It's easy to write months and forget
the minutiae of minutes,
hours, seconds. Days.
It's easy to write six months on a page
and let them pass by - merely
the distance of one space
and nine letters.
It's easy to write
You will be gone for six months
and believe in the bridging power
of ink, paper, pixels,
spanning the concept of a sea.
But the reader knows that words are eternal,
time means nothing in a book,
and I do not have the luxury of living
within the page, beyond
the sluggish tick-over of time.
You will be gone for six months,
but really,
you will just be gone.
There is no call
for the absence of my voice.
Silence is spacious
and I am tucked into the corner.
I do not have ticking clocks
or a watch on my wrist;
it is easy to believe
I am not waiting
for anything to happen.
I am listening to notes that press fingers
into nerves. Melodies push buttons,
dialling the number for the room where
my heart lies, idle, gazing at blank plaster
and trying to find shadows
where there is no light.
Telephone music sounds all-too-often
like the voice that is supposed to be
at the other end.
Are there mockingbirds in the speakers,
or do they nest in my ribcage?
Sharp beaks tear at vital organs a
You say I am silly to love
your hair (and I know sometimes you mean
to omit the last five letters).
But I have waited years
for hair that I can weave my fingers through
as joyfully as I thread them
through the rain after summer's thirst;
hair that I can sweep aside
as I do the curtains on my birthday,
revealing the gift long hoped-
yet unasked-for;
hair that I can tangle with my hands
the way I knot my fingers
into promises made with a child's
optimism, faith.
You say I am silly
to love your hair.
But I tell you I love you, and sometimes
I say it with five extra letters.
I hurl raindrops at your chest
of earth. Gravity lends them weight
they splatter; the dry dirt
is scattered.
You watch my eyes, the deluge pouring
from clenching skies. There is a storm
beating you, water doing its best to dent
your surface. Nothing grows
in soil so firmly fixed.
I do not know
how else to move you, mould you,
disturb and shape you.
I wish this was not what it takes:
a monsoon, a flood, so much water
-damage to re-form
your settled landscape.
Last night I swept my hands through the sky
and pricked my fingers on stars.
Here. I will show you the holes
pierced and cauterised by points of light.
You look at me and I can see
myself, reflected in the dancing glimmer
of your eyes: all soft curves
and diamond smiles and skin like jasmine
or baby's breath. And you,
you are a constellation
or maybe an entire shimmering galaxy.
You touch my wounds
and I ask, did you know
that beautiful things
hurt?
Advice for the Timekeeper by arliddian, literature
Literature
Advice for the Timekeeper
Caressing an hourglass and counting
each grain of time-soaked sand
does not make the seconds
more precious, more poignant,
more perfect.
Throw away the clocks.
Time is nothing
with no-one to measure it;
Forever has no need
for a personal assistant.
Mathematicians are not magicians.
Stop taking note of the numerals on your wrist.
Do not watch my hands
as they circle your face.
Close your eyes. Hours can pass
in one kiss. It does not matter.
Forget preoccupations
with firsts and lasts: numbers
only tell us what we know and have known:
We are here,
I wear false teeth,
set in a white-washed grin:
my company teeth, for the business
of being with people.
You shake your head and your hands
form pliers, a chisel, a mallet.
You chip at my cemented smile, snapping
porcelain masquerading as bone.
Your lightest touch has the force
of a bird-laden, star-twirling fist.
I did not know it would hurt so much
to lose a part of me that never was
my self.
Your heart is pressed against
my shoulder-blades, the steady beat
of wings. I am no longer afraid
of gravity: together,
you and I are defiant
in the face of heights.
What I am looking forward to by arliddian, literature
Literature
What I am looking forward to
Boxes. Too many boxes, and not enough
time to arrange the furniture.
Arguments over the best place to put
the crockery, the television, my books,
your hands. Pressing my clothes, smoothing wrinkles
from your shirts with a second-hand iron.
Dishes, piled in the sink and waiting
for you. My lips, formed around words that are
sharp, like fingernails. Your eyes,
bright behind glasses and the pain of scratch wounds.
Choking on a mouthful of pride,
unable to swallow. Delayed forgiveness.
