Some call it “spring”

In honour of the Setsubun, and because today is not a good day for science.

Intoxicated Heart

I will wear my demon mask today
and throw my dying love into your garden.
The clouds will sing the psalms of demi-gods
buried in palliative hospitals.
And then again, my inner thighs
will toast their blood streams
in your honour,  for all the dessicated seeds
uprooted in my winter-womb by mercy
of those who died before, and of my own
intoxicated heart.
I will throw my agonising hopes at you
and dream you anew, cardboard face
of childhood past.

Last one for now.

Final NaPoWriMo poem of the year. So I thought of it as a kind of pair to the first poem I wrote at the start of NaPoWriMo, although that probably doesn’t come across as such. I hope you enjoy it, regardless.

(DAY 30)

A moth photograph, to match the one I posted on day one of NaPoWriMo.

A moth photograph, to match the one I posted on day one of NaPoWriMo.


So adept at lying
we turn our gazes
on other people
pretending we could
swallow whole
the world and then
birth it again
in a new shape.
Wouldn’t it be
easier though
for one of us
to swallow
the other and
then, pregnant
with the devil
of desire, to die
giving birth?
Let us forget
the lies and
remember our
stolen promises

A Little Challenge

Alfred James Munnings, "A Cloud Study"

Alfred James Munnings, “A Cloud Study”

Today’s poem is the result of a challenge. It was supposed to be a happy poem, so hopefully it manages to bring out a more cheerful mood.

(DAY 29)


That day when the clouds
had broken my wings
you moulded hands
out of the dirt
on the sidewalk
so huge and warm
I thought I had fallen
the wrong way down
back into the heart
of my mother. You
let me dream
until I was full enough
to peel off my eyelids
and make sense
of your smile. I
never thought
about the clouds
after that,
because I learned
even your teeth
were softer.


Two more days left… For now, a poetic distillation of my academic research. :)

Mark Ryden, "Good Luck" (1991)

Mark Ryden, “Good Luck” (1991)

(DAY 28)


It took

many mirrors

to finally show

my knight in shining armour

my reluctant hero

but I saw


that she had always been there

albeit hard to recognise

with all the masks she put on

all the familiar faces

I held nothing in common with.

It took many mirrors

but then she smiled back

with the teeth of the dragon

and I knew her

for who she was.

Getting there…

It’s almost the end of NaPoWriMo again, so I guess a sort of nostalgia is kicking in…

Adam Cardall, "Castles in the Sky" (2002)

Adam Cardall, “Castles in the Sky” (2002)

(DAY 27)

That Time

It’s that time of the year again
when the sky cracks in two
releasing its angels, when the walls
put on a new coat of paint
and call it even with the vestal forest.
This is all unavoidable. Some say
it has always been this way.
So, at this time of the year,
all fugitives and seekers
take shelter under the bones
of their ancestors, erasing time.

Parallel Universes

Another NaPoWriMo entry written with relish. This is a good period for creativity, methinks! :D

"Bird", unknown artist, currently in the Fine Art Collection at the University of Exeter.

“Bird”, unknown artist, currently in the Fine Art Collection at the University of Exeter.

(DAY 26)


A sparrow

or a pigeon

or some such other bird

plunged from the rooftops.

It looked,

from the distance,

like a loose-haired girl

jumping to her death

with unrehearsed


This did not startle me,

just as, the other day,

misreading “cynical psychology”

on a door plate,

I was not startled.

Such glimpses

of parallel universes

are not unheard of.


they feel natural,

like my left foot kicking my right ankle

by mistake.

Words came a little easier today

I switched tactics today and started rather than ended my day by writing a poem. Of course it worked much better, since my brain wasn’t fuzzy and clogged for a change. Hope you enjoy!

"A Girl Writing" by Henriette Browne (1860-1880)

“A Girl Writing” by Henriette Browne (1860-1880)

(DAY 25)

Whose Words

Yours or mine,
fumbling for meaning,
exploded out of us like
we were only shells
waiting to be swept
with the rest of the garbage.

Were they spoken,
remembered or imagined,
put together in the nest
of our skulls from crumbs
picked up at the tables
of souls with
meanings to spare.

Whose were they
that ran wild
in that borrowed
home that we pretended
was ours for a little while.