The Frustrated Writer

The Frustrated Writer

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Baby Grow Drying for the Last Time

Redundant now, like coal. Romantic now, like colliery bands. Tunes of victory, when in reality we screamed and sobbed through ashen nights. Which goes where? We’d once asked, soldiering over virgin stations, new mats for new lives. Now nimbly I pop and stretch and cloak, without thought for years.

A refugee's arrival in the time of Corona

It's a relief to see you here, You remind me that the last time we met it was cold, that I poured you coffee and gave you extra biscuits. I barely recognise you, Is it the haircut, or the fact you've finally slept? Nights later you

Unrequited

‌‌I was the moon But you woke too late to see me I was the sun but you shielded your eyes Hid in the shadows, afraid of my power I waited for you in the cool of the morning garden But you slumbered, so I crept into the whispers of

Rediscovered;

Fossilised, she ought not to be prowling now. Dismissed, with stripes well-earned on my breast, I rise. ‘That creature’s extinct,’ they’d said. Her sensual paws - dead. Like mine, her pouch stretched and unexpectant. But she approaches, musky, slick. Cut black slashes at their eyes as they witness

Poet not Author

We are not made for plots today But for flowing words which pepper and perfume our minds We are not made for timelines or arcs But for the joy and flow, the glow of words Like moonbeams, and bathed and harboured We are sometimes here to talk of leaves or

Perhaps my kitchen?

Perhaps my kitchen smells like Palestine. If I spill more olives will your groves in Susiya sing again? If I breathe in marjoram, sesame, your memories, will justice reach the lands of farmers? If I sprinkle za’atar, like holy water, will it cleanse me of my stench? Perhaps my

For my friend in the Calais Camp

It was easier before you were real, just a silhouette by a foreign sun, a figure hunched and alien. It was easier when I’d not yet heard the baritone tremor of your laugh, or felt your hand - like ice - in mine. When we'd not yet

Bidoon - 'without' Undocumented

The moon carried you here Held you, chest-deep, above the waves. You pointed to it, your compass Told others to focus, to keep faith It's light kissed your hair as you removed your soaked clothes It tried to warm you as you shook You are bidoon, without And

Make Me

My mind is like the wind whipped it Spun it out of sand like glass A sand rose, rolling on the desert floor Pushed and beaten Intricate threads like candy floss Delicate, transparent, untouchable My mind is a tiny palace, fragile shell Peach and pink, grey and silver Inside I

Incubator

You lie there like a product of the sea, rocked in your covered vessel to dream a journey already mapped. Fragile urchin, with cowrie ears and a paua shell glow, otherworldly beautiful. I smell chlorine and alcohol and sweat, hear the hum and suck of tides, as my body spills

#Not All Men

You feast on me as I starve myself, You feast on me as I breathe in hard to fit the space you left, You feast on me as you push up against me, Against my honour. You feast on me until I speak off-script, Until I answer back. Then you

Micro Poetry

Little cracks In tea cups Bone China Fissures Holding back the scolding water Then bursting dam Scorched skin Broken vessel Forgotten purpose Useless now

Homeland

I love you with a pain, with a chill. A misplaced error of a love, With a cry hostage in my ribs, gagged and bound, I love you despite the gun to my head. I fear it's endless, A sentence not sparing, a verdict too cruel. Brutal love.

Entertaining Angels

A burning soul we're offered to rage at the world, A stream of molten so thick it overwhelms. How can so much lie in there behind your smile? Within eyes which flash flame-bright. How can you forget the charred betrayal of man? I read your report, Beatings. Chains.