Ask the runes —
and ask the stars —
was this a lost cause from the start?
was there ever a chance to win?
was there ever a risk of failure
less than of starting again?
I ask the runes–
I count the cost–
is there regaining what was lost?
was it ever growing there?
did the leaves ever spring green
upon the branches in the air?
or was it always just a castle
carved of shadows cast in air
a dream of smoke and miraged mirrors
a hope of a future where you’d care
and so I ask the crystal ball
and the tea leaves and the glass
I ask the fire and the cinders
for permission to give up at last.
Tag: poetry
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TW: suicide
When she died (cause marked unknown) they flayed the flesh from her white bones and peeled the contours of her face with careful touch and subtle grace - they (the undertakers three) hung it out and steamed it clean the sagging wrinkles ironed out, new scripture stitched into her mouth. “We could have saved her!” preach the choir and lift their arms wider and higher up to the mask made of her smile, the candles lit within her eyes - They point at sinners, freaks and saints Tear at their clothes without restraint Soliloquize rebukes on why This golden martyr had to die. Her grave becomes a pilgrim’s town And oh, they flock from miles around With riches that you ne’er did see And oaths of cherished memory. Above it all, the embalmed face Decapitated, or lying in wait Or gazing in kindness – who can say? Not the dead; we’re gone and gone away. And in the gutters and the alleys In the cities and the valleys In the slums and in the streets In the sickbeds wrapped in sheets - In the brothels and the workhouse In the churches and the madhouse In the morgues though not yet dead Soon to follow in her stead – Not yet nameless, not yet breathless Not yet voiceless, not yet bloodless Still in reach, and so close by Look down, and look us in the eye Faces not bolted to blocks of wood Grips unsteady but still good But you won’t help the living – see – there’s that chance that we might disagree. so you walk by, with tribute in your hands to lull the guilt of your mourning band and step on the bones of forgotten ghosts - We were alive three days ago.
The site KiwiFarms has been linked to at least four suicides; broadening that to groups associated with online harassment such as anti-shippers, TERFs, transphobes and other groups empowered by KF’s tactics, the number increases massively. Suicide is the leading cause of death for too many of us – marginalized, neurodivergent, queer, trans, intersex, traumatized, Black, people of color, indigenous, poor. I’m tired of it. I’m tired of hearing about preventable deaths and having to decide where to put all of this anger.
So put your money where your mouth is. Stop blaming those of us who try to kill ourselves for being weak, or fragile, or mentally ill, and understand that you can cause this. You can prevent this. Our deaths are not inevitable. They are not unchangeable. They are not manipulation tactics, or signs of bad moral character. They are cries for help. So help.
Shut down KiwiFarms. And when we’re done, shut down everyone in your life who thinks suicide or bullying or harassment is a joke. Shut down the part of yourself that wants to minimize it, to feel “normal”. Let yourself feel it. And be angry.
I wrote this poem a while ago, and I’ve been trying to submit it; but I think it’s better this way.
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I got Archie Bongiovanni’s poetry zine ‘Broken and the Broke’ through the Wiggle Bird Mailing Club on Patreon, which sends out zines by trans/queer poets every month! In fact, I subscribed specifically because I saw a bit about this one, and I felt my brain go ‘oh….yes… this sounds like my thing’. So, here we are!
Turns out my brain has excellent taste, by the way. ‘Broken and the Broke’ is 11 pages of dazzling, bluntly fierce, queer punk poetry. It’s short, but that just adds to the effect, and it means the lines slam home with all the more impact. “God bless those trying to hide their sissy wrists.” “Self-sacrificing is fun and you will write a lot of good poetry because of it.” Bongiovanni’s conversational almost-prose almost-verse style just makes it all the more striking – half-Beat, half-grime, all-caps and the kind of thing that sticks with you.
It’s tough to pick a favourite especially out of ten poems, but I think my favourite excerpt is from “for when those in power screw us over (again)” for the sheer power of the imagery and how much it felt real.
“My pals led me into the bathroom until i got my sobs under control but if i can’t handle a person selling god damn beanie babies to nobody than how am i to comprehend the enormity of what one man will do for a dollar.
take solace in that we have beating breathing thriving tender hearts and they are soaked in bitterness and anger but they feel they feel they feel they feel.”
“for when those in power screw us over (again)”, broken and the broke, archie bongiovanni, page 4I am very excited to read more of Bongiovanni’s work – I’m particularly enchanted with the trans-as-default perspective that’s at play through the chapbook, whether or not it’s on purpose, and it’s one of my favourite things about reading indie work from trans creators.
