Fuck It

I wrote this poem, with tears in my eyes, for the words are real and raw. I’ve always struggled to believe in myself and especially my writing. But it seems I’ve turned a point in my life now and there’s no going back. I’m realising that I can write. And am going to, no matter what. So ‘fuck it’ can be my mantra. Because I’m moving out of my comfy home and into the wild 😜

Thanks to my dear friend Cassie for the mantra 💗

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I am Queen 

I am Queen 

Whiskey Glass

woodman

Photo by Frances Livings

The dewy kiss of morning light,
shines upon our wallpaper
water stains
crease the lines
and bare our pain
lipstick marks the mirror,
crimson curled
floral and mould weave
an asymmetrical pattern
breathing life into where we dwell

walls2

Photo by Francesca Woodman

We’re the sawed off pieces of vintage
lace blowing against the window frame
The rotting leg, of a Victorian chase
mercury glass hangs –
the ceiling; a cold damp place,
with a tobacco stench

You, sit in silence
with a comb through your hair,
like an willow branch bowed at the waist
once an oriental lily,
now a bud cut from a stem

I, sit in silence
with a whiskey glass in my hand,
fingers blanched
Blank and vacant decadence
a childlike glance

We can’t recollect
a time before this,
Our withered bones and shredded skin
glisten in the sun
breeding
an unfortunate tale
one of stagnant drench.

@ J.CALVERT 2017

When I wrote this, I had a clear picture in my head, of a beautiful women fading-vacant and a man with a whiskey glass in hand. A time of depression, where the bottle took over their lives. Not sure where this poem came from, but it was written. Funny how the writers mind works.

Do you often read your work back and think where did this come from?

Winter’s Final Note-Revised

Winters Final Note In sleet and snow the land stretched below and the cold earth moaned a mournful cry The skies overhead bleed in white – drops fall beneath a sinking sky, harrowing unspoken sighs Running rivers rest in silver … Continue reading

To Wear Our Scars?

 

There is a scar
that covers about three inches of skin
on soft tissue,
just above your breast,
it runs a jagged line
it reminds me of a flower vine
creeping up your neck,
faded in time
a silver tattoo left,

Does it feel different on the tongue?
I run my lips across the serrated point
Quickening with every lick,
Each mark holds a depth untold
I feel a beating pulse within –
more than just a hollow organ;
a heart of its own
flowing in feelings.

This scar that is visible
carried upon your chest
weighing too heavy
for you to undress
like a photograph –
a moment never forgotten.
A permanent welt.
A visible form.

If the scar wasn’t there to remind you?
Could you forget it?

Thoughts

It’s been on my mind –the idea of a scar. We all have scars. Some are visible, some hidden and those buried so deeply, that we are ourselves are shocked to find they are there.

Does wearing our scars in different ways affect our-self?
Do we carry them for everyone to see?
Or hide them so deeply, that we forgot them, for a time.

Because even if we bury our burdens, they have a way of resurfacing.
Is it better to wear our scars?

WRITTEN BY J.CALVERT 2016

ALL PHOTOGRAPHS BELONG TO TALENTED PHOTOGRAPHER ANNA O.PHOTOGRAPHY 2015