encapsulated_emotions

United Kingdom

"i am out with lanterns, looking for myself" - ED
seventeen year old poet
i have a poetry book! it's called "encapsulated emotions" & you can buy it on Amazon :)
please support me and check it out!

Published Work

Barrie (cheese twists and smiles)

swollen eyes with dark imposing circles paired with a goofy grin that could stop time
a rugby player crooked nose paired with ears that seemed too big for him

his name was Barrie;
it makes me smile when the two syllables roll off my tongue
his name was Barrie;
he had a tattoo on his right bicep - a heart with the word "WELSH" inside

his hands were big and slightly clumsy
as he picked up and scanned my shopping

my shopping, which consisted of a cheese twist and packet of gum
"cheese twist? nice." he said, with that smile that could make a statue flinch

i smiled back at him, thumbing the creased five pound note in my hand
once i had paid and taken the receipt and turned sharply on my heels, facing the exit,
i said "i hope that you have a good day, thank you!" 

it was more like a mumble into my shoulder
but i...

i wish she had stopped us

i squint at the murky marble sky and hope that the star i'm staring at is still alive
i clutch a fountain pen in one hand and a burning slim black phone in another

three, two, one

"i wish that you had stopped us and made us realise what we had done"

zero, minus
minus the world

"i wish that it was just us here and that you would momentarily strip yourself from white picket fences
so that we could talk in my kitchen over tea or some other drink that is not offensive"

minus, one, two

"look at yourself, you are so cracked and bruised.
i want to reach out, plant a plaster on each of your knees
i want to reach out, but i can't see you-
i can only hear you wheeze"

three, four, five

"humans were not made to build we were made to climb!
we should be stirring soup and marching into fruit fields
instead...

rat race

from one yellow room to another
and switching between notifying screens

from one team meeting to another
and dealing with a kid and tired teen 

forgetting the smell of polished work shoes
and the silky touch of a favourite tie 
forgetting the radio voices during rush hour
and leaving the house early without saying bye

deleting term time dates from calendars;
the house seems to always be full
erasing pre-covid memories;
they invite havoc like a red scarf to a bull

i have also backtracked and adopted my old ways
i have also given up and survive on caffeine to get through the day

like father, like daughter
as we sink into our desks like lungs to tar

like father, like daughter
we hope that our future holds a gleaming red car.

The World's Writer

the girl that i should be//the girl that i am

she crouches on the floor wearing mud encrusted flip flops
there is a red shawl wrapped tightly around her waist
it holds her brick phone which has run out of battery
it holds her aching back like pva glue wrapping around jigsaw pieces

she reminds herself that she is no one
just a village girl who cuts grass for the cow
her mother milks it and loves it
her father carries the milk on a motorcycle into town

this world may be alien to you
but it is almost home to me
but it nearly happened to me
but it also never did
and for that i am grateful

she isn't scared of snakes winding up her legs
her skin is slightly cracked and is darker than mine
suncream is too expensive and the village shops only sell packet noodles

she isn't afraid of cows or spiders or the dark
they stomp and crawl and engulf her life
they are...

boy at M&S

your green eyes were bright
the mask complimented your face
i wonder if you had brace straight teeth,
like me?
i wonder if you smiled back at me
the corners of your mouth pulled up
your teeth touching the fabric of your cloth mask
your eyes crinkling just a little bit
like a toddler chuckling at his own glistening spit

i had just had a bad day
a series of undesirable experiences
i was staring at the cheesecake
“this looks nice but it’s too overpriced,
i should’ve gone to-”

your arm shot out from another aisle
and your body followed
you wore a grey backpack, battered zips
and your hand grabbed a water bottle
you didn’t read the label or check the price

i hesitated and thought this once, twice:
“what if he has water in his bag, and has forgotten?
maybe he’s buying it for a friend
maybe he’s walking home
maybe his house it at the bottom of...

i have forgotten

i have lost the knack of social commentary
i have misplaced the talent of conducting tears

i produce flowery sentences that froth in your mouth;
they fizzle like a sherbet lemon 
like a passkey to an empty gallery

the world shivered and sunk

fires fuelled by dustbin debris and politician flyers
people huddling in groups, breathing into their hands
skeletons forming teams, muttering about deathly plans

the world is shivering and she is haunted by the past
she hugs sheep wool around herself and cups her hands around a glass

the world is shivering from being grazed of grass
she overturns wooden boxes and finds a family heirloom made of brass

it is a locket; all romanticised objects are
she darns the holes in her shabby pockets
and decides to wish upon a star

"i am cold and my people have rejected me
i long to find and climb up the highest tree
like a child running away from an angry parent-
i wish to shrink in size and appear a peasant"

and so the long dead glimmers of her family
granted her that wish and under twinkling starlight
her magical powers fluttered from her body like a kite

she sunk into the...

