had no opinion on that or any other matter, having died in battle when Elise was only four years old.
“At least she got a choice,” Meril muttered sulkily. Inkwarriors always married within their community.
Despite her father’s best efforts, however, Elise had no interest in weaving. Even as a very young child, her only interest was making people laugh. And she was good at it. Her original repertoire was silly jokes that were mainly funny due to her age and the way in which she told them, but as she got older she developed into a true comic.
At this point, her father realised that they had a problem. Somehow Elise was convinced that she was going to be an entertainer. He spent many days and nights trying to convince her that she could be either a weaver or a soldier, but never a performer. Elise refused to budge. She pointed out that she had neither aptitude nor interest in either career, and that she was a talented comedian and it would be a waste of her skills to take up any other calling.
“Besides, it’s a bit late now, isn’t it?” Elise argued. “I’m too old to start learning those skills.”
Her father sighed. “It’s my fault. I should have insisted you choose one or the other years ago, I know, but you were so happy. And you’re all I’ve got since your mother died. I just wanted you to be happy. But now I just want you to live.”
Elise laughed. “Who’ll know?”
“Everyone,” her father said. “Soon you’ll have to register your choice and start working.”
“Why can’t I just register as an entertainer?”
“Because they’ll kill you!” Her father stopped, took a deep breath and tried to speak more calmly. “It’s forbidden.”
“But when they see how good I am,” Elise began.
“Nobody will see how good you are if you’re dead!”
Elise rolled her eyes and laughed. “When was the last time that happened? It’s just a threat they make to keep us in line.”
“It’s not a threat, Elise.”
“Have you ever seen it happen?”
“No, but…”
“Exactly! I’m going to do what I want, and I don’t care if they disapprove.”
“But…”
Elise ran off, confident that her father was being overprotective once again. Her father was equally confident that he was not, but could think of no action he could take. Even if he had known who to bribe, he had no money, and he doubted anyone important could be bribed with the poorly-woven blankets that were his main output. He decided to focus his energy on convincing Elise to change her mind.
He failed.
When the census takers came to the village for the triennial registration, he begged Elise to lie and say she was a weaver. Elise refused, laughing off his protests.
“As if they’ll care,” she said. “They just want something to put on their forms.”
And off she went to the town hall.
Her father followed her, waiting outside the town hall while she registered, for registration was considered a private affair, even though it was a foregone conclusion in virtually all cases. He waited for a long time. All the other young people had gone in, registered and left, but there was no sign of Elise. At last, when night was starting to fall, he gathered his courage and entered the hall.
An official was seated at a table, writing. Servants were tidying the room, and a couple of large men who were clearly bodyguards lurked at the side of the hall.
“I’m looking for my daughter, Elise,” he told the official.
“She’s gone.”
“Gone?”
Meril sighed. “So she’s dead, right?”
“Executed,” the official replied.
“But… But…. Didn’t you let her explain?”
“You know the law. So did she, even if she thought she could flout it. Why waste time with a trial when she’s clearly guilty?”
Elise’s father stared at him.
“Where’s her body?”
The official gestured, and a servant brought a small box over and handed it to Elise’s father.
“What’s this?”
“Your daughter.”
Elise’s father opened the box. It was full of ash.
“Due to the nature of her crime,” the official continued, “she cannot be buried on holy ground.”
“What did you do to her?” Elise’s father screamed.
The bodyguards grabbed him and began to drag him from the room. The official stared coldly at him.
“I merely carried out the sentence prescribed by law. It was your responsibility to teach your daughter the law and ensure she followed it.”
Elise’s father sobbed as he was removed from the hall. He knew the official was right, that he had failed his child, that the true crime was his.
Meril rolled her eyes. “Oh please! What blatant propaganda. Like anyone would be convinced by that.”
She tossed the pamphlet on the desk, and picked up her slate and chalk. Maybe she should at least practice her glyphs.
Random Ramblings 