Tag: Creative Writing – Poetry

Image: ©️ beauty_of_nature – Image modified by Roxane Kokka – Pixabay License. Source.

Author: Roxane Kokka

Amores
An eruptive feeling invades my chest
As my head grows feverish
And my cheeks warmer than the sun’s kiss.
My pale skin turns into a scarlet shade
And I can feel the blood pumping twice as fast into my veins
All the way to my fingertips.
My jaws are sore from laughing
And my cheeks from smiling
My eyes are on the brink of tears
And each breath struggles to escape my lips.
How funny this feeling is,
This strange feeling of falling in love.

Woodpecker kisses
It all still feels surreal to me, like a dream
With your face bathing in the dim light’s gleam
And your eyes shimmering between your curls
While all of my senses rejoiced in twirls.
My entire body reminisces
All your electric woodpecker kisses,
While the lasting fragrance of your perfume
Makes my chest and memory feel in bloom.
And I can still taste your lips on my own,
As I can still hear the sound of your moan.
My skin keeps record of every inch
Your fingertips touched; not once did I flinch
For your presence restored much peace in me,
Erased feelings of fear from my memory,
And brought back to me a sense of harmony.

Kiss me
Kiss me ’til I can feel my lips no longer
Kiss me like you’ve kissed none other
Kiss me ’til my whole body is shaking
Kiss me ’til my lips are aching
Kiss me ’til the sun rises
Kiss me in all your disguises
Kiss me as though it were the last time you could
Kiss me the way you would in the deepest, darkest wood
Kiss me ’til my mouth bruises
Kiss me as though you were pulling ruses
Kiss me ’til my southern lips are wet
Kiss me ’til our souls have met.

Image: © Eloïse Wenger

Author: Eloïse Wenger

I.

It’s on the bench seat of a coach that I emerge
Panting and looking around a green and red train
When suddenly I hear the grim sound of a dirge.

I raise my eyes and meet the shape of Kurt Cobain
He turns his head and from my mouth escapes a scream
For a huge hole over his ear displays his brain.

Shocked, he stares at me with his eyes blue as a stream.
Then jokingly he shrugs saying: ʻCome as you are!ʼ
Horror! It can’t be true! It can’t be but a dream!

ʻWell look at you!ʼ He tells me, taking his guitar.
At this moment, I witness the blood on my chest,
That vanishes ‘til there remains only a scar.

At this sight I cannot help but to feel oppressed.
I try to ask my fellow what all this meant,
But he doesn’t answer, seemingly not impressed.

On this pause the train leaves and we start our descent.

II.

It’s difficult to say how long we’ve been travelling.
The sky’s neither any colour nor truly dark
And he refuses to say where we are going.

But before losing any hope for a landmark,
The quiet wagon slows down and halts at a station
On a sign is written Crystal Palace Park.

Through my window I spot with mortification
On the platform half lying down on the cold ground
An old woman in a state of desperation.

She doesn’t move for it looks like her legs are bound
And as she keeps weeping like a beast you slaughter,
I see iron devouring her legs like a hound.

But now I recognize the face of the monster.
At least my father used to call this witch like this.
Next to me Kurt shouts with a smile: ʻHi, Mrs. Thatcher!ʼ

The train starts up, leaving her shade to the abyss.

III.

ʻIt’s strange to see we can pity someone like herʼ
I stay silent but he keeps talking to me:
ʻAre you afraid of the meaning of “forever”?ʼ

Existential questions are not my cup of tea.
But I can’t think about it for too long
As we stop again at a station called Horley.

After a while, I hear the echo of a song
I turn my head and notice on a bench a dude,
Whose success was a long time ago seen as strong.

But who has now for only listener solitude.
From his mouth I hear: ʻImagine there’s no heaven..ʼ
He is whispering it with such an attitude.

This man who was the voice of peace is now broken.
With his tired hands he cries covering his head
And from his nose his pair of glasses have fallen.

Why is this man there? This question fills me with dread.
I want to ask him so many things. I speak: ʻHey, sir..ʼ
But I feel the wheels beneath me moving ahead.

My wound starts bleeding again as my senses blur.

IV.

When I wake up again, my eyes are still bright red.
My fellow musician is looking for my gaze.
However, I prefer to ignore him instead.

The tears inside my mad being continue to raise
When suddenly I notice we have stopped again
Like petrified, I can’t pronounce a single phrase.

I choose to look after having counted to ten.
Haywards Heath… I think I know where we are going.
My thoughts are broken by the vision of two men.

One is holding a skull to which he is talking.
The other one, louder, is praying for mercy
His eyes are filled with terror as he is crying.

He yells: ʻMy God, my God, look not so fierce on me!ʼ
But it’s only when he shouts ʻCome not, Lucifer!ʼ
That the entire atmosphere becomes gloomy.

A second, maybe a year, then a great clamour.

V.

The noise is followed by the grinding of some gears.
Too late to fly, the train turns into a rocket.
Landscapes are running, whistles are drilling my ears.

If it goes on like that, I will need a bucket
Though my companion is not suffering like me,
Dreaming at the window, one hand in his pocket.

But the train eventually stops, setting me free.
The doors open and I violently rush outside
Where I now contemplate the beauty of a sea.

Appeased by the slow movement of the rising tide,
Small tears of joy drop and turn my vision to a blur.
After a while I notice Kurt has reached my side.

