Monday, 18 December 2017

The One Where I Dream Of Justin Bieber.

Church camp. Summer 2018. Amurrica. Someplace near Philadelphia, I imagine. Picture it like the opening scene of an indie rom-com. Bruce Springsteen plays in the background as a Maserati pulls up to a peach farm. The classics are playing: Carlisle, Bowie, Bush. You'd think it was the 80's but it's not. The music stills to the unlatching of the car door and JB emerges from the metal, frowning. Possibly mad, possibly not. You could mistake it for squinting in that haze.

It is another blurred summer. Sunlight drenches the farmland in a liquid heat and I imagine that the peaches are the colour of this. Bite into one and perhaps it drips the very same thing the sun would if it was just as easily digestible.

He is seething of course. He is the bad boy after all. Although, this time he plays the part where he becomes the good kid and retires completely reborn. It's not a reformation he wants, but one's wishes will often be overshadowed by the better intentions of those around him. You don't pee in a bucket and leave unscathed, mind you. He expected this.

Now imagine it like a horror film. Now an action film. Now again as an indie rom-com, but this time with dinosaurs and the world is ending and Idris Elba is wearing a top hat screaming lyrics from all the big sixties songs. All while Tom Holland writes me love letters from Japan and sends me Pocky in a quaint box. James McAvoy sings 'Sweet Caroline' as Lady Gaga nibbles on his left toe, and I think he enjoys it a little too much, but it's okay because he's dressed as "Weird Al" Yankovic. I'm angry, Nicholas Hoult is crying, and Beyonce's still effortlessly beautiful and completely unfazed in a white ball gown as Bradley Simpson keeps singing that one line from 'Volcano' in Bulgarian. Or what he says is Bulgarian, but Tom Hiddleston's stolen everyone's phones so no one can check. It's okay because it's Tom Hiddleston, though. Then, just before the black falls, Dan Stevens arrives dressed as a Swedish princess.

Church camp. Summer 2018. Amurrica. Someplace near Philadelphia, I imagine.

I had too much fun writing this post. I'm not even sorry.

Sunday, 1 October 2017

Things You Can Do Here

Go white. Pale breathing at the burnt day's
pay nights to strange men
go mad tonight in the motherland
love another man cold
rent a class A daydream
take flight in piping
breathe her in under the crumbled mass
let her waste to nothing
taste her
watch her sink in a dry house
spend a night out
let her find how easy it is to
discover yourself gone
in the hands of a knight
when your eyes are closed
and while you are white, pale, breathing.

Friday, 15 September 2017

The Things I Wanted To Tell You While I Was Drowning.

1. I was afraid of the dark.
How the night stirred 
the parts of me my mother could not
lay to rest.

2. How the winter I realised the world would not stop 
spinning even if we did,
I thought how best we could seek refuge
when everything we knew was burning, 
but no one else could see
the flames.

3. I was afraid of the water.
How a wash away girl will
find that tears do 
not heal in a flooded house.

4. I was afraid of living.
How existing parades itself 
too easily as purpose in the day,
but will haunt your nights like a spectre.

5. I was going to fix the broken boy.
Piece together the parts of him
his mother could not lay to rest
and tell him how similar 
we look when glue dries.

6. I was not afraid of dying.
But how I tried
to fear the breakers
knowing I would not leave footprints 
in this tempest,
and could not trouble the earth
enough to worry.

7. I feared God was dying.
How the waves did not take
though I had preached sermons 
to the lost city
and the living had fed.

8. I was afraid of failing.
How failing can pass for defeat
in an unlit room,
but never quite give
fully to the illusion.

9.I was afraid of failing.
Or how a burning building can whisper 
secrets to you when you're listening 
for the silence. 
But when you are listening for
the sirens,
you will not hear it.

10. I was afraid of failing.

11. I was afraid of failing.

12. I was afraid of failing.

13. I was afraid of failing.
But I do not think you would have listened.

Tuesday, 5 September 2017

That's Not Poetry: Exploring Who Defines Poetry and Why It's Extremely Hard To

By definition, poetry is described as 'literary work in which the expression of feelings and ideas is given intensity by the use of distinctive style and rhythm; poems collectively or as a genre of literature.'

So, when discussing whether a poem can actually be called a poem, what a consumer must recognize is the breadth of the definition itself. As it is so broad, this allows for an incredibly expansive array of forms, styles, and genres that are consistently adapting to the period they exist in. And because there is no strict definition as to what a poem must include for it to qualify as a work of poetry, it is incredibly hard to conclude whether a poem is a poem or not. The beauty in that, however, is the large debate that can be had when critiquing a poem. There now exists a new generation of poets exhibiting their works through platforms such as Instagram, YouTube, and Tumblr. This is great for not only the modern consumer, but also creators as it provides both exposure and business opportunities. However, in sharing works online, poets also amass a lot of criticism in regards to their content, style, and even in some cases, if they can actually call their work poetry.

