does my bad writing make you scared?
This morning over Facebook messenger, my father told me he hadn’t yet read my Master’s work because he feared I couldn’t write well. His fears may be founded. Instead, I told him I was an excellent writer; the best writer. Which isn’t true of course, I just wanted to entice him.
I would love to be an excellent writer. It is nice to be good at things. But almost more wondrous is being bad at something and choosing to engage in it anyways. For years I have continued to run poorly, make almost inedible pancakes, cut my nails too short, and play an inconsistent game of tennis.
Integral to my internet renunciation is an increased level of vulnerability. Raising the stakes, so to say. Remember when I spoke of my fear of the internet? Well, today I am getting up on stage at the online open-mic night and sharing my poorly written, unfinished poetry. Hold your snaps.
These poems(?) span between the autumn of 2021 and last week. For now, I will abandon my untrue, completely made-up lifelong dreams of being a published poet. I will simply settle for my own, self-published blog.
I welcome you to indulge in this work, and maybe have a laugh, cry, or even holler at the state of my writing.
I implore you to actually.
Selection One A Dedication to Irish Sheep (Winter, 2024)
i cower under the circumstance
that you would find me,
small and inconceivable.
i get shy, on the mountain;
the hills, humbling.
i be a sheep
with my little wool coat.
fitting into each curve
exactly with the herd.
and I, I wouldn’t think
at all of the outside world.
the only predator unknown.
fiending for me and my friends.
we’d scurry up ledge.
Selection Two Unfinished Poem for my Dog #1 (Winter, 2025)
i know you hate
the smell of women in our building -
when the elevator wafts.
but, i love them.
Selection Three Mourning Routine (Winter, 2022)
start the day – sensitive of
orange blossom, biotin and braces
soft sleepy
dreams of
clavicle, cashmere and cowl-neck
last spring
you slid satin
easily
over elastic shoulders.
sensitive of morning.
i wait for a sign (or voicemail).
sensitive of mourning.
Selection Four Unfinished Poem for my Dog #2 (Late 2024)
we strive not to pull and not to tug
but to guide -
or be guided
like gods dog
across the nights sky
Selection Five For Un-Lovers with Limited Remorse (Autumn, 2021)
i wrote a letter.
i watched the pen.
i sprayed the scent.
my two hands.
my untouched body (down the sidewalk and to the postbox)
danced across the light
and dolloped orange blossom.
your mail.
your nerve.
to ask about my letter -
to ask why i respond?
my letter, my scent.
your nerve, your question.
an attempt to know me.
Selection Six Excerpt from: Symbiosis (Autumn, 2021)
beneath rolling hills
i would look up to see
myself, looking down
at how I have appeared - looking up.
whose time travel becomes blurred in fast moving skies?
is it a whisper? or a shout?
when i say: i want to be buried beneath.
not a real end but
an intertwining of being.
a symbolic -
symbiotic,
break in the day.
i may need sunlight to be
tucked in neatly under straw - breathless and heavy.
Thanks for humouring me!
xoxo, anna