rather liked
the notion
of a superior
order of
mathematical
clergy, but his
Welsh wife
thought the
The Glass Bead Game
a load of pretentious
old twaddle, Nobel
Prize or no
Nobel Prize.
___
to give you
red roses on
Valentine’s Day,
although I’ve
dreamt you
know what I’m
about already
courting you,
but soon I’ll be
giving you
flowers randomly
and routinely
like I used to.
Words by David Faber
Photo by Roman Kraft on Unsplash
Having dispatched me
to Ultima Thule,
she came to see
me off at the
airport, promising
to visit soon, and
I quoted to her
in pain: from the
moment I could
talk I was ordered
to listen. Now there’s
a way, and I know
that I have to go.
For ostracism was
ever ordained
for thought crimes,
and I was upstanding,
sounding the alarm,
like a frightened
drummer boy.
Words by David Faber
Photo by Matthew Henry on Unsplash
there’s an infinity problem.
spherical in it’s physical essence yet it is everyone that has a
bitter longing for superficial happiness, tears glisten like glitter
love me, paint me on a golden pedestal worship me as you fall
in endless pits of misery. continuous misery of human inadequacy but
devote your soul to me and take the distorted reflection into your hands
see the reflection of society burning a hole in your mind. eyes dance around you
from your very own hands and you take the knife of plastic, and mimic the
images of a damaged world. paint over me and create your own masterpiece
of an eternal loneliness of perfect imperfection of loss, of failings, of being flawed.
whisper the hated words as you love me, hate me, try to be me.
spin around down the hole of despair of never being satisfied, always wanting more
never being enough – continuous misery.
plaster me on your walls.
stare up and worship me.
Words by Danielle Kate
Danielle Kate is a caffeine-dependent life form who occasionally writes and does art. You can catch more of her @daniellekstafford on Instagram.
Photo by Sid Verma on Unsplash
This is a place I would rather not be.
It is a muddy place, terribly cold.
Dense fog restricts everything that I see.
–
I am imprisoned, under lock and key.
Following orders, doing as I’m told.
This is a place I would rather not be.
–
Death always comes painfully, cold as ice,
Those poor fledging souls, to God they are sold.
Dense fog restricts everything that I see.
–
Vicious, brutal pain is all I can see,
But my comrades are courageous and bold.
This is a place I would rather not be.
–
I admit: I want to get up and flee,
But I have to focus on being brave,
This is a place I would rather not be.
Dense fog restricts everything that I see.
Words by Callum J. Jones
Photo by Nursultan Rakysh on Unsplash
Creative, honest, and reliable, Callum J. Jones loves writing fiction and non-fiction. In his spare time, he likes to read, watch movies and TV shows, and go on walks.
You can follow him on Facebook (@callum.j.jones.writer) and Twitter
A daughter
of far off
primeval,
proletarian
Pontypridd,
unaware of
Mark Twain’s
dictum that
age doesn’t matter
if you don’t mind,
she hated with a
passion like
Dylan Thomas
the idea of aging
with gentle grace;
it went against
the grain of
one who had
seized the day
of youth with
romantic zest
in Swinging London.
She felt depressed
by a volume of
poems on aging,
its joys and ills
distressed her.
But she kept
her figure `til
the day she fell.
Lulled by the
sweet, sedate
rhythms of a
passionate
friendship four
decades long,
I only found out,
after her funeral,
as you do,
just how very
much I had
loved
her.
Words by David Faber
Photo by Henry Paul on Unsplash
the unmade sky
these words
touch on something lightly
like a feather drawn
through tall, dry grass
–
a figure crouched
on wide and careful feet
teasing their meaning
from between time’s floorboards
forehead resting on fingers interlocked
and listening—
–
rising to pace the old house
and place rough hands
on a splintered windowsill
seeing dark smudges
where the dust rubs away
–
to gaze across the grassy yard
over stones, bare dirt and strewn chunks
of rotting wood—
where no fire flickers
in the cool night air
–
only cinders
and a corrugated side fence
stretching down to the road
lines of iron and asphalt
at the edge of where we gathered
–
where something rests in the palm
a weightless bird
memories that perch
soft and uncertain as the grey sky
hung above like a rumpled sheet
–
the unmade sky
whispering something lightly
–
words lingering in the mind
like the smell of coffee
that no longer floats
through these rooms each morning
one eastern suburbs afternoon, sliding into evening
and one says to another
there are options here
and the other says to one
would you like a drink?
–
and one says to another
there is class here
and perfectly kept lawns
–
what’s on the radio?
and the other says to one
have you checked for
fallen lemons?
–
and the other says to one
is the front door locked
and have the eggs arrived
this morning?
–
and one says to another
is the wine open?
and the other says to one
have the bins
been emptied yet?
lights in the dark
through the darkness
we trudge
–
soldiers on a forward action cut-off from reinforcements
–
like little children lost
among the trees
–
through darkness we trudge
and seeing lights
in the distance, as if
from some farmhouse or estate
–
we say, “those are not the ones
I remember,
–
that is not the place
I know.”
Photo by eberhard grossgasteiger on Unsplash
Ben is a writer, servo-clerk, research assistant and festival cash wrangler. His poetry has appeared in a range of print and online publications, including Australian Love Poems and Red Fez at redfez.net/@badbad He also shares poems and photography on Instagram @bts.adams while poems and politics can be found on his Twitter feed @badbadams
I remember the time when nightmares used to be monsters not people,
when I feared the creatures in the dark, not the ones hiding in plain sight.
Snarling teeth and sharp claws sent shivers down my spine,
now it’s unhinged smirks and wandering hands that make me uptight.
