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Blog

Tate Again

Peeking out over an inescapable mask,
I see once more,
Women draped over ornate couches,
Done with the world and its confinement,
And its clothes.
I see once more,
Disembodied faces meeting unhinged shapes,
Unsure, they attempt to devour one another.
I see once more,
Unlikely creatures emerging,
As if willed by the vacuum of imagination.
I see once more,
Ambiguous structures,
Soaring while more solid words explain little,
Of what, perhaps,
Should not be explained.
I see once more,
The collective embrace merge,
With joint resistance,
Forever twinned in a fleeting, nonchalant glance.
Feeling nill,
I wonder if I am measuring effort wrongly.

Photo by Mr Drone on Unsplash
Amy originally studied Archaeology but has just finished a Masters in Social Anthropology at Edinburgh. She is back in London now, where she’s from, and currently works part-time as an editor for a publisher. She loves to travel and write, and has a blog where she shares her articles and poetry called dlohere. She is also trying to learn Italian!
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Anita's Digest

like a dream

a puddle of thoughts weaved through like drains

open veins

where plastic light splays out onto my finger tips

nails as scratched doors

head dusted with yesterday’s borrowed thoughts

and any light bulb moments

flicker and effervesce

into frenzied 123am notes 

that dissipate as weary eyes 

move aside their morning glue

Photo by Giorgio Trovato on Unsplash
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Anita is a freelance journalist and writer with a background in Sociology and Gender Studies. She loves scribbling poems, writing articles about society and culture and drinking endless amounts of coffee!
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Blog spring

Lovesong for Spring

I wrote this sonnet in 2014 as part of a Year 9 class assignment. 7 years onwards, I still enjoy what I wrote – and in a way, this connects our February and March themes! I think it's healthy to let yourself be moved by your own work, and to appreciate the unique and personal memories of the process... I remember how I was inspired by the rhythm of Alexander Pope's Eloisa to Abelard, after watching the film Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.
Photo by Joel Holland on Unsplash

Lovesong for Spring

For season that gives bless’ed days in light,
Your comely looks will ever leave the shore;
For you a snowdrop land out for delight,
I wait and yearn for honeyed sound: amour.
Oh budding youth and binding honest smells,
No bird nor figure did evoke my mind;
Your sweet, your caprice tale in spring we tell,
Your dream of slumber wrote for me designed.
For you bloom lily, iris, rose with charm,
That dance, that laugh and soothe red eyes so sore;
So arrows cushion frays within your arms!
Complete devotion of my heart to yours.
By you my lonely heart shall be adored,
Go onwards, so our journey upwards soars.

Karen is a journalist and poet who loves music and photography. She is a third year student at King’s College London, and the Editor in Chief of The King’s Poet. In her second year, she also led King’s literary and poetry societies. Among other publications, her writing is published in Apple Daily, Roar News and Have You Eaten Yet?.
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Blog self love

Five miles only

For me, I don’t consciously think about self-love very often. Self love by my definition exists in the moments where I am able to stop and enjoy the natural milestones of the day such as the light: staring at the shadows of the trees on my carpet, experiencing the last light of day from my desk, especially when the sky is pink and orange and the churches are in silhouette. For me self-love is feeling mindful for those moments that break the banalities of life, amuse, inspire or calm my frantic working state. Experiencing these moments are essential for my functioning when each day seems to blend into the next. Internally, I hear myself saying “hmm… you can have SOME time for yourself but you also have a lot to do and will feel even worse if nothing is done today,” so for once I decided not to listen, closed the lid of my laptop and took to the wheel…

Five miles only?

Sealing the fields with the turning of wheels
Unfamiliar with undulations on this pilgrims route I hasten,
Birds of prey on telephone lines hypnotised by the blue beetle gliding
between furrows sown by motion alone, 
The milling of gravel under rubber, the vapour of  glass, the shine of steel
The mercy of the sea, the resting of the heel
Homesteads that peer over waning shoulders, church towers squinting on tip toes
Studying the milestone to nowhere, a monolith inscribed with good will alone
Faint sounds of barking orbiting around the metallic shell
An instinctual compass to rely on light, light that shares 
the way a flint might reveal its veins or the choice of a feather to sweep the bonnet

Warnings! Deer, frogs, children, the elderly 
Here I am, working towards the cliff like a chess piece in slow motion
Blessing the fields, farms, greens and crosses which ushered me towards
The sea broad and wild, the cliffs steep and mild,
A lighthouse illuminated by the sun only 
The epitome of the liberated lonely 
The tide is peeling back, the light is dying
She is gone and the vehicle is sighing 

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Jessica is a postgraduate student studying Building History at the University of Cambridge. She works as an Assistant Heritage Consultant for Purcell in the east of England but has previously worked in galleries based in York and Leeds. She loves nothing more than hopping on a train to visit towns, cities, and villages to spot interesting features that help tell the story of a place.

Categories
Blog

Journey of Self-Love

Whispered words of stripped timber,
Chanted like a spell under hot breaths,
Like a song hurried through and felt.
Quiet storm, do I want thee?
Do I want to be,
To be degraded as if in acid rain,
To be a reduced solution,
Part of it finally,
My affects wiped away,
Like paint chips journeying down the drain,
Accompanied only by a swelling of circumstance.

Perhaps it is good to be reduced,
Be forced towards childishness,
To have to inhabit a time,
When dreams were boundless,
And outside of reason,
A time before the weight of the appropriate and the likely.
Perhaps it is a needed antidote,
To the certainty and uncertainty of creeping adulthood,
Perhaps we should not grow up all at once,
But only in the useful branches,
And stay young and budding in a few varieties of ourselves.

And then I spy a hole,
Between here and my vibrancy.
For just a moment,
I can be excited, passionate, loud,
And I can see why and how, 
I can be all those things and more.
I have found that place,
Where I do not worry or weep,
For things I believe I am missing,
I do not get stuck in notions of futures,
Of missteps and inaction,
I am living in action,
And am free of the weight,
That before I let crush me on this side of the wall.

Amy originally studied Archaeology but has just finished a Masters in Social Anthropology at Edinburgh. She is back in London now, where she’s from, and currently works part-time as an editor for a publisher. She loves to travel and write, and has a blog where she shares her articles and poetry called dlohere. She is also trying to learn Italian!