Archie Bongiovanni’s twitter is at @grease_bat. They sell zines and pins on BigCartel here, and zines at Bookshop here!. Wiggle Bird Mailing Club’s patreon is over here!
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Elaine Marilyse is a disabled Anishinaabe poet who I’m quite happy to say that I inhabit the same local creative community as, and so Unraveling is one of those lovely pieces of work that I acquired at a zine-off at a coffee shop in Ottawa. Other ways of getting poetry are fun, too, but there’s something about sipping weird tea, trading books with homemade covers and excitedly talking about your projects with each other that has a charm all of its own.
Unraveling is also a perfect example of how some of the most hard-hitting poetry really is found in those environments. Hand-stapled chapbooks with photocopied covers rarely win Pushcart Prizes or Hugo Awards, but it’s in books like these that I find words that describe experiences I understand. Marilyse’s work in Unraveling in particular hits home in terms of dealing with a parent you might sympathize with, but are tired to death of dealing with. “Your Perspective” is an aching declaration that this time, they’re not getting any more slack, any more good faith, any more credit towards “their perspective”. And “Tightrope” taps into the sense of falling, the constant balance and exposed nerves, that come with complex PTSD and long-standing trauma. Not all of the poems are completely serious; “Ink” is full of Ottawa-specific references and talks about bodily autonomy with tattoos, about how the body doesn’t have to be a temple, and ends with a cheeky picture of ‘no ragrets’.
“I would have swallowed, in a heartbeat,
Your Perspective, p 23, Elaine Marilyse
The poison core
For a chance to have my efforts rewarded,”I think tonally my favourite thing about Unraveling is that tonal fluidity; it’s like having a conversation with someone. It’s full of joking-around and casual gallows humor next to moments of vulnerability, bits that sidewind towards truth before bravely looking in the face and then glancing away again. “Awkward” feels like a criticism, but it’s a very human feeling, and when so much confessional free-verse-style poetry goes for a conversational style without nailing it, it’s very fun to see it done well.
Elaine Marilyse also makes a webcomic, and links to her works, projects and poetry are available through her twitter (@ourladyofcoffee) here!
A quote from “Tightrope” is used with permission as an epigraph in Ghosts in Quicksilver: Book Two: Sulfur.
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While I don’t get into the more triggering material in this review, the arrival of rain includes material about war, gun violence, child death, parental abandonment, semi-explicit sexual scenes, references to assault and racism.
It’s been a while since I got this particular book of poetry, but the anecdote around me getting it is still worth sharing. Adedayo Agarau shared a piece of poetry from it and linked the purchase link for the arrival of rain, which was retweeted onto my timeline, and – well, I love poetry, and I know that when I see something that grabs at me IMMEDIATELY, I want to buy the book. So I went to buy it.
And found out that it did not ship to Canada.
I usually don’t stress too much about this. It’s annoying, sure. But this time around, I actually went to the trouble of getting a friend to buy it and ship it up to Canada for me, because I WANTED this book! (Thank you very much to the friend in question, haha.) I was well rewarded, because the arrival of rain is phenomenally gorgeous. Agarau’s poetry is heavily visual and imagistic, criss-crossing religious concepts with those of the body and trauma, grief howling behind free verse.
It’s hard to pick out favourite poems. Each functions as a snapshot (some are actually titled as portraits) but a few definitely stick out. “i will one day grow to love you with my presence” is a standout (see quote below),
i am still the screamer & the voice. the echo that never made it home. i am still the shadow of a whole body or perhaps, the song dying along the pews of the cathedral. i am still the one with a pungent mouth. do not remind me that i am from a lineage of men who do not wait.
“i will one day grow to love you with my presence”, adedayo agarau, the arrival of rain pg.21Visually, the book is also a treat. With a gorgeous and lush cover and a typeface that feels both readable (for me, anyway; I can’t comment on readability for others) and artful, it’s worth owning! I also really appreciate Agarau’s use of slashes and backslashes to shape his words, making every paragraph, period, etc. very deliberate on the page. Some imagist poetry can feel gimmicky (it’s a poem about a bird, in the shape of a bird!) but the imagism here is more abstract, more about the flow of each word to the next.
the arrival of rain is published by vegetarian alcoholic press; check it out over here!
An excerpt from “the wooden cross is enough prayer” is used as an epigraph in Ghosts in Quicksilver: Book Two: Sulfur, with permission from Adedayo Agarau.