Antxnia

Wake

Every day, it wakes

It feels, it waits, it expects

Every day, it wakes

Forced from sweet slumber

Seize the day! Make it yours! Make it count!

Yet every day, it wakes

It knows that it too, must survive today

Blinding sun, or its reflection on grey clouds

Movement, sound, sensation

And flickers of hope

It must survive it all

So every. single. day. it wakes.

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Antxnia

Wave

The water approaches slowly

Barely daring to wet the sand

A little foam at the edge

Where the friction creates its own element

…and out again; and in again; and out again…

The water gets bolder

Washing up on the shore

Wetting sand, rocks and tentative toes

It’s about the right temperature – you can get used to it

You’ll probably adjust (quite quickly)

You just don’t control the waves.

…and out again; and in again; and out again…

There’s nothing unpredictable about being at sea

One cannot expect the tide to chill

It’s controlled by the moon, it’s lunacy!

Eventually the waves are all that’s left

 

…over and over and over it all…

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Meursault

October

October

October is an attempt to write consistently for a month – an attempt to challenge myself. October may give way to November, or October may close naturally with October 31st.

October may be a month but its referential frame is much wider – this body of work seeks to explore that.

October will signify my thinking born out of this month, my feelings felt during this month and how they translate into print, and images I perceive (in the loosest possible sense, mental and visual – distinction to be had) in October.

October I

Thatch roofs bow with the weight of winters passed. Lead gutters filled with copper leaves gurgle out – an ode to another era. Scythes doomed to fall silent; reeds felled, bundled and tied no more. Old weathered hands rendered superfluous.

Dilapidated farmsteads, dishevelled windmills and grain stores stripped bare vulnerable to the biting cold. Pained moaning – ice born wounds that will never close up. Falling splinters of anonymous stone swallowed whole.

October II

I can look out into the garden and still see only green. If I crane my neck and arch my back I can see the odd brown leaf lying on the purple shingle. Really my periphery is clear of burning oranges, deep crimsons, muddy browns and other more rotten shades – unbent neck, locked gaze, body rooted.

Yet, for every day that I can remember as soon as I slope off down the street I encounter, conkers, fallen leaves, and eternal damp – in short autumn, in length b-e-a-u-t-y.

Two pronged, three forked, and five fingered leaves. Bloated moss. Neglected conkers – too small or too late for those seeking them. Little rain and yet there’s a perpetual gurgling, collective run-off making for an omnipresent pulse that matches my own.

October III

Spluttering coughs, runny noses – at lunch the local pharmacies are doing a lightening trade. The tea and coffee list has been revisited at work – tastes as well as seasons have changed. Figures to watch, people to please, personas to uphold.

Walk away from home. Return home. Perpetual dawn. Perpetual dusk. 9-5 is really 7.30-6 – sun barely risen, sun already set. Half cast shadows spilling over cobbles, concrete and asphalt. Tap and drag of tired feet – zombie walk.

Dinner is in the oven, butternut-squash baked and shared between five. Books to be read under the brightest light of the day. No need to find the cold side of the pillow it’s already kissing your cheek.

 October IV

14.20: A car as inconsequential as a black Toyota Prius becomes a warhead. Another smashing of the peace – or so we expected.

14.30: Searing red headline with more details to follow. Another area in lockdown. Whispers of terror in terror.

The Natural History Museum, South Kensington. People poised and ready for what could have been.

A friend lives nearby, I reach out to her. She doesn’t reply. By the time she gets back to me the red mist has quelled – eye contact broken with the abyss. She was with Hades at the time.

Big Reds story is straight, far less sensational, yet overnight the hero image remains as a man in a forensic smock – fingertips clasping onto the coat-tails of terror.

By mid morning he is released with only the suspicion of dangerous driving hanging over his head. Yesterday was Saturday, today is Sunday, tomorrow will be Monday and  people are worried past worrying.

October V

Autumn leaves are slow burning fires lit absolutely everywhere – an elemental path along which to walk hand in hand with the incremental shortening of days.

Blazing orange gives way to smouldering brown. Smouldering brown gives way to black ash. Black ash gives way to the pale white light of winter solstice – now building can begin again.

