Voice

I have
no voice

lost it, perhaps

or merely
forgotten it

This sickness
has changed me
is changing me

turning me
inside out

No
not like a hurricane
or a quick
tornado

More like
a piece of laundry
left out on the line
in a thunderstorm,
twisted out of shape

In the complicated
process
of freeing myself
I have forgotten
my song
forgotten
to sing

I am still
hanging limply
on the line
practicing
sounds
whispering
words
looking
for my voice
in the midst
of the loud
shrieking
of this illness

And I wonder
if
learning to listen
comes first

 

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A Warm Breath


I falter
a lot

Today


I have been
asking questions

Lots of why questions
Some when questions
Lots and lots
of what now questions

And then I felt myself falter
Yet again

I think sometimes
something
as innocent
as a warm breath
can cause a loss
of balance

Yes


But also
a missed
Heartbeat

And so I falter
and catch myself
without waiting
for that warm breath
or a reason
for my heart to beat

Today
I am a lover

of me.

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Today

I’m procrastinating. In my head lies unwritten poetry, unanswered letters and emails, and a “living with cancer” update.

However, mostly (in between taking pics of my dogs) I am reading. This book, in fact, and it’s one of the best stories I’ve read in awhile.

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Featured Publication – Metastatic by Jane Lovell

I was moved, impressed, and quite stricken with awe by these poems of Jane Lovell.

Our featured publication for February is Metastatic by Jane Lovell, published by Against the Grain Press.

Jane Lovell’s writing charts mysterious, unsettling trajectories: the invisible paths of bees, the journey of dead light, the routes found in folded and untied landscapes. These poems unmoor us, find beauty and strangeness in the everyday.’ Helen Mort

Jane Lovell’s poetry is rooted in the human body, which in turn is rooted in the earth, sheltered by the sky, and washed clean by the rain. This raw and unflinching collection reminds us that our lives are determined by natural processes, of which change and decay are as vital and relevant as new birth and growth.’ Katharine Norbury

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Thrush, Covent Garden, 1792

She has waited over two centuries
for sunlight, beak raised towards
the edge of the page

her nestful of eggs washed grey
and the song of lost days pressed

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