16 and new to poetry and hurting

my sister strokes the cover
pastel and matte but to her it is velvet
enveloping and warm and kind
to her it is a sanctuary and casual friend;
she will take it to bonfires and flick through pages
with marshmallow sticky fingers

my friends pass me their copies
my signature starts to mean more than
a joke on a birthday card
"for when i'm famous"
i start to wonder if i will become famous;
it is a dangerous thought, i know
swaddled with bloody bandages and cracked lights

i was 16 and new to poetry and hurting
when i felt the metallic touch of my fountain pen for the first time
when i learned to inhale the paint of my bedroom walls
and exhale illegible scribbles and smudged ink

i had been used and scarred and didn't know
exactly how to put it into words
i used metaphors of the earth
i claimed she was a teenage girl

i used...

excerpts from a blog guest post

"i think that teenagers notice and study the world around us more than adults would like to think"
" i have become sensitive to the darker side of social media use"
"i would describe my writing process as unique"
"there is something sweetly poetic about having a homework document open in one tab and furiously typing a poem in another, ignoring the world and its demands for a blissful interval"
"i use my laptop and an overflowing Google Docs to write my poems"
"i appreciate the beauty of messy handwritten poetry in well worn notebooks"

i am simply referring to other times

although my pain sounds raw and my voice catches
like a blood streaked feather on barbed wire
i am simply referring to other times

even when my eyes plead silently and
my hands fumble like lost kites in the wind
i am simply referring to other times

i don’t want you to think that i am in pain;
that would be a misleading
in actuality, i am aching

my bones have grown and my hair is longer
my freckles have bloomed from sun bathing
but my ears ring with the sound of silence

although my face seems to echo the song of the moon;
a symphony of solidarity and pessimism
i am not sad, i am just accustomed to sadness

my eyes linger on shadows longer than yours do 
and i feel the cool breath of the devil with outstretched hands
my palms have indented lines made from cuts
fate doesn’t reason with melancholia;
my future gave up on me...

in the grand scheme of things

i didn't know that the world was like this.
at seven years old my sister was born and i had such plans-
to travel the world and treat people, to give to the poor

i see clearly now
my eyes once skimmed grubby airport rails
and photoshopped pouts and the local butchers
i thought that they were normal
i thought that they were blameless,
in the grand scheme of things.

but i'm at the edge of adulthood
my future laps like waves to a shore
silent, but corrosive
i am afraid to take a gap year
and compromise my education

i have found alternate ways to help people
i put pen to paper and whisper rhymes
my head bent over fluttering pages
my hair tickles them, coaxes them to comply

i want to say that i know better
and that the world will only get worse;
but there's a small part of me that remembers
the smile on my new...

i've published my first poetry book!!

hey guys! my debut poetry collection was released to the world yesterday... i feel ecstatic! i feel terrified! i feel proud! i feel scared! all i can really say is PLEASE CHECK IT OUT. even just your consideration or google-ing of my work would make my day. like everyone in this community, i have always wanted to write and have my words accessible to those who may need them and cherish them! this book is my chance to spread awareness and positivity on the matters i deem significant - body image, social media, mental health, global warming, feminism and so much more. my book is called "encapsulated emotions". save up a bit of your pocket money, add it to your wish list or annoy your parents to buy it!
i would be so grateful for the support- in a sense, each copy sold is another person who believes in my potential.
 

celebrations at my expense

my mind flows like a stream of coca cola
splashing onto ice on a summer's day

the hostess passes me to her friends
“cheers to us!”
they sip from the fragments of me
one relishes the taste
the other savours the coolness
and the third worries about how to hold a glass
right 

“right then girls,” the hostess chimes
“how about we get our magazines out?”
and so the middle aged women caked in makeup
and baking under the midday summer sun
pout their lips and frizz their hair with colourful nails
and lie on sunloungers, turning their long legs
now and then at intervals

“and now,” the second girl says
“i brought us something to share!”
she produces a cherry and marzipan cake
and is met with a wave of smiles and glee

“so then,” the last woman says
her voice reedy and poised
like a question to a crowd of corpses
“let’s celebrate!”

