Joking Doesn’t Always Work : Elizabeth Starr #WorldPoetryDay

head talks

Some days I feel the poetry looming tossing turning in its bed

A wriggling free of ecstasy I can’t quite cram into my head


Other days I just feel nothing and bite the pillow hard

And wish I had a thought to give, some feeling to discard


And there are days I want to scream and roaring shout out from a rock

And envision curling on the floor stuffing silence with a sock


The days when I feel hollow are the days loved least of all

A draining carved out cavern through which I swooning fall


I tender turn these feelings, each on their separate days

And marvel at the mysteries that makes me feel this way


I can’t quite dissect my long respect of good humour from my pain

Its all in jest and yet at best, my joking is in vain

Requiem : A Collection By Izaak Bosman #WorldPoetryDay

head talks

The First Vision

It is as if
They are now victims
Of some obscene assault

Strung up like highway men
Or black bodies in the South

Scorched by a seductive destruction
And set aflame by want
Of a real wasteland

It is already there in the twisted
Minds of the preachers
Of the rustbelt’s weary revival
Where rotten fruit is devoured still
By men that would snatch it
From beneath the naked feet
Of women and feral children

They are all in agony
Ancient-eyed as the metamorphoses of something
So abhorrently familiar
Dissolves below in the dreary, dreadful water
And they feel it burning but dare not hear it speak


Poison Moonlight

It’s like some kind of soul searching,
Spirit lurching,
Primal lust for purpose
Which flies from the body
With a faux-shoddy stress
Like blood from a gaping wound.

It will outrun your tired brain,
Your pain-pale flesh veil and veins,
And you will think that it is paradise
As you dance to the sound of the horses.

Shiver, grow weary of the ceaseless chase,
Sick and sick of preserving a shallow grace
That kills your body of flesh and bone,
As a stinging moonlight guides you home.

Yet to have known it for a fleeting moment
Is an ethereal bestowment that can never spoil
Like the language of manly sin that rips from the heart,
Or rises like the waves upon a silver-tongued sea.

Memoirs for Pallas Athene

Suffocated – suffering sour grace,
The solemn rain presses hard against
The face of a queer, quiet man
In the thoroughfare.

There, under a spider-like sun
He had proudly spun the likeness of a Goddess
On the pavement,
And bound the eternal enslavement of form forever.
But he did not see the clouds rise together,
And only when the rain began to lather
The gathered dust did he yowl
Like a wolf with a hole in its side.

This is where I saw him, struggling in the street.
Our eyes did not meet, but I believe
He will come again in the morning,
Once he has grieved for Pallas Athene.

AA – Alcoholics Ancestry : Rachelle Cox #WorldPoetryDay

head talks

The oldest memories I have lead back to the age of 4 years old
I’m sitting at the bar of a pub my parents used to own
in a booster seat
my father commanding my mother around like she’s some sort of
twisted cinderella
watching them like a game of cat and mouse
that not even Tom and Jerry would want to join in

By the time I was 15 my mother had already had 4 nervous breakdowns
3 suicide attempts, endless trips to the hospital
and an addiction to alcohol
my father, anger issues he used to drink away and shrug
what use is a child in a situation of desperation
when the ones who are supposed to look after you
are the ones causing you despair

Flashbacks to sounds of 3am stumbling
turned into storms that were thundering
through the eyes of a 6 year old
my mother’s ghostly pale eyes haunted me like a nightmare
that I still wake up from
I remember looking at her wondering
if I even know the person stood in front of me
to this day, I’m still unsure

13 years old, I remember wiping away spit off my face
from the mouth of my mother
her vicious words attacking my pores
like they are clogged with too many opinions
but she meant no harm
the next day she does not remember
but how could I ever forget

My sister’s 18th birthday
she decided to throw a party
cake, champagne, close friends
a night to remember
So Cinderella went to the ball
but then the clock hit 12 and the spell came undone
my mum lying on the floor passed out
from her blood alcohol content
the 16 year old hiding in her room
anxiously awaiting for it all to end
I am still anxiously waiting

Some side effects of bipolar disorder are high-risk behaviours such as
spending sprees, drug or alcohol dependency, suicide attempts,
memory loss, forgetting about your responsibilities,
forgetting that you have children to look after,
not recognizing the fear on their faces that you caused

You used to be drunk in love with the family you created,
now you’re hungover stumbling on the mess you made
Mum, I do not hate you
I cannot imagine what demons you are fighting inside
and how brave you are being
but please forgive me if I cannot forget
the nightmares of a child in the back of my mind
when she is still living inside of me

The rest of my family,
oblivious to what is going on under these four walls
name-calling of “over-dramatic” and “attention seeking”
when I would cry out for help
thrown my way as a child
I have learned to be silenced from a young age

I do not want to talk about my own mental health
when my mother’s has been so blatantly ignored
and you know there’s irony
when you feel more comfortable around the baristas at starbucks
than your own family

Family traits run blood thick
and this is how I became the heir
of poor mental health
and crippling anxiety that I never asked for
but inheritance is inevitable

Wolf : Lucy Harbron #WorldPoetryDay

head talks

I emerged
grey and screaming. Howling
my wolf’s howl;
calling to a mother that didn’t understand
and a father that looked on with drooped eyes,
blinking hard, as if to wake up and try it all again.

I lay in their arms but itched
irritated, their soft unbroken skin catching
under my crowning claws.
I guess he saw them first.
Only holding me briefly, never to let me pierce;
never to let me mark him,
for that might make it real, I harm
therefore I am.

I learnt to walk on my hind legs as told,
clipped my nails, hid my fur.
They adapted as all did and held me when I was hurt,
hunted me when I hurt them.
I saw myself, gradually, in the mirror;
saw the forest fires in my eyes,
the habitual predator looking back from me,
the eyes of my father blazing
from my face, a sheep’s face
with wolf eyes.

I growled as I heard him growl at midnight,
every third Tuesday when I would not sleep.
I ate as he ate, when one fell behind.
I grew teeth as he’d bite.
I took his coat;
wrapped in it, swaddled like a baby
merging with the instincts of their parents.
I evolved as he did, for if you wear a coat so long
it becomes yours.

Alone in a pack, I transform
as he challenged me to,
White wool to grey fur in the full moon
of a living room lamp.

Protest : Fred Ostrovskis #WorldPoetryDay

head talks

We are all ants.
Some of us run further
from the safety of the colony
but we are always
under the shadow of a boot.
Our backs ache.
We carry food and shelter
and worry and pain
as we scuttle through undergrowth
and drown in rain.
We lose ourselves.
Or at least our thoughts
disappear in droves,
Taken by those who don’t
want us to know that
one million ants
are much bigger
than a boot.

Social (Me)dia : Tayla Halfacre #WorldPoetryDay

head talks

This field in its excess:
Vast and overwhelming.
A life within a life that stops
A life that can be lived like a
life should be.

A distorted mirror with vague
Cracks and marks in abundance
Nothing more than a small boost:
Nothing less than what could be.

“But you said it ‘could be’?”
“Does that mean it is?”
Mixed up, it’s mixed up (I feel sick)
Like; like; like; like; like
I could be more than this.

The searching never stops.
(Now considering locks…)
To take off again (and again)
So much for sharing…