You, sulking. You, refusing to speak. You,
tousle-haired and bleary-eyed in the morning, still
sulking. Slamming the bedroom door and crying. Undress
This heavy emotion, it is
something cold
and amphibious; unblinking, pulsing
voice steady in the rain as well
as under deserted skies.
It crawled over my chest. I tried
pushing it off, but webbed feet are sticky.
Change of tactics ignorance
didnt work; that rhythmic breathing
and damply throbbing skin proved too distracting.
I tried to kiss it
goodbye (fairytale transformation
I hear it is most rewarding),
but as I leaned down it leapt
down my throat.
Now I cannot answer you
without choking. My words
must squeeze past,
slippery and pressed flat.
It's easy to write months and forget
the minutiae of minutes,
hours, seconds. Days.
It's easy to write six months on a page
and let them pass by - merely
the distance of one space
and nine letters.
It's easy to write
You will be gone for six months
and believe in the bridging power
of ink, paper, pixels,
spanning the concept of a sea.
But the reader knows that words are eternal,
time means nothing in a book,
and I do not have the luxury of living
within the page, beyond
the sluggish tick-over of time.
You will be gone for six months,
but really,
you will just be gone.
There is no call
for the absence of my voice.
Silence is spacious
and I am tucked into the corner.
I do not have ticking clocks
or a watch on my wrist;
it is easy to believe
I am not waiting
for anything to happen.
I am listening to notes that press fingers
into nerves. Melodies push buttons,
dialling the number for the room where
my heart lies, idle, gazing at blank plaster
and trying to find shadows
where there is no light.
Telephone music sounds all-too-often
like the voice that is supposed to be
at the other end.
Are there mockingbirds in the speakers,
or do they nest in my ribcage?
Sharp beaks tear at vital organs a
You say I am silly to love
your hair (and I know sometimes you mean
to omit the last five letters).
But I have waited years
for hair that I can weave my fingers through
as joyfully as I thread them
through the rain after summer's thirst;
hair that I can sweep aside
as I do the curtains on my birthday,
revealing the gift long hoped-
yet unasked-for;
hair that I can tangle with my hands
the way I knot my fingers
into promises made with a child's
optimism, faith.
You say I am silly
to love your hair.
But I tell you I love you, and sometimes
I say it with five extra letters.
I hurl raindrops at your chest
of earth. Gravity lends them weight
they splatter; the dry dirt
is scattered.
You watch my eyes, the deluge pouring
from clenching skies. There is a storm
beating you, water doing its best to dent
your surface. Nothing grows
in soil so firmly fixed.
I do not know
how else to move you, mould you,
disturb and shape you.
I wish this was not what it takes:
a monsoon, a flood, so much water
-damage to re-form
your settled landscape.
Last night I swept my hands through the sky
and pricked my fingers on stars.
Here. I will show you the holes
pierced and cauterised by points of light.
You look at me and I can see
myself, reflected in the dancing glimmer
of your eyes: all soft curves
and diamond smiles and skin like jasmine
or baby's breath. And you,
you are a constellation
or maybe an entire shimmering galaxy.
You touch my wounds
and I ask, did you know
that beautiful things
hurt?
Advice for the Timekeeper by arliddian, literature
Literature
Advice for the Timekeeper
Caressing an hourglass and counting
each grain of time-soaked sand
does not make the seconds
more precious, more poignant,
more perfect.
Throw away the clocks.
Time is nothing
with no-one to measure it;
Forever has no need
for a personal assistant.
Mathematicians are not magicians.
Stop taking note of the numerals on your wrist.
Do not watch my hands
as they circle your face.
Close your eyes. Hours can pass
in one kiss. It does not matter.
Forget preoccupations
with firsts and lasts: numbers
only tell us what we know and have known:
We are here,
Your heart is pressed against
my shoulder-blades, the steady beat
of wings. I am no longer afraid
of gravity: together,
you and I are defiant
in the face of heights.
What I am looking forward to by arliddian, literature
Literature
What I am looking forward to
Boxes. Too many boxes, and not enough
time to arrange the furniture.
Arguments over the best place to put
the crockery, the television, my books,
your hands. Pressing my clothes, smoothing wrinkles
from your shirts with a second-hand iron.