celebrations at my expense

celebrations


my mind flows like a stream of coca cola
splashing onto ice on a summer's day

the hostess passes me to her friends
“cheers to us!”
they sip from the fragments of me
one relishes the taste
the other savours the coolness
and the third worries about how to hold a glass
right 

“right then girls,” the hostess chimes
“how about we get our magazines out?”
and so the middle aged women caked in makeup
and baking under the midday summer sun
pout their lips and frizz their hair with colourful nails
and lie on sunloungers, turning their long legs
now and then at intervals

“and now,” the second girl says
“i brought us something to share!”
she produces a cherry and marzipan cake
and is met with a wave of smiles and glee

“so then,” the last woman says
her voice reedy and poised
like a question to a crowd of corpses
“let’s celebrate!”

Talking to “You”

you are a sad schoolgirl

you peel yourself off your bedroom floor
your bones creaking like a train on copper tracks
you pick up the fast food paper straws
soggy and sullen from use

you are soggy and sullen from use
it's no use
you ponder great things;
love, peace and acceptance
you peer out of the window seat
the driver is silent and still

this is hell and its no use
you stand up and flames lick your chin
you are a paper straw swaddled in alcohol
schoolgirls who are sad sip on you in maths class

you are a schoolgirl and you are sad
a heart as heavy as an empty bottle
it chimes like a fast food advert in your bones
you creak and cry and roll with the punches
a car with no driver, a bored fire
a sad school girl, a paper straw


 

departure to death

the school corridors smell like an airport
soggy luggage and overfilled snack boxes

the squeaky lino and overlapping voices
the stream of people and passing of open doors
through hands which are ink stained or clutching cards
revision cards, not debit cards

my hollow school is an airport
a grounding for the youth that might fly one day
their wings sealed by glue from the art classrooms
pva that gloops and dries and puckers and cries
it sheds and falls like icarus into the sea

but no, this school taught us resilience
if our wings flounder we know algebra
and can extract our bodies from the situation
we can pray to gods unknown to our culture
thank you for that, Mr L from religious studies

even if we are straining to hear beyond the white noise
the basic guitar chords for pop songs chime through
we once formed a band and performed to the class

we may cease but the...

Mid-June Grab Bag

"loving him was red"

about what colour you think best represents your personality. (~rain~)

"loving him was red", taylor swift used to sing on stage
in front of a wall of roses, her chipped black nails would embrace a microphone speckled with spit
her pale skin would be sweaty from the fan hugs and her eyes heavy from tour bus sleep

loving him was red, yes it was
but the breath that i project is crimson and my lungs heave from the poison
she forgot the lyric that would scream her audience into silence:
"loving him was red and his sister was hysterical"
i will forever be the twin of that blood-tinged shadow
the mascot for an album tour that nobody finds cute

flaming flaring scaring tearing
the jagged breaths of a hollow character
a fictional fold of pages that flutter from her breath
"loving him was red"

taylor didn't mention the nightmarish scene of splattered knives
the grave brandished with roses that...

the talentless artist

how powerful.
to have people salivating on their phone screens
scrolling and begging for more-
you really know me, don't you?

how enthralling.
to have the ability to lurch the world
from its back-breaking axis and shift the stars
your words are more than mine could ever be

how breathtaking.
to have the orchestra staring at your painted nails
as they dip and dive and command, control music
to think that you once attempted to play the violin... your talents were elsewhere!

i am none of those things
only insecure
each compliment has a double meaning
each compliment is a threat...

you really know me, don't you?
your words are more than mine could ever be
to think that you once attempted to play the violin... your talents were elsewhere!


never say that to a person with no talents.


 

what do you want from life?

a heavy book crammed with words
that i've written
that i've silently whispered
my mouth caressing the humid air of my bedroom

a bracelet woven by a woman
who has known the art for generations
who has felt blisters upon her back
who has felt like the last of her kind,
when really she is the only of her kind

the applause of strangers who have stumbled
and launched themselves into the depths of my mind
unaccustomed to the jarred edges and caffeine fulled thoughts
which whiz by like bees who have been revived from the dead

self-respect and pride and the urge to be immortal
i would like to believe in something other than the potential for dystopia
this is a dystopia, my dear reader

one does not receive their wishes
until they are dead and dreaming.
 

rhetorical questions?

there is something about rhetorical questions that i understand;
the need to question whilst blissfully bubbling in ignorance
carving a half heart
a broken shredded heart
and a full stop in the air
and letting it hang loosely

as if the sun might become hypnotised by it
and the stars might cower
as if the sky might become traumatised by it
like a child's reaction to a shower-

MAKE IT STOP
MY EYES BURN, MOTHER!!

there is something about rhetorical questions that i understand;
the way that they linger and ground themselves upon invisible sand
as if the shore of knowledge may ponder
a question that wishes to stay unanswered. 