We stay still until I’ve wiped away the last tear.
ʻAre you happy with our final destination?ʼ
I nod seeing standing before us my dear Pier.

ʻBrighton..ʼ this word flies from my mouth like salvation.
ʻThe place I was born inʼ, ʻAnd where peace will find you.ʼ
His sentence is followed by new agitation.

ʻThere is so much my friend you still need to go throughʼ
Whistles fill my head again; the ground starts shaking.
ʻSee you Daniel!ʼ… ʻDaniel! Doctor! He made it through!ʼ

I feel the hand of my mum and hear her crying.

Tribute to Daniel McLean

Author: M.W.

Grasp

please hold me,
i feel like moonlight, streaming through the gaps in your fingers,
light and glorious and not there at all.
like a figment of a stranger’s imagination,
i cannot grasp at myself.

Lost

She is lost
Out there in the fields
That go on forever never yielding
To the forests that used to cover everything.

She starts, she stops,
She walks without knowing
Why her eyes fill with tears
When she hears the larks sing.

About her pretty hair,
About her pretty eyes,
Crowned with thistles
She sings too
Sometimes.

Author: Anonymous

Piccadilly Pink

Let’s seek joy in the greyness
The pink flowers in the city
The touch of life in melancholy

Let’s change history
White men and their smugness
Their busts and what they express

Let’s find fiction
About balloons and butterflies
To alleviate our lives

Let’s dream till sunrise
Lulled by love and wine addiction
Forget about the restriction

Jail Tower

Jail Tower
Deep blue sky walls
But I can’t see the sky
Neither a single flower
Welcome to one of London’s students’ halls
Don’t be shy, come by!

Explore this amazing place
Which is my space
Meet the grey squirrels and black cats
Which wander around the flats
And dive into the bins
Roaming little dark djinns

Let’s go now to my cell
Where floats a musty smell
I open the window to get fresh air
A scent of smoke or weed climbs to me
Thanks to the lower smoker or junky

Alone in my costly 11 square metres
Trying to find light in this darkness
To push those frail heaters
To overcome my loneliness
I hear noises at night
Phone calls, hair dryer, but no one in sight

I feel like I live with ghosts
Dirty and noisy hosts
Don’t know what “to clean” means
Those porcine teens

When I can I escape
Go to nicer landscapes
Take the old Tube lines
Far away from these swines

I flee to the city
Where I enjoy university
Museums, restaurants and shows
And inside my heart, joy flows

But at night I need to come back
To my dear bivouac
In the last minutes of the Tube I get ready
Warm my ankles up
Hide my bosom under my shawl
Hope to not see a soul
And I get up
Breathe deep and exit through the night
Since then, I always made it without a fight

I’ll soon be home
In my beautiful Swiss dome
I’ll miss the musicals, cream teas, salsa, and my girls,
I really found some pearls
But I’ll smile at the airport
Cause I’ll be out of S****** Court!

Image: © “File:Chest.png” by No machine-readable author provided. Chikumaya assumed (based on copyright claims). is licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0, Source

Author: Sabine Weyermann

Autumn is installed,
I feel it in my lungs,
burning bronchi.
You don’t talk.

I’m heavily “dysregulated”, as they say,
stomach in knots, no more of this sweet,
fuzzy sensation of
honeyed warm milk I have
fostered in my belly, precious secret.

Your name, two comforting syllables,
or three, or four,
that I’ve known all my life,
slapping in the wind like
a mighty Greek standard, in several languages.

I repeat it like I could summon you,
and then whisper “Fuck you!”, of course meaning
something else, as if you were the culprit,
and not the innocent target of a disaster
that is mine, and mine only,
bursting, all guns blazing,
from my Amygdala.

Or is it?

Am I a burden?
sheltering your feelings, trying
to beat mine back into myself,
so tired of being the freakin’
cool girl, faking it.

As if I wasn’t fucking triggered.

When in fact I’m here, and all over your silence,
wide open to you, but biting my lips,
because your words
could rip my body apart,
not knowing if I have to let you go,
for my bloody own sake,
or to wait, wait, ignoring the urgency
to deliver that,

“I have so much of you in my heart”.

Image: © Annegret Kammer, “Misty mornings at the lake”, Unsplash Licence, Source

Author: H.S

the town
the year Camille died

had the worst flood of the decade for the third year in a row
there was a black out for three days
I was in Uni at the time
and saw my childhood parks drown away
on the internet.

she was the same age as me
we used to tell each-other our dreams
one day she told me:

“The Lake,
I went thinking I saw someone drown,
but at the bottom I was knocked prone
and crushed by pressure.”

the day she died
she bolted upright in her bed
looked at the lake through the window
wide-eyed

“I swam out”
she said
and died.

Author: Anonymous

Everything’s dying
And seems to mingle with the melancholy of my sweet soul.
In the depth of despair,
That the scenery captures –
I feel comforted by the found friend.
I am a character
In the Autumn performance.

Image: © tedeytan, “Gender Neutral Bathroom Sign Baby Wale Restaurant DC”, CC BY-SA 2.0, source.

Author: Anonymous

Having a vulva is no easy thing.

Your urethra is close, 

No direction to bring,

Too skinny are the clothes,

It’s not easy to wing.

*For the purpose of this poem, this term describes people with a vulva. The author sends love and appreciation to all people with a vulva who aren’t girls and all people who are girls and don’t have a vulva. The author hopes to see more gender-neutral bathrooms in the future.