Flashback by Abigail Hurst

I am not a silent poet

I smelled you,
And I knew you were coming for me,
About to drag me under-
To that place where I can’t breathe
Stumbled out, away from the crowd
So that no one would see…
What you still do to me.

And you drug me back in time
Making me deaf, forcing me blind
Until the world of safety is gone
And I’m once again desire’s pawn
Filled with guilt, and grief, and shame,
And a pain that only knows one name-
You.

You.
Spreading my legs apart.

You.
Eyes gleaming, smile sliding on your face in the dark.

You.
Lowering your head.

You.
With your forehead on my stomach
As I claw the sheets on the bed

And fight back a scream
And you’re killing me.

You.
Biting where no one would think to look.

You.
Rifling through my pages like an open book.

You.
Trace your finger from…

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Sold by Abigail Hurst

I am not a silent poet

I sold myself
I sold my body
I.
I sold my soul
Gave the keys to a stranger
Said, “make yourself at home”.

I sold myself
Into grasping hands
I sold my dignity
I sold my legs
Breasts
Feet
Lips
Virginity.
One at a time
I sold away what was mine.

I sold myself
I auctioned off what was left
And just gave away freely
All the rest

But truth be told
I was sold long ago
In what was called a holy home
Sold into hands of power and greed
Stripping away every hope
Every dream
So for a moment he could feel
Satisfied and whole
As he unclothed, exposed me
Right down to the bone.

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Split in Two by Abigail Hurst

I am not a silent poet

Don’t talk.
Let this slip through the cracks
And we’ll never look back

Keep it secret.
Every one’s okay
As long as you don’t say..

That you’re split in two
That you’re sick of being used
That you’re bloody and you’re bruised
Tired and abused..

That you’ve been ripped in half
That the mask’s about to crack
That the pressure’s more than you can cap
It’s something no one can take back…

Trap it inside
It’s the right thing to hide
Keep it locked up so no one can find..

And now grow cold
As it goes untold
And stays unseen
As he unravels your seams..
And you are split in two.

So now years pass and you have to choose sides
Live in the light or in darkness abide?
You’re buried deep but have to make a choice
Will you stay silent or finally raise your voice?
For nothing…

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Attempt Breaking Silence by Abigail Hurst

I am not a silent poet

“Can I tell it all to you?
Even just a part to let it out?”
My voice is tinged with hope
You slowly shake your head.
“No.”

I can see the regret in your eyes
As your try to back track
Try to hide

“Don’t worry about it,”
Put back on the mask
“I’m fine.”

I always have been fine…
Okay,
Doing great,
Nothing more to say,
With a smile on my face.

I’m fine
He crawls in bed with me.

I’m okay.
Cornered in the kitchen
Lust in his eyes, lunging toward me

I’m great.
He slides his hand down my thigh
A look I know so well
Silent danger in his eyes.

All of these things and more
Rushing through my mind
I smile and look up at you,
“No really, I’m fine.”

I’ve said it a thousand times before
Feeling the life drain from my eyes
What’s…

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Longcase Clock by Abigail Hurst

I am not a silent poet

Longcase Clock
Ticks-Tocks
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
I hear you slip through my door.

Focus on Counting.
Seven.
Eight.
The darkness begs you,
“Seal her fate”

Breathing labors.
Twelve.
Thirteen.
Trapped under covers.
Strangled in sheets.

Fifty-eight.
Fifty-nine.
Begin to lose…
Track of time.

Sixty.
One minute down.
A tear struggles free.

One.
Two.
Hold my breath.
Three.
You rip into me.

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Set Free by Abigail Hurst

I am not a silent poet

I’ve tried to fly so many times
Shackled to the ground
Chains rattle as I pace
How I’ve learned to live is a disgrace

I get a running start to soar
And leap so high from the earth
Too quickly reminded of how I am tethered
And how my soul has become so weathered

These shackles that have no key
Attached to my wrists, to my neck and my feet
Spider away from my body
One lock linked to another chain
And each branded with a name

Abuse, self injury, nightmares, rape
Against my wrists the metal scrapes
Harlot, worthless, disappointment, regret
Four more names that you’ll never forget
Into my ankles the bonds dig deep
The lock around my neck
Bears one burden under which the others fall
The suffocating, all consuming, heavy weight
Of shame.

The sin of what you did,
Now my job to hide
To bottle…

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yr yr by Matt Margo, reviewed by Clara B. Jones

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

yr yr
Matt Margo
2017
Ghost City Press
29 pp
Free to download with or without donation

 

 

It is difficult to characterize “experimental” or “avant-garde” poetry definitively. However, it is widely accepted that these forms break with conventional practices. Matt Margo is a recognized promoter of experimental poetry as a writer and Editor of two poetry journals and as Publicity Director for Gold Wake Press. They describe themselves simply as “a person who writes,” though their identity is, also, defined by use of non-binary pronouns and non-gendered creative work. Margo’s 2015 poetry collection Blueberry Lemonade, established them as a prominent young poet of “angst,” addressing trauma and neurotic impulses. Rather than being a collection about the interior self, however, yr yr‘s poems position the writer in relation to language. Their poem, “sea,” exhibits the form of pieces throughout the chapbook, words or phrases separated by various…

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Aad de Gids on “Longshadowfall” by Michael Mc Aloran

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

Michael McAloran’s “longshadowfall” Editions du Cygne (2017)

sunken is the ship with readers, the ship of readership, inbetween the poetic prozaic streaming which Michael McAloran (hereafter “Mick”) virtuosely does; sunken am I inmidst the succinct as bleak, pure poetic ‘da stream’ of endless wordparures in which meaning threatens, meaning threatens to emerge and does emerge,about our modern,postmodern, postpostmodern world, always prepostcataclysmic as we’re always inbetween the one disaster happened and the following initialising. what Mick does is lending this “meaning” a river while also render the very notion of “meaning” a discutable but probably more acutely, despicable status. people need to attach “meaning”, patches of meaning to the world, to life, to death, (adorno:) “[impossible] after Auschwitz”, and it is now the question if this assertion, this very assuredness with which we think we can add meaning to this processual world, is in its whole, to say the…

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