Liana

A rusty window, a jagged old wine bottle, white lilies vibrating with Vivaldi and a pot I dislike filled with flowers I do… this is enough to stir the inspiration inside my waters and it pours out, of where I have no idea, but it comes and won’t stop. I feel the kind of ironic melancholy happiness that I think only a writer, and maybe a clown could understand… the unimaginable and untainted smile inside that resonates in tears and a kind of heavy laughter. It feels like a painful burden on my body, this feeling, but once out of myself and onto the page… it’s gone... I’m free, and just a little bit wiser.


I’m sure the full moon plays and sways with my waters. I could feel it, night and day, a magnetic pull. I couldn’t put down my pen… and when I did I wrote poetry in the haze on the bathroom mirror, Sunlight shattered the glass fragmenting ideas, red tiles, the birds in my tattoo and orange roses, and I stood there and cried, feeling like I could stay there forever.


I met an elderly poet the other day and when she explained that she still didn’t understand poetry or where from inside her it came from, I completely understood. Agnes is in a poetry circle, and these women actually hire academic poetry analysts to critique their words, and to quote her; “Tell us what the hell it means.” I found this phenomenon she spoke of to be funny and true. I have no idea where my poetry comes from…sometimes I finish writing a piece and I can’t remember physically writing it and cannot picture myself or what started the creative wave. I’m just left with words on a page or a screen and I’m dumbfounded as to how it got there. I am utterly lost when I’m writing it, my mind goes blank and then it’s there, alongside my smile and the tears sitting upon it.

This is my poetry…