The pots and pans of childhood stir me.
You scribble on a piece of paper, pausing every two minutes to remember. Your memory isn’t what it used to be. But you try anyway.
We sing the songs filled with sadness,
Songs with lyrics written in silence
any blotched greenery has
the potential to burst
forth into flower.
Red shift Dark-moon cry of you half-him of you, starring backwards axe of you, mastered as youth Teeth of you biting down, tenderizing, sharpening if only for a night The many-fold you, thorns, garden, squall of you, intoxication Thief, the noble cat of you, insistent splinter The wild-world’s red eyes beating in you Me wrenched…
On the riverbank. In the corridor. In the
laugh ache. In the small hours. On the
station platform. In the stomach churn
on the way home.
My bones willow and bite.
My lungs are a workshop. The thing is, I
want to be both engine and earth.
I find the process of actually writing fiction to be like some sort of mysterious alchemy. You have a plan and then what actually comes out is completely different.
A glimpse into a young woman’s summer working in a quaint town in Provence on the night of an open-air concert.
I ask my body ‘what is life?’ it says ‘dance’
because dance is a way the body finds liberation
through lyrics, solace in songs, an overeager mosaic
of marinated moments & coralled colours colliding.
you slid once more into my dreams
so real i woke and called your name
it was that hour so close to dawn
the world doesn’t know if it’s coming or going
Wonderful insights into the books you should be reading while self-isolating, from passionate book instagrammer Miriam Gauntlett.