Instapoets such as Rupi Kaur, generate large debate about whether their works qualify as poetry. But here's the thing: the definition of poetry is entirely subjective. With how broad it is, the term remains incredibly inclusive of  many works. In fact, essentially anything can be poetry if it elicits an emotional response. For example, a poem containing only 6 words can be enough to generate an emotional response in one person, but perhaps not be enough to do so in another person. That other person is allowed to believe whatever they've read is not poetry, but have no right to discredit someone else who believes that it is. The same way I can read a novel and deem it to be the worst thing in existence, but have someone else read it and believe it to be the best thing they've ever read. I, as a consumer, have a right to disagree with them, but I have no right to discredit their beliefs and opinions.

So, what does this mean?
In the grand scheme of things, it just means that there is no one single person who gets to decide whether a poem is a poem or not. It is an entirely subjective conclusion, relative to how a person responds emotionally to a piece of poetry.

Okay then, what do we do about it?
Simply understand and remain conscious of how your response to a poem may clash with someone else's, but how that does not give you the right to devalue their response.

It is important to remember as we go on consuming the written works others produce, that we should try to read diversely. Not only in reference to the genres and forms we read, but in regards to the creators who produce them. This way we become more inclusive and understanding of the world we are surrounded by and the beautiful creatives in it.

What's your opinion?

Monday, 4 September 2017

The Trouble With Rupi Kaur: Why Loving Yourself Does Not Mean Bringing Others Down.

And, perhaps, if you could make yourself bite-size, you too could become just as easily digestible.

she protec
she attac
but most importantly
she clap bac

2017. The year of the fidget spinner, Taylor Swift's beauteous rebirth, Jack Pale (Sorry, Jack ass Paul. Sorry again, Jake Pinhead. Sincerest apologies, I meant Juan Psoriasis.), and most importantly, the long awaited release of Rupi Kaur's second poetry collection. Permission to quake.

Image result for the sun and her flowers
Got dis from here.

In honour of The Sun and Her Flowers, today we take a trip down memory lane into the not so long-forgotten days of Milk and Honey. More specifically to that one glorious poem I like to entitle 'salt and anger'.

Image result for the woman who comes after me rupi
And dis one from here.

Here's my issue: assuming we put aside all the criticism Kaur faces in regards to her poetic style, and that we look solely at the message this poem conveys, it is still blatantly clear that this poem expresses nothing more than the toxic idea that a woman can deem herself superior to another. In fact, what Kaur presents to the reader (in, perhaps, what was intended to be a motivational and uplifting tone, but ultimately coming across in an extremely catty and resentful manner) is the message that if you are ever to part ways with a romantic companion, that it is okay to then resent the person they choose to pursue a relationship with next. A completely ludicrous concept that simply lacks sense, considering that at some point a woman is capable of having been both 'the sad replacement' and the seemingly inimitable goddess Kaur describes in the poem above.

Not only does this poem encourage women to believe that it is okay to compare themselves to other women, and so therefore helps perpetuate this culture of competition among females, it also does so in an extremely negative way. When Kaur uses words and phrases like 'bootleg' and 'sad replacement', her poem no longer becomes one of encouraging female empowerment but rather an anthem for bringing down others. To have a poem that possesses the main message of in order to feel empowered you should compare yourself to another woman and bring them down, only helps support girl on girl hate and does absolutely nothing to rectify it.

Kaur also seems, perhaps unintentionally, to encourage holding onto past feelings and relationships. Throughout the entirety of the poem, Kaur maintains this resentful tone in which it feels like the narrator has not yet let go of their feelings towards the relationship and is still somewhat in love with the man Kaur describes. However, instead of the narrator tackling this in a positive and effective way in order to heal, it seems the narrator takes her feelings out on the woman who comes after her. If this in fact is the case, the poem feels as if it excuses directing hate to another person simply because you have yet to overcome your own feelings. 

The poem also suggests that a way to feel empowered after a relationship is to believe that the man is not over you and is incapable of moving on. Feeling empowered because someone else wants you is not the idea we should be sending out to anyone. Instead we should be spreading the idea that empowerment comes from wanting yourself. To truly love oneself is to do so without comparisons or bringing anyone down. Self love and self empowerment are not achieved by hating another person. If the message we wish to send out to people is that in order to feel good about themselves that they must bring others down, then Juan Psoriasis isn't the only thing we've let screw up 2017. 
There are so many better messages we could be sending out to people. What's stopping us?


Saturday, 15 July 2017


Black marred and grooved.
Paint you portrait on monochrome
framed canvas.
steam meddling black
white home
to revolt
and blast
Death thing

It seems the lady doth change her blog again.

Saturday, 13 May 2017

This Is Us

This is us:
Thick blood in 480p,
Not yet, 
But almost,
In HD; it is
Almost like we
 are living.

We are 720 in dreams, though.
110 TVs in all rooms
But the one with the wide window 
That shows the shopping trolley in the middle of the street. 
And because eyes don't pan like cameras do,
We'll sit and watch for a while in every room but that.

I have my home in my hand.
Twelve rooms and a backyard 
To comfort
The heavy soul when it cries, 'Alone, alone!'
And so tells itself,
I have all these empty rooms to fill the nothingness.

And all these palisades are paper-thin.
In the morning I will fold them
And place each furrowed thing in a safe place. Away
From this 1080p reality,
Stowed in an inbetween state.