Dishes, piled in the sink and waiting
for you. My lips, formed around words that are
sharp, like fingernails. Your eyes,
bright behind glasses and the pain of scratch wounds.
Choking on a mouthful of pride,
unable to swallow. Delayed forgiveness.
You, sulking. You, refusing to speak. You,
tousle-haired and bleary-eyed in the morning, still
sulking. Slamming the bedroom door and crying. Undress
How heavy it is, all this wait
-ing. It is a book balanced on my
head, thick with a story
with two familiar protagonists
and a mystery plot,
adjusting my posture,
cautioning my steps.
After all this time, my straightened spine
is almost natural and yet,
I long to set this story on the table,
stop carrying it and
read.
This is how I love you... by arliddian, literature
Literature
This is how I love you...
By staring defiantly at passing cars,
face glistening under traffic lights
because you did not come.
Stopping at the top of the hill,
blinking at the moon like a TV genie
attempting to make you appear.
By trying to squeeze blood from
my pillow, like that is what it takes to
kill. By using scissors to hack
off my shadow and chase it away,
hoping it dogs you instead,
your own faded ghost.
By ignoring the part of your message that says
Im sorry, then crying because
you did not apologise. By touching my ribcage
and wondering if this feeling is
a heart attack, or something a little more
serious. A cave-in, or ma
it's an introduction without contact
but I still sense that
same spark
which speaks
with trembling hands
while tongue-tied hopes
hold heart's half-plans
in the freedom of finer points
forgotten
and suppose you find
your old skin surprises
stretched taught (new tricks)
sweat slick
swallowing the night
like it never did
(comfortably)
sure
if ever you were close
we'd pick each others poison
perfect inebriation
and initiate that trouble you've been longing for
but you'd find me
already
punch-drunk on proximity
all awkward arms
secret smiles
and nervous laughter
revealing
I make plans like promises
I want you
in the dark
watching
stars
fall
not balancing
the distance
between
another arm's
embrace
I want you
on the hard ground
in the middle
of the lake
my hips' width
pressed
against your
length
[our sitting
setting
center stage]
I want you
in so many appropriate
inappropriate
ways
I
can't
help
I want us
all
entangled limbs
lost (in) ourselves
I am dancing on a tightrope,
springing toes eloping with
the gentle slope, the soft incline.
My hands are warm, entwined with air
that faintly shines (still echoing
with your delight). My fingers smile.
And as you sing, your sunset words
now send me undeterred to meet
the height of birds. And step for step,
no fear and no regrets have I:
my safety net--it is the sky.
Well, hello. It's been a while, hasn't it?
1. I wrote a poem. It is the first complete poem I have written in over a year.
2. There are poem-pieces in my old pink notebook, and I am thinking that I need to create the rest of the pieces so that they can be whole. This may or may not be one of those ideas that never take flight.
3. I have been in a relationship for one year, ten months and sixteen days. If we're lucky, it will keep going until I've lost the ability to count.
4. Doctor Who (the revival) is the only television shows that I feel particularly motivated to collect on DVD.
5. Holidays are even better when spent enjoyably product
1. My poem, Words omitted from my last email, has been featured as a DLD by DailyLitDeviations (https://www.deviantart.com/dailylitdeviations). The article is here. I'm quite chuffed! Thank you!
2. I have not yet seen Star Trek, and this makes me a little bit sad.
3. I have two exams to go and then the semester will be over: Politics & the Media, and Law of Contract. I am feeling apprehensive about both exams, but am more optimistic about Contract.
4. After a long dry spell, I have been writing reasonably consistently for the past couple of months. Chalk it up to a new inspiration, one that I never thought I'd have. :)
5. There are few things more comforting on a cold night than a
1. I have a lot of poems to post. I was delaying because I plan to give them to someone and I was originally going to wait until he saw them before posting them here... But I would really love some critique first so they will be as good as I can get them. The first of an 8-part series is in my gallery now, and I'd love for you to take a look and give me some feedback. :)
2. The new critique system makes me laugh a bit every time I see it. I'm not entirely sure why.
3. Uni semester is over in about four weeks. I can't wait until the holidays. I have a lot of movie marathons planned!
4. I have not been getting enough sleep because it seems t