Tissues之

haiku, Poetry

Hey guys! So whilst the weather in London has been getting better, I’ve been ill! (Yay (!) ) I’m not quite up to writing a full blog post, but like I said at the beginning of the year, I am putting out a new post on Sundays no matter what! So, here’s a little haiku about being ill. Enjoy!

Ode to my broken piano

Poetry
On the days that I do not love you
my love looks nothing like love.
In fact, it looks much like
not quite
the opposite
but an
in between state:
A half-working key,
an almost soundless note
pressed against my finger-tips.

Tongue

free verse, Poetry, Small Poems

Yay! Double digits – 10 poems in

I think what I’ve gotten out of NaNoWriMo is realising that not all poems need to have a deep meaning behind them, and you can just write a poem for the sake of writing a poem. So, with that in mind, I chose to write this poem about how my taste in food has changed since I was a kid.

Things I’ve heard people say in London

free verse, Poetry, Small Poems

Wow, already more than two weeks in! For everyone doing NaNoWriMo, or trying to achieve any kind of goal this month — keep it up!!

It’s been a bit difficult to keep on top of things as a student, but being a student means you also move around a lot. I’m currently in London, and so this poem was inspired by things I’ve heard people say around me so far.

If Love was human

haiku, Poetry

The final Savannah Brown writing prompt is:

Make it human

I decided to write a haiku today, since I’ve recently been contemplating how this genre of poetry is so good at conveying so much in so little a space.


the L illusion

Poetry

Today’s Savannah Brown writing prompt is:

How would someone else do it?


the L illusion

I have noted in these past few nights,
that Confidence is not found in the usual places;
it is not found inside another person
between cracks and small openings,
between the rust and rubble of
someone’s dampened heart,
or broken art,
but rather among
Ls:

leather, lipstick and lingerie

— and no, I don’t list these because I am an object,
but rather because I am creating one.

I am creating the L illusion,
the mathematical formula for Confidence,
the concocted potion in a witch’s pot,
as my hot, boiling broth of
newly found esteem,
spills over the edges,
rising in steam,
and falling onto the floor
only to be caught in my palms.

I take a sip of the potion.
The formula flashes before my eyes:

leather jacket + red lipstick + lingerie = the L illusion,
of confidence.

 


This poem was written as part of National Novel Writing Month 2017 [Day 13, Poem #7]

Culture

Poetry

New week, new poems! The writing prompt for today is:

A very small object


Culture

Priyanka means ‘beautiful’,
in a language I can call my own,
it is fun to curl next to my Culture at night,
to be able to call it home.

Many people envy that,
they do not have such a Bubble,
maybe it is because they must find their culture,
in other people’s rubble.

The roof of the house only came crashing down,
I tell them,
because one of your ancestors wanted Greed.
They wanted more than they could bargain for,
and so their limits they did exceed.

Their house grew and grew until it could fit no more,
whilst people of my culture,
were left to wash the floors.

Now, my home is beautiful,
with bright colours and small trinkets,
it has been enhanced.
Perhaps that is why the Names that live here,
are more freely able to dance.

 

 


This poem was written as part of National Novel Writing Month 2017 [Day 12, Poem #6]

Remember

Poetry

This was originally meant to be posted yesterday, but my internet crashed

I thought it was appropriate on Remembrance Day, to write a poem around that theme.


Remember

If I am to remember,
what does that truly mean?

Does it mean to remember the guns fired,
to watch the scarlet blood gleam,
or to touch the spirits who are still alive today,
and hold them in high esteem?

If I am to remember,
what am I to forget?
For it is difficult to say I am sorry,
when we have never met.

If the poppy grows in barren lands,
where do memories grow?

The brain does not work like a field,
but poppies don’t either, I bet.
Where does Time go when it comes home,
made old by rust and regret?

 


This was written as part of National Novel Writing Month 2017 [Day 11, Poem #5]