Re-Search

british or nepali?!

scattered chips on a worn plate
grease ridden fish fillets smothered in crackling batter

peas that are turning murky grey and stale ketchup
carelessly trickled salt grains piercing plain white china

this is tradition, this is traditon.

humming love songs and stirring curry
the satisfying click of the rice cooker when it's finished

daal that greets your tastebuds like an urgent embrace
tender chicken that turns the tides of your tummy

this is culture, this is culture.

what do you say to the girl speckled with
biryani stains on her school polo shirt?
she owns a flag for a nation that's forgotten;
it is buried in gap year plans and money tip jars.

what do you say to the lost soul that detests
beef consumption and tattoos and infidelity?
she smears coronation day facepaint on her brown skin
red, white, blue- the colours of conflict and confusion.

which perspective should she adapt?
the one that's comfortable or a mixture of...

Extraordinary in the Ordinary

pomegranate promises

persephone longed for love; she just didn't know it yet.
within the jelly like bubble of pomegranate grains
lays the seeds that sprout like sea waves
crashing, furling, turning until they bloom skywards
and leave humanity speechless.

persephone founded pomegranate promises
a pact that states "love is born from free will
and restraint and darkness and hell and death
and seasonal sadness and a mother's rage"

 

i feel sick.

my head is making me feel sick to the core
my stomach is churning like butter
but it’s so sour

i created art that didn’t deserve to see the light of day
but now its caressed by spotlights and all the audience say
is wow
that poetry isn’t worth a penny or a broken tray

but it’s mine
and i want to fight for it
yet i feel so ashamed
something compels me to turn away

leave it buried like treasure for a ghost
leave it rotting like scraps of a magical curse

i feel ill just glancing at those words
they were written by someone else
a girl who wanted to rhyme
she always wrote as though she was running
running running far away

she’s from another time
i don’t miss her
yet she was all i had

my writing has improved
so why do i feel so sad?

your presence

icarus could have flown if he had just tried
the wolf would have been caught if the boy hadn't cried
and here is what i would say to you if i wasn't so shy-

your presence fills the world with light
like a vivid sunrise after a year of nights
like a reeling camel finding an oasis in sight

you are a skyline muddled with cell phone towers
and perching sea gulls and thick electrical wires

you are the sea when the moon stares at her face;
you are the reflection of beauty and the reason why ants race-

you are the sweetest honey and a trail of white sugar;
your presence makes this empty world fuller.

 

this isn't a murder mystery it is a murderer

here i am again; my chest is screaming. my fingertips throbbing. my lips moving aimlessly and conjuring crossroads of entangled red thread but there's no pin board. im stepping on the pins and crying in a waterfall of blood. there's no need for an investigation because i am the murderer. this isn't a murder mystery it is a murderer and her sad crumbling thoughts and heartache and blood stained fingers and suffocated voice.

 

have you ever met a poet?

there is nothing to say about the stars
the beauty that they hold
maybe fickle or true
but nevertheless, they gleam
and show us the way

twinkling upon the sea
whether it's made of tears or brine


i can't talk about you
this isn't a love poem.
not a real one

it's supposed to be a kind of
hi  i like you
(i think) poem

but have you ever met a poet
who phrases things normally?

we have the tendency to overthink
until there are rhymes and fallen hair in our sinks
until the pipes are clogged and the puppies turn into dogs

and we stop making sense
and just shut ourselves up. 

chemicals

if i started to write poetry about you
i'm afraid that i might not be able to stop-

i miss your gentle ways

you were always better than me
with your slightly crooked smile and dazzling blue eyes

there was something about you
that drew people in

i wish you well 
i wish you wings

there isn't a more selfless person that i know
i would place the forbidden fruit in your palms
and then write poetry about the sky

i would walk home with you through an earthquake
and whisper compilments in your pierced ears

you like wearing big hoops and cropped jumpers
and making people smile

you always were better than me. 