October VI

Through the open three paned-frosted glass the post-box red doors draw my eye. After contemplating the depth of the red for a while I rake my gaze back across the churchyard.

The grass is pearled with beads of dew. Damp hems spring to mind despite the stillness of the churchyard – the time of anonymous mourners long since elapsed.

I go to turn away but the apse of the church captures my gaze. Wet sand. Bulging growth. Unsightly scar. The accumulation of pigeon shit or a botched repair? A sole bedraggled blackbird cradling itself.

At this time in September a man had been scrubbing the tombstones, memorials and obelisks. He started early, before I arrived at work. When I sidled out for lunch he was gone.

I remember the steaming water, the ash of his cigarette and his muddy blonde hair – all offset by the motion of his brush over the russet stained stone.

How does one begin to undertake such a task? How does one look past the futility of fighting lichen and moss – the stain that won’t wash off?

I don’t know, but one does…

October VII

The water sits still; many boats are moored up one after the other. Kettles whistle. A woman sits alone, half shrouded by a net curtain – a slight twist to her lips.

An old boy with white hair and rough hands wolfs down his cigarette. He wipes at the condensation on his boats windows with a blue cloth. His head ducks in close to the glass. The ash nearly meets the pane, its own subtle attempt to help things along. As he finishes up he chucks his cloth to his friend. The ash remains sitting atop its mount stoically.

Leaves and twigs ride on the slow moving water, roaches skit below these vast continents. A sign warning of restricted access to pleasure boats marks the base of one arch of the bridge. Across the road sits a pub where beyond the old city walls of Norwich suspected witches were hung and burnt alive.

I walk onto the bridge its flagged in two different patterns as well as cobbled – a mismatch tapestry of stone. Two men, one old, one haggard, mutter together on the other side. As I swing close by I can hear them discussing crack cocaine. One pulls out a pouch, the other looks unsure, they both peer inside.

I press on past rows of pretty houses, converted outbuildings and the back of a school field before emerging into the cathedral grounds. Endless limestone. Pines with fingers stretched to the floor. A women walks towards a corner with an air of ofference, palms facing outwards, arms straight – a banana skin chucked into a black bin.

October VIII

Warmer days, August rekindled out of smouldering leaves. Sun cascading down, curtains swiped open and then drawn shut – too little light, and yet too much for eyes accustomed to grey.

Daytime damp waning, no need to wipe your feet. Mass graves of mulching leaves offered a shot at redemption, reanimated they begin to flutter, like burning butterflies in mid July.

Mowers steered by the bleary eyed gnash at the freckled grass – the last cut of the year. Perhaps one more than last? Memories of insignificant events long since elapsed.

The mercury stretches its back and tips its toes – a high of 20° is achieved. In disbelief the brave quickly light BBQ’s. For them the shortness of days is a mere memory, the impracticality of which lies on another plane. Burning charcoal wisps up into the atmosphere, the toasted smell of the evening as it draws in will enriched by it.

October VIIII

Two days ago, the sky burned orange, sulphur and then grey – apocalypse now. A cosmic harpy flipping through atmospheric filters.

The craning of necks skyward,

The twitching of office blinds,

The countless images taken,

The jokes about the end.

Today the warmth is all but gone but the wind remains and old grey is back. I nip out of the office, I find it hard to focus, where does one look now?

Down. Down at the wet ground and shuffling feet.

Down. At the mushed-up paper and the destitute in doorways.

Walking home back past the cathedral. A woman crouching on the ground between two cars, a phone in the palm of her hand, a sports bag behind her – deadly still except for a single finger scrolling ad-infinitum. A modern-day sphinx.

The cathedral plane is lit up, two burning lights mounted onto two adjacent cobble fronted buildings – one light sits slightly higher than the other. A burning, pulsating hew of water particles dancing in the lamplight. The buildings are too far apart to be Victorian London, or 1900’s Prague, although they give off that illusion. Yet Dickens nor Kafka scurries past.

A limestone monolith, an unthinkable amount of time, skill, weight. Spires like spears with which to kill the gods of old. Inside a choir has started up, loud, clear, beautiful, but hidden from sight. These invisible voices affect me, a sense of knowing which cannot be relayed accompanies me on my drudged walk home.

