Between sleep and wake Lives Dora Unfurling her thoughts like swash Or a thousand doll houses Too many jumpers all with loose threads
Between the lime and moss Dora’s perch sits between shades of evergreen Shards, like an aphoristic sneeze Undaunted by cauliflower white spots petalled as if signalling by semaphore
Dora never touches the ground epiphytic as a library book As and when onset gets her keeling body like floss in a toe The plush stools cup and curl her thoughts Intruding letters overcompensate Leek dots from finger tips
Anita is starting a PhD in creative writing at MMU through the Leverhulme Trust LUDeC programme. @anitainwnderlnd
Flowers, frivolous and opaque, Hide themselves like a bicycle bell. They, like many, Cannot control other’s admiration, Their assumption, How they dilute the image of you in their minds, And try to print you like a pattern, Like wallpaper. But flowers are not wallpaper, They are seeds, That crushed can nourish, That wild can overtake, That allowed to can be the whole damn system, Every cog, And every beauty in between.
Amy originally studied Archaeology and has a Masters in Social Anthropology at Edinburgh. She is back in London now, where she comes from, and currently works as a Digital Content Assistant for the charity BookTrust. She loves to travel and to write, and has recently started a blog to share her articles and poetry called dlohere. She is also currently trying to learn Italian.
Begin again, Go home, Do not pass Go, Do not collect £200. Don’t leave a note, Await orders, For the next time, For the last time? No, settle in, Make roots, Don’t look back, There is nothing to look for, You might not like what you find. Only forward matters, Look to the horizon, The city you protect, Backwards always falls through. The mask is warm, It has no past, No name. The mask is yours, The mask doesn’t wonder, About before, Or about after. Be alone in the moment, Untouched, unmoored. Then, now, later. Wonder, wander, Wonder, wander, Begin again.
Amy originally studied Archaeology and has a Masters in Social Anthropology at Edinburgh. She is back in London now, where she comes from, and currently works as a Digital Content Assistant for the charity BookTrust. She loves to travel and to write, and has recently started a blog to share her articles and poetry called dlohere. She is also currently trying to learn Italian.
Received, a blank babe. Red or white, Fate sealed in wax, Trapped in it like an insect, You decide, you decide, they decide for you.
Where is the art in this? Where is the boy? The girl? The other? The lost? They are too found, Too wanted.
Weeping if found, Weeping if lost, All blurred together, In one indistinguishable sooty fingerprint, On a brooch, On a scrap of fabric, On a child.
Would I come back? Would I want her to come back?
An army approaches, Of pattering feet, An army of caped saviours, An army of voices, Singing and living and going on and through and beyond, Beyond the red cloth and wax seal and beyond the token.
Amy originally studied Archaeology and has a Masters in Social Anthropology at Edinburgh. She is back in London now, where she comes from, and currently works as a Digital Content Assistant for the charity BookTrust. She loves to travel and to write, and has recently started a blog to share her articles and poetry called dlohere. She is also currently trying to learn Italian.
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 UnsplashAmy 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!
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 UnsplashAnita 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!
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.
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?.
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
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.
I heard a rumour that April was the cruelest month Perhaps we mistake its love for dust And its hugs for must That envelops my skin Cluttering what I think As spring makes an early promise I step out each day As care Towards my present Particles of dust Participants along my walk Help me with a study of the past
My eyes itch But early bloom lets me see a future Filled with see you soons
Anita is a writer of all sorts. She has a background in Sociology and Gender Studies. Her main creative pursuits include poetry, short fiction, and articles on social and cultural topics. She often likes to play with the boundaries of fiction and non-fiction, exploring the liminal spaces between these styles. She’ll be updating this column weekly, with fresh, topical discussions about what’s on her mind. Stay tuned!
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!
Assemblage Collective 