to imitate immortality

it's so easy to fall into the trap of believing this is all for nothing. in fact, it is too easy.
flitting towards candle light until your wings have melted into the wax
devouring your reflection in a cracked mirror and tracing the edges of the glass
sighing into the empty, shallow air and suffocating

you need to remember why you write
why anyone writes-
for the chance
the possibility
of discovery, relatability, community

resiting against this big bad world
full of candle light and protest signs
and violence fueled by political flyers
and robots that double tap broken screens
and bloody clothes and broken children

you write for yourself
and the aching bones of humanity
which lie cluttered around your decaying skull.

weeping angel

there’s no shame in forgetting
that cup of tea you forgot to drink
it sits in a lipstick stained mug
like a child waiting to be dressed
with its hands neatly placed
above its bony knees
it sits placidly
like a child made of stone;
it once was an angel but you denied it its home. 

the symphony of the dying

emerging golden grains and diamonds
a murky ink dwells upon a velvet sky

i bathe in the crisp moonlight
i pace barefoot on the damp grass

the clouds billow above
like a frown on a friends face

the birds sway on their home branches
the mothers call for their young to return

living room lights turn on up my road
curtains are drawn and televisions turned on

dusk settles like a finishing note
i exhale and embrace the ending symphony 

Home’s Essence

home is not a place

peeling star charts bleached by the sun
(even the blu tac gave up)

a curled-up figure wearing unicorn pyjamas
(this is my sister, she adores reading books)

nepali songs sweeping into the rooms
(my mum always sings while she cooks)

a gruff shadow at a desk
(meet my dad, he consumes 5 cups of coffee a day)

tapping fingers, whispered rhymes, scribbled notes
(me and my fountain pen and washi taped mistakes)

this is my home
(it is a moment, not a place)

these are my people
(they sometimes make my sanity slip away)

however, i'll love them
(for forever minus a day)

because our bond is stronger than blu tac
(neither the sun nor age can take it away)

Friendship Tweet

friendship is a rose

instant instagram messages about hash browns - "They! Have! Hashbrowns!!!!"
reminiscing about when we used to do P.E.
"i actually ran though!"
"...yes, that's the sad part."

hashbrowns and shopping and that steep hill by your house
flustered cheeks and summer sweat and gap year plans
 

housewife

wedding veils are so thin
so why do they suffocate me?

dirty soapy water lies cold in the sink
i wish i could submerge myself in it
but i would drown
because i can't swim

and so i'll just clean
and clean and clean

and so i'll just scrub 
and wash dishes until they gleam

it doesn't impress you
but it completes me.

i was prescribed a poet

i was handed an early invitation to my funeral before i could speak
i clutched it with podgy fingers and drooled on it absentmindedly,
gaping my mouth open and scrutinising the world.

there is no cure, only practise
the world and it’s men test me 
how long can i go without writing,
how long until i lose my mind?

i’ve scratched the skin off my hands
my palms are raw red and open

blood streams from my lifeline
pooling into a puddle shaped like a crooked question mark

before my straining eyes
i haven’t slept

words kept flashing up before me
like a lyric video with no sound
i have been muted

is this my punishment for finding home
on a stabbed, wounded, murky page?

it’s curved and folded edges hugged me more warmly
than the wildfires of earth ever did.

my hair fell out
strands would stray like lines which had been dismantled
by that clear and cunning current...

March Grab Bag

recipe for reality

Ingredients:

sugar
spice
n' all things nice
a dash of toxic masculinity 
(it looks like crimson rice)
a sprinkle of blundering bigotry
(it smells like burnt mice)

NOTE-
that was incorrect
i listed what we have
I listed what has crept
into humanity's mixing bowl
since the dawn of time
i listed the raw materials
which gleam green like bitter limes

APOLOGY-
i am very sorry but
there isn't a perfect day
not until the ingredients
are either swapped or swayed
the bowl has been whitewashed
and bleached by the sun
which used to blaze fitfully
but now it's eyes water and run

THE END-
and so I shall depart
you thought you'd receive a recipe
and not a poem trying to be smart
you wanted to bake the perfect day
but 

*THE LAST WORDS, THE HEM OF THE PAGE, HAS BEEN TORN OUT.
IT ANGERS YOU THAT SOMEONE OUT THERE HAS THE ANSWER,
THE EXPLANATION.
YOU WISTFULLY LOOK AT...