October X

The vampiric cold nibbles away at my nape. Blood rushes out to my capillaries – rose petal skin. Fingertips soldered to my plastic phone case. Scrolling, clicking, tapping, stretching – the trappings of a modern day acrobat doomed to arthritis and wavering vision.

It is the weekend. A man sits across the aisle on a train, he pants and heaves as he declares to his lover that he has made it on time. He asks her about her lunch and they exchange goodbyes. Five minutes later he is at the bottle – screw top white, one third guzzled down.

The train punctuates the flats which conjoin Norfolk and Suffolk with a juddering purposiveness. Leaves rip by the windows like slithers of starlings. Besides me four cans of own brand larger are cracked and tossed into a bag with haste. All it takes is forty minutes. I depart, he remains – another drink in hand.

Saturday quickly turns to Sunday – an hour gained without any discernible gain. ‘Turning back the clocks’ a phrase sentenced to death, these days clocks turn back themselves – those which don’t are forgotten about. Grandfather calls out at all the wrong times in mothers hallway.

It is four days since we gained an hour and my wristwatch still isn’t up to speed. Who looks at their wrist for the time? Timepiece? Or the creation of another border between thin wrist and plaid sleeve. My desktop clock and the faltering light frame temporality well enough for me.

 

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Antxnia

Lead

We were always just humans,

though I thought us above such

animalistic realities.

 

We got lost and

had been – for the longest time –

I thought you were taking me

past the bright lights

and civilised city.

 

We waded into the depths

of the greatest emotions,

then you wanted me to let go

and let you drown.

 

We separated as

your grip loosened,

but I was the one with lead tied around my leg.

 

We were separated

by raging waves,

with blood so hot it made

every wor(l)d burn.

 

We panicked and

as I searched for your figure,

a fear so feral that nothing could get close,

stole you from me.

 

We surfaced, one after the other,

two worlds shaken after the collision.

 

Our orbits shifting and feeble attempts to float against the gravity, failing.

 

Our perceptions and affections altered, time so precious and too long.

 

Our days on one planet were centuries on others.

 

Our knowledge became our ruin, as rewarding as the lies that become truths.

 

Our vision blurred, but I swore you were blinder than me.

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Antxnia

No bueno.

​Dragged into the shadow-covered brightness,

Memory fails to remind us that 

this:

Is not our destiny.


Consumed by fear of abandonment

And drained of adventurous spirit,

This version of us freezes (and hardens)

Pissed-off at the very core.

Denying what’s what and where’s here

Desiring to be anywhere,

anything but

There.


This path

Twisted, perilous and deluded as it may seem

Has brothers and sisters of varying levels of success

That will, if permitted,

Foster a certain type of understanding

That only a sibling can reveal.


-Fire

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Collection of memories and creativity

Father

 

Pressing a cold coin

To soft prick heart

He slit and pushed

But skin would not part

 

Father, father, forsake me

I begged.

Let me fall, let me die

Let my wings be clipped,

I will not fly

 

Still he pressed

Cool metal counted

Irregular beating,

Beatings, father, father

Help me still.

 

Placing his thumb

Precisely above

Adjusting weight

Shoulder to forearm

Wrist to coin,

Crunch.

 

Caving structure,

Unfolding epidermis

Trickle, tumble,

The coin clanks,

With metallic twang

As he shouts,

 

“Allah hu akbar.”


I am undone

 

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Epiphaneotos

You, again

You are the kind of girl people like me write poems about.

We attempt to quench our thirst in imaginary seas,
trying to sail as far away from your smile as we can,
scared you will capture our souls in your deepest waters,
but the wind and current always bring us back to you.

He was not one of us, he couldn’t surrender himself to your holiness.
He didn’t deserve you.

There are plenty of brave souls roaming the seas looking for you,
and the only star guiding them is the brightness of your eyes,
and the only faith keeping them alive is the simple thought of you.

Know that.
You are an ocean, beautifully dangerous.
Mesmerizing.

Many will want to conquer you, and will drown trying.
A few will want to understand you and will worship you.

No one will ever own you. No one will even tame you.