–
No is no longer a demand but a suggestion and they preach that my best bet is to cover up as prevention.
Chances are they will be let off for their transgression,
so I know there is no such thing as redemption.
–
Now it is no longer a matter of life or death but a bitter memory I try to suppress,
until it becomes a scar I’m too scared to address.
Instead I would rather digress and silently fight my mental distress.
Then it becomes just another secret that I possess.
Something I will never confess, because it’s safer to just repress the memory and shame.
Especially when all they do is victim blame and I know no one would ever look at me the same.
–
So now he is just a name I can never erase, and a face I will never displace.
I try to find a way to go on knowing that he is out there living someplace.
Meanwhile my world has become tainted and my sleep is contaminated
With dreams of being manipulated, and the ways in which I was adulterated.
–
Fighting is no longer for my life but for my sanity,
and fighting for the right to have control over my entity.
All the while wishing for serenity.
Words by Amber Wurst
In 2016 Malaika Gilani published her first poetry collection: Untold Journeys. She was seventeen. This year she has been a part of the global anthology, I Bared My Chest, comprising of 21 phenomenal women telling their stories. Recently I had the chance to interview this Melbourne-based poet and talk about inspiration, writing advice, and poetry.
Could you give us a brief overview of your current published poetic work? What are its themes and what would you like your audience to know before reading it?
Untold Journeys is about everyday life. Things we all experience: friendship, family, body issues, and so much more. There is at least one poem in there that you can connect with. If the poems aren’t giving advice then they are there to show you that whatever you are going through, you are not alone. Someone is going through the exact same thing too.
What was it like publishing a poetry collection at seventeen?
It was amazing to be doing something that not many people have done. However, there have been rejections because I am too young and inexperienced. But who cares, life is all about the good. If we start focusing on the negatives then we won’t be able to live at all. I’ve loved it. The support from my family and friends has been a huge part of how I got here. They help me stay humble and enjoy this experience at the same time.
What inspires you to create poetry?
People, their experiences, and their lives.
If you could sum up what you would like your poetry to evoke what would you say?
You are not alone. We are all going through the same things. In the end, it’s the things within us that make us more alike than we will ever know.
Could you tell me a bit about I Bared My Chest? What was it like working with and collaborating with other artists to create this anthology?
You could say it was an interview of 21 authors in book form. All participants were given a series of questions to answer, to show people someone else has gone through the same thing as you and to show people that artists are not [all] geniuses. We are [people] like everyone else, anyone can achieve what we have.
It was amazing to work with people who are so much more experienced than I am. I learnt so much from them and was in awe of how wonderful and cooperative they were. Most importantly, I realised we were all normal humans – we disagreed, we celebrated, we got sad and angry and happy.
Have there been any books/authors/poets that have deeply inspired you? If so, what are they?
Sue Lawson and Jackie French.
Sue came to my school once when I was in year nine and has been in contact with me since. And Jackie is such an amazing and inspiring lady. I contacted her to review Untold Journeys and she has been a huge part of my life since. I email her and she instantly replies, giving me advice and encouragement.
What advice would you give to other poets and writers?
Rejections make you want it more. It makes everything more meaningful too. I appreciate my work and others’ so much more now because I know what hardships we all have to go through.
What has been the best piece of writing advice you’ve ever received?
If we start focusing on the negatives then we won’t be able to live at all.
Are there any upcoming projects that we can be excited for?
For now, I am on hold. I am starting university, so I am going to focus on that for now. However, once I am done with my psychology degree I will think about whether or not I still want to focus on writing and continue my writing journey.
Gilani’s book is available for purchase on Amazon and you can follow her journey on both Facebook and Instagram.
Interview by Georgina Banfield.
I am scared of the dark and,
With every step yet more lost.
I know no path, yet fear my steps false,
Every one an investment in mistake,
A folly of naivety and hope.
I’ll reach for the flicker ‘n’ flame,
I dare to hope – a chance not lost.
Where I’ll be is gone; where I was,
Where I head, all forgot.
No, there’s a place for me,
For all us stumbling and reaching,
With no cause to hope –
Yet that is what we’ll do,
All with hope to fight despair.
Last I saw in light,
Was one green Californian spring.
And memories cheat me but before –
Before things went dark, before I feared
A devil’s footsteps trod truer than mine,
Yes, there was light and a line to walk.
And there, somehow, I shall find myself a way.
Words by Sydney F.W. Stout
One week ago, I betrayed you.
You screamed at me out of anger and frustration.
I felt guilty and unworthy.
But of course, you were right.
–
Two weeks ago, I angered you.
You now hate me as if I’m guilty of an unforgivable crime.
I feel ashamed and undeserving.
But of course, you were right.
–
Three weeks ago, I infuriated you.
Your anger continues to rise, as if it’s a swelling tide.
I feel crushed under your wrath as it festers into a pill of bitterness.
But of course, you were right.
–
Four weeks ago, I enraged you.
You now avoid me as if I’m infected with the Plague.
I’m locked in a cell of pain and self-hate.
But of course, you were right.
–
Five weeks ago, I deceived you.
Your fury has now diminished, as if it’s a cooling furnace.
Even so, I’m still hurting as you continue to evade me.
But of course, you were right.
It’s now been five weeks since I went behind your back.
Not that I’m counting.
Words by Callum J. Jones
Creative, honest, and reliable, Callum J. Jones loves writing fiction and non-fiction. In his spare time, he likes to read, watch movies and TV shows, and go on walks.
You can follow him on Facebook (@callum.j.jones.writer) and Twitter
Tulpa Magazine 