Tag: Poetry

• Motherland

  August 31, 2020 11:23 am Comments Off on Motherland

  When my mother left there was fire –
  The air ripe with the wrong things; tears, skin, fear
  Feet bolting down dirt roads going nowhere
  Liberty caged
  Beyond the reach of black and brown hands
  Too close and too far
   
  Onto a boat and into the New World
  Where the sky went on forever
  Colour and space
  Gumtrees
  Birds that laughed and sang
  Tires screeching down brand new highways
  Shock
  Adaption
  Light
   
  The old home sits there still
  My mother’s first love
  Beauty without warmth
  Death with no birth
  It beckons
  Bleeds
  But that story is over
  Life is freer
  And she is here
   
   
   

  Think your name would look good in print? Woroni is always open for submissions. Email write@woroni.com.au with a pitch or draft. You can find more info on submitting here.

  S. Lazarus

• When People Smile At Each Other At Traffic Lights

  April 23, 2020 12:48 pm Comments Off on When People Smile At Each Other At Traffic Lights

  We sat around in 40 ̊C
  in our underwear
  and fan
  and a wet cloth
  over the fan
  and cubes of ice
  in our mouths.
  So many love songs
  about keeping
  each other warm, but
  so few
  about keeping
  each other cool
  in this fucking heat.
  I’m sweating
  thru my balls. It’s
  a real prick.
  You can take em
  off.
  I did /
  was
  naked now.

  It was not
  a pleasant
  or a graceful sight.
  But you didn’t laugh
  and you didn’t even
  look twice.
  Sometime
  after that
  you got it all
  off yrself.
  3 hrs
  we sat there
  watching
  Passion of
  The Christ.
  We didn’t
  even fuck.
  But let me
  assure you—
  this
  this is
  this is a love poem.

  Jerome Arrow

• 1450

  August 7, 2019 11:31 am Comments Off on 1450

   
                                                                              She   
                                                                               with
                                                                               golden
                                                                            eyes &
                                                                          shadow-dark
                                                                        fur s t a l k s
                                                                     cobblestone streets
                                                                   in  the dead  of winter
                                                               one f  r i  g i d January.
                                                           H  o m  e i  s       b a r r  e n;
                                                    too few deer    dwell in the     forest
                                             to feed such    f e r o  c i o u s     appetites.
                                    T  h i  s f i  e r c e   & f r i g  i d J a n u a  r y,
                             Golden                  Eyes                  have                known
                         h  u n  g e r & d  e s  p e r  a t i o  n & d  e f  i a n  c e,
                    &   now       they will   know     f e a r.   Forty   lives     worth.
              The      time      has      come.                The      walls       they        built
           brought c  a t  a s t  r o p h  e, but  the      walls have       w  i t  h e r   e d.
        The   pack   has       starved                 & the    pack     has    learned:
             prey                 can walk                          on t w o               legs.
                 Every     night   of      that   f  r i  g i d   January,    she    leads
                     them as    they haunt &    hunt the   alleyways,
                         s  p u  r n e  d by        the        scent
                            of warm     flesh &   cold      d r e a  d.
                               The  city is  s e i z  e d in  a chokehold
                                  of                blind   t e r r o r,
                                    it             will not            last,
                                        (blood   will spill   on the steps
                                            of our Lady     of Paris)
                                             but  for now,  Golden Eyes
                                                   & Dark Fur rule the
                                                           City     of Light
                                                                   one  f r i g i d
                                                                        January.

  Brianna Muir

• Incel

  11:22 am Comments Off on Incel

  Disclaimer: This poem references violence towards women. I do not share any views that may be observed within this poem.
  CONTENT WARNING: Violence Against Women
   
  Beauty is contemptible, for me 
  It is useless, that is why. 
  Their bodies, warm 
  Others, who epitomise injustice. 
  I mean they could give, 
  Giving how much pleasure to him? 
  I have no desire to know, 
  When I will never know 
  Who these men are 
  And just how euphoric 
  It might almost be 
  Like for her to go to waste — 
  Never to warm again
  And her as well. 
  Waste for all, if not 
  I would not stand that 
  He would make use, 
  As would he; 
  While I do not exist, 
  Until beauty ceases to be.

  Elvin Zhang

• Photographs

  July 26, 2019 2:06 pm Comments Off on Photographs

   
  I’ve spent so many days
  looking at photographs
  of me as a child.
   
