Vida Adamczewski – Poetry Weekly
We leave bits of our bodies everywhere which means the hoover is always full of skin She spent the morning pulling his hair out of the plughole Felted into fibre glass, her hair Chokes up the hairbrush. When she is half awake, She dreams about it falling out in clumps. She’d look odd bald; an
Tomorrow: A Blueprint
Kerbside, night, and someone who’s not quite you, don’t worry, I’m not quite me either. and rain, and left a taxi pulls away, with that where’s-home ache in its eyes. she’ll light a cigarette, her hands cradling warmth: need met in clinging. oh and neon draped like a frame, meaning somethi
THE EYING OF MY SCARS
“Collection of Sylvia Plath’s possessions to be sold at auction” reads Tuesday’s Guardian. Up for grabs are the proof copy of Plath’s novel The Bell Jar (1963) and her pre-publication author’s copy. Both are written on: her proof edition is “carefully corrected”, and her author’s c
Short Poems
Amongst the sprawling fragments of prose and poetry which make up William Carlos Williams’ Spring and All (1923) lies the following: so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain water beside the white chickens Everything about the presentation of these lines is u
Far Away
What are you doing just now? Perhaps you’re rinsing a coffee cup Warm water caressing your hands Sea waves lap over ankles Deliberately digging your toes into the sand Speaking with a relative And something they say confirms that hope or fear you have about these days. Sunk in the sofa with siblin
Intimacy Without Love
Intimacy without love – a concept we all come across but which could sometimes do with more exploratory thought. What does it mean to be intimate without love and what emptiness, fullness or self-discovery can it bring? Naomi Pacific wrote a song on the subject, modelled in part on Sharon Olds’
My Sister Says the Strangest Things
Press play to listen the accompanying music as you read… Where was I? On the top of the night bus, coming back home. Pretty empty, in fact basically empty, which usually makes me nervous – you know? – like remember that story that used to go round school about the kid who got ruffied by [&
A Voice in the Storm
I’m on the black list over there, all of my books are banned… But I must always be faithful to the truth and to myself, no matter where I am. Stranded thousands of miles away from her family, her friends and her countrymen, the Syrian poet Maram al-Masri draws her strength from an unwavering
Double Sorrow
Look, our careless sleep has laid the world to siege. Morning thrusts its tattered sails like white surrenders into this, our dream, our winter palace, while spores of mustard gas steal homeward from the breach so we might taste our cruelty with those towns strung out all night