No one will ever break you.

You are an ocean, beautifully dangerous.
Mesmerizing.
Don’t let anyone give you any reason to think otherwise.

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Antxnia

[Untitled]

It waits and wonders
Provoking your response behind a masquerade of innocence
Gloating at your maddening disposition
Hoping to be recognised
For it exists
If only briefly
If only when you notice it and conjure up memories of long forgotten times 
You fight it
You command it to surrender and flee
Rebuild elsewhere with fresh intrigue
And briefly it relinquishes all of its intensity
Allowing you to breathe just enough
Until you are comfortable enough to
Drop your guard
It seeps in just like before
The pain ensues and somehow it has you in a vice
You want it to release you -please- mind, body and spirit 
When all along 
Your authority
Was all there ever was.

-Fire 

 

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Antxnia

Storm

Calamitous whirlwind

Fierce winds attacking all that I love

Blown from a place of entitled resentment

Of fear and obsession

Of unwillingness or inability to adapt.

Catastrophic passage of time

Rapid unchangeable, unchanging

And yet unforeseen sequences

With consequences that rip souls apart

Debris covers all things

Nothing is spared.

The absolute absence of compassion

Superfluity of useless or poisonous words

Of malevolent thoughts

And ultimately nothing of any value remains:

Implosion.

We paint it with gold

With promise, desire and anticipation

Paint is no preservative

To avoid the rotting underneath.

Rot cannot be reversed

Nothing fresh springs forth anew

It can only aid something else, something more deserving

It’s time will come.

-Fire

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And so it went...

Soul Mate

As I sit and wait for my love to return,

I feel my heart softly burn,

And it stings a bitter sweet sorrow,

I hope for winter, but I’ll take tomorrow,

I know you’re on a wild path,

But that doesn’t mean I don’t miss your laugh,

Nor the way you smile,

When I describe our walk on the Royal Mile,

Soon is the time until we have our own,

And it will be mighty, as previous times have shown,

I know good things come to those who wait,

But it’s different when you miss your soul mate.

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Collection of memories and creativity

The Human Is a Queer Creature

The human is a queer creature;
Facilitating a multitude of features.
Stalking by it’s white, white eyes
It lurks on the periphery of nature.
.
This impetuous beast adorns disguise
Colourful and bequeathed  – but full of lies.
Prostration is it’s manipulated display,
Submissive façades shall be our demise.
                                                                                                                                                                                        .
Amassing Himalayas of acidic decay –
This species adores the violent slay.
Revealing in folds  of peculiar routine
I often wonder, to whom does it pray?
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Collection of memories and creativity

Three Insignificant Letters

We have given three insignificant letters
Gathering in circles with broken beggars.
We have given one bemused syllable,
It seems we were always so cynical.
                                                                                   .
The Arabs, they refer to it  as ana’ak,
Throats vibrating, plunging back.
Cutting the air with such guttural thunder
One is left in such resounding wonder.
                                                                                  .
The Indians, they call it Āliṅgana
Tongues embrace the divine whimper
To hold fast; to cling to; to cherish.
These words, they’re made to nourish.
                                                                                  .
So, press your chest to mine my dear,
Our beating  hearts are your call to prayer.
Is it so wrong that I must claw and clutch
For your last, warm inexplicable touch?
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Collection of memories and creativity

Himmat

I began to walk
too late in life.
While the other boys ran
I shifted weight, from
shoulder
to
shoulder,
heaving leg
after leg.
                                                            .
but
                                                             .
amidst my slow crawl
my
distasteful waddle,
I discovered
the burnt smell of the carpet,
the dust ridden
fire place
the joys of light
as
it bounced from
polished oak chairs
to bookcase and back again.
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Collection of memories and creativity

Lamentation

I unlock my phone and there she was, beautiful as the first day I met her, sitting on the beach with her hair loose and her body open, looking into the distance, waiting, calling. I remember that day as if it were yesterday; the sea gulls circled our bodies as they danced to the song of the crashing sea. Breaking apart into the love we never needed to proclaim. A tear forms at the corner of my eye as my heart begins to fade. The only energy I can produce manifests in a quiet whisper, resonating the waves that crash against my broken body.

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