  These photographs remind me of
  how much I’ve lived
  how much I’ve loved
  how little I have left to lose.
   
  The most striking photographs
  show me sat on my father’s lap
  while I smile like the cheshire cat,
  not knowing what will come of my life,
  not even caring that I don’t know.
   
  That little girl is gone now
  but a new woman’s arose.
   
  People grow
  and people change
  and the colours of
  those photographs fade.
   
  Is anything really wrong with that?
   
  The days I spend
  looking at photographs
  show me just
  what time really is:
   
  it cannot be chased,
  it cannot be faked,
  it cannot be escaped
   
  and maybe, that’s okay.

  Phoebe Lupton

• I Am Called Half-Asian

  2:04 pm Comments Off on I Am Called Half-Asian

  I am called half-Asian
  because my mother is Vietnamese. 
  No need to ask about my father;
  you assume he’s white. 
  I wonder 
  which half of me is which. 
  Top and bottom 
  or left and right
  or mind and body. 
  My body is made up
  of atoms
  that used to be other things. 
  So maybe I am half-cat
  half-kangaroo
  half-orchid
  half-rooster. 
  I like to think
  I am half-star. 
  That my body shines so bright
  I could light up 
  an entire sky.

  Julia Faragher

• Light and Warmth

  2:00 pm Comments Off on Light and Warmth

   
  Sitting alone
  In a cold dark room
  Is pain
   
  The brain shrinks
  And becomes small
  Where to go where to go?
   
  Light shoots forth a single ray
  Down into the living room
  I can’t breathe I can’t breathe
   
  Curtains draw in display
  Of the night of day
  Open the curtains
  And let the light stream in
  It’s warm
   
  And the body tingles
  The cold ember heats a little
  Just a little
   
  Spread the arms and feel the warmth
  Caress the body tenderly
  A new breath lights the world away
  From this once cold dark room

  Zena Mason

• the food of love

  April 22, 2019 2:51 am Comments Off on the food of love

  Your whispers fill me up and make me whole Etched deep into the vinyl of my soul Cold needle shapes the sound, lifts up and down As time and time again you spin me round
  Your melody surrounds me like a web Dynamics of harmonics flow and ebb Your voice sounds like the music of a flute The beauty of your song now follows suit
  And when the gramophone should start to turn My love from that first moment starts to burn The sound that resonates inside my heart Played perfect, note for note, from my own chart

  Connor Parlevliet

• Body

  2:47 am Comments Off on Body

  The times that you ripthat skinny redtank topoff my wretched arms
  and throw itin the space wheremy memorylapsesat the most convenientof times,is when I am most
  concerned about my Fatherreading this,and cryingon the trainagainand again
  Until I have to call himand sayI love youI love youlike I am comfortingchildand go onpretending like the bloodon the kitchenfloorwas not my own
  as I sponge itoverand over
  until the red stainreminds me ofwhen you drinktoo muchand make yourselfsickAs that blotchyrednessThat warm liquidrushes throughyour cheeksAnd bursts
  Only to dripdownwardsontothe groundthe gravethe floorand finallysink
  So go on,laughuntil your chestbegins to tightenand hurtas you pickat your skinAnd countall your blessingson thosecrooked fingers

  Greta Kerr

• Your Time is Not Yet Come

  April 10, 2019 3:16 pm Comments Off on Your Time is Not Yet Come

  Were you not born to set the world alight
  And turn the heads of those who turned away?
  The time is not yet come to leave the fight.
  Too often challenge sees the meek take flight
  And find themselves from dreams so far astray.
  Were they not born to set the world alight?
  Those mice who would not climb from covering night,
  Who willed no strength to brave the dawning day,
  Their time was come.
  They quit without a fight.
  In winter years of hardship, struggle, plight,
  Your kith and kin will ask you, old and grey:
  “Did you not burn and set the world alight?”
  Those marble busts of stoic men whose sight
  Of laurel wreath was never lost would say:
  “Our time was not yet come. We led the fight.”
  And so, I urge you, fallen there, in spite
  Of great defeat and bitter loss, to stay
  The course, my son, and set the world alight.
  Your time is not yet passed.
  Stand and fight.

  Anthony Moore urges you to stand and fight

  Anthony Moore