Muse |
Muse |
The spiders have been weaving in the night And hung up their threads in the morning light Hoping to avoid attention from the wandering eye And ensnare the beats of an unsuspecting fly. From there begins the dinner dance And from which the flies escape only by chance. The spiders orchestrate a silken dress And store it among boughs of silver tress. Originally written in July 2022, age 26
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The trees are fairy, With their spindles reaching to the sky To fly. Or hands that stretch into A thousand fingers Or veins of a lung waiting For a sparkle of crisp air To breathe in and gasp At the surprise Of light. Delicate roots yawn and At dawn come alive, The bugs and beetles Dart far east and west Where the wind blows Steadily. Buds close their scent-selling Stalls for the night, Their customers buzz back to Their hive. The calm lilac of the sun As dusk arrives on the Horizon and birds flutter Home to hide in the Nooks of their cousins, Mystical trees. Originally written in 2012, age 17
The water shivers starlight waves Toward the emerald island it craves Where nesting geese and swans it saves And echoes breathe across the boating lake. Soft steps shuffle a carousel sound Of an imperfect centrifugal motion round Whilst geese wings with goslings pound And echoes breathe across the boating lake. During golden days in the grass it naps Whilst a goat oar shimmers hazily as it laps In the age of phones and bottle caps And echoes breathe across the boating lake. A flurry of fishing rods dance and catch Next to smoking tents that puff on the latch Whilst fielding feet play a cricket match And echoes breathe across the boating lake. Originally written May 2022, age 26
Flecks break out at the neck, Fire streaks across the breast. Dash! The enemy invades in black: Raven, not Robin; he only passes by, A neighbour of his majesty. Take off again. Return home. Arrival of the fittest; Leaves blow out in a fan as they land. Colonel does his cockerel march, Foraging in grass: As if in old honour, he bears feathers, Along with his combed hair and swaying beard He looks a gentleman of hens, Victorian and proud. Wattle and daub are there to house! Cuddle in the coop and stay warm. The Queen is about: Up and out, up and out. “Victory is yours!” Corn is the just reward. Photo by Wolfgang Hasselmann on Unsplash Originally written in January 2022, age 16
Iron filings have a tendency to run. Sandy; they go to see, Fuss and feathers, all in one. Reach the gathering in time, Rise and fall with the tide. Move on now, follow the line. Speckles in snow, Amber in eyes, Gone at sunset, back at sunrise. Combed and ready to crow, With a beard, sing: It draws in like a magnet, what a show! Originally written January 2012, age 16
In the morning, crocuses spawn from the soil like coral on a reef; soon to bloom their lilac cups, where sparks fly as fireflies sitting in the tea leaves.
In the day, seagulls flash their white wings in a hush, a snow flurry heading towards the river, quivering in the breeze, swirling round as a fowl tornado. In the evening, the lights of houses twinkle like stars in the night sky, and before me they peek out from behind trees as I walk past, along the lamplit path through the park. The sun adorns the gold leaf strands of spider webs hanging in the trellis squares of my summerhouse. The squares are imperfect with a slight lean backward. A sudden gust blows the leaves and shoots them into the sky, making them rain down on my lawn; waving as they go, they land softly in chocolate curls, crunchy from the cold. The grass quivers with the breeze and the pink kaffir lilies flail their leaves as if dancing in the air, elevated atop a three tier planter. The bird feeder sways forward, bent by countless pigeons perching on its arms. The citronella spreads its tendrils out across the fence, looking like the dappled shade in a forest, green with pops of bright yellow, sun buds. The clouds go past, travelling on their own airport ground belts; effortless. The daffodils are stretching up from the ground, yawning and bleary-eyed after a long sleep; their eyes will open in a yellow firework in Spring, not long to wait for the show. The granny's bonnet and cat mint are already crawling out to join the daffodils, still in their infancy but bringing the promise of new life. And so I drink my earl grey from my favourite mug and look out across my garden, in awe. I am thankful.
The carrot with its elongated waist Stretches out its leg, down through the earth, Grounded, Patient as it swells over time, Sprouting hairy roots like stubble on a chin, Although soft and flaky, Easy to break and to peel. Yet it stretches still, Down into the depths of worm-chewed soil And then up toward the surface Where the rain falls Washing, eventually, the brow of the carrot's head From which its spikey hair has already exploded Like an overflowing froth of green Reaching toward the sun. Then grounded. Now pulled, chopped, boiled, It makes its way into my mouth, Fresh and delicious; An orange bliss. This poem was written as a part of an exercise from a workshop "Creative Writing for Self-care" run by the University of Birmingham's UoBe Festival. The first line "The carrot with its elongated waist" is paraphrased from the poem Gratitude by Mary Oliver, and inspired my poem The carrot.
I like it when it's sunny, It makes me feel alive; I like it when the trees are green, It means I can survive. But no, the trees are falling down, Too soon has autumn come around, The leaves are dying on the ground, Screaming out; there is no sound. No flutter of the heart as one skips through the dappled shade, Wrapt in the wonder of such beatific rays, Through the embracing green That we all should have seen, On those boughs; my, aren't they strong! Not able to sit among an elder and ponder, Nor to watch the clouds float by on a summer's breeze, When all the while you fly still in the trees. Of all the meaning in these gifts, We instead plump for mere pips, We strip the trunks bare and limit out air, Signing the death warrant before it's been ironed. Originally written in 2015, age 19
Rising as the body breathes, In and out the leaves Like a winding thought Taking flight To a soaring height. Scattered as seeds on a furrowed cloud Shimmering by on a pure thought Carried innocent as the grass blows Unassuming, unquestioning, Unconditional Beauty. Arrow heads shower the sky, Darting Between the parting of a breeze Swirling through the air with ease To a song of peace. In perpetual motion, A centrifugal notion unfolds the mind Blossoming in fluid iron filings Undulating on a moorish wave. Slate against the sky, fragmented; A grey hue, cracked like rock Ribboned with lichen stars In a mosaic formation That crumbles still, eternal. The eyes of this storm Glisten black as the night falls On the lungs bursting out in bark Branching further into the dark, It settles as dusk dies into the soil. Originally written June 2020, age 24
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AuthorSamantha is a doctoral researcher researching the power of figurative language in advertising, social media, and mobile technology. Copyright © 2022
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