March Grab Bag

recipe for reality

Ingredients:


sugar
spice
n' all things nice
a dash of toxic masculinity 
(it looks like crimson rice)
a sprinkle of blundering bigotry
(it smells like burnt mice)

NOTE-
that was incorrect
i listed what we have
I listed what has crept
into humanity's mixing bowl
since the dawn of time
i listed the raw materials
which gleam green like bitter limes

APOLOGY-
i am very sorry but
there isn't a perfect day
not until the ingredients
are either swapped or swayed
the bowl has been whitewashed
and bleached by the sun
which used to blaze fitfully
but now it's eyes water and run

THE END-
and so I shall depart
you thought you'd receive a recipe
and not a poem trying to be smart
you wanted to bake the perfect day
but 

*THE LAST WORDS, THE HEM OF THE PAGE, HAS BEEN TORN OUT.
IT ANGERS YOU THAT SOMEONE OUT THERE HAS THE ANSWER,
THE EXPLANATION.
YOU WISTFULLY LOOK AT...

March Grab Bag

recipe for reality

Ingredients:
sugar
spice
n' all things nice
a dash of toxic masculinity 
(it looks like crimson rice)
a sprinkle of blundering bigotry
(it smells like burnt mice)

NOTE-
that was incorrect
i listed what we have
I listed what has crept
into humanity's mixing bowl
since the dawn of time
i listed the raw materials
which gleam green like bitter limes

APOLOGY-
i am very sorry but
there isn't a perfect day
not until the ingredients
are either swapped or swayed
the bowl has been whitewashed
and bleached by the sun
which used to blaze fitfully
but now it's eyes water and run

THE END-
and so I shall depart
you thought you'd receive a recipe
and not a poem trying to be smart
you wanted to bake the perfect day
but 

*THE LAST WORDS, THE HEM OF THE PAGE, HAS BEEN TORN OUT.
IT ANGERS YOU THAT SOMEONE OUT THERE HAS THE ANSWER,
THE EXPLANATION.
YOU WISTFULLY LOOK AT...

spring (wedding cake and buttercups)

cherry blossom flutters like confetti
as wedding bells flit through the perfumed air

dew encrusted fields lie idly
sniffling and brushing their hair

bronze leaves rot like skeletons
as they bruise the pavement
like bare hostile branches
offering a helping hand
but giving a poisoned thorn

buttercups nod sleepily
drugged from heavy despair
they spill into a copper drain
mingling their golden hues with muck

patterned bed sheets flap in the wind
as nature’s breath tickles windchimes
and blows all bird beaks to face the sky

the sparrows flap, flap, flap
their fragile wings
and pursue the stars which slumber
underneath the fuzzy quilt of midday

but in the solemn night
those same lights twinkle
like the eyes of the gods above
they pat their swollen tummies
which are filled with margarine wedding cake
and pluck buttercups from gloopy sludge
and gleefully clap their podgy fingers
to welcome the birth of life.

who are you singing for?

when your lungs expand who takes in the air?
when your heart beats fast is somebody there

in the edges of your mind
laughing and catching fire?

when you try to be kind
who do you compare yourself to;
who do you admire?

the notes and cd scraps
have been threaded with string

the bees and butterflies
live peacefully if neither sting
if no one shouts-

when you sing
who are you singing about?

twilight and tiktok

the sleek black book
and addictive app

what do they have in common,
when there's so many things they lack?

both abuse the mindless part of your brain-
they beg you to scroll on the screen or flip the page

both are helpless in their own pathetic way
"'oh edward', she murmured"
why check your screen time when you can look away?

twilight and tiktok have both taken the world by storm
with hashtags
and vampire fangs

that impact you in your home
it once was a humble abode, i know

now preened with moon print walls
now sheened with blood stained gauze

don't let yourself nod to sleep or conform
throw away the screen, the book 
or your fate is forlorn 

flower freckled fate vs star speckled heights

decaying plane propellers 
why do we call them wings?

when birds bicker
why do we say that they sing?

is such the nature of humanity
that our ego floods the earth?
does it sting like a green nettle sea,
or does it have the crystal waters of rebirth?

this thought is absurd, i know-
but would it be better if we left the earth alone?

we could stamp and cry,
bury the emeralds and engagement ring

we could fly deep into the sky-
or are we attached to her with translucent strings?

that flower freckled word fate
will it perhaps untangle
and aid our escape?

or will it frolick to the engine room
and cause our tin machine to break?

or maybe, just maybe,
our wings have already torn
our songs are in the past
battered and unborn

or maybe, just maybe,
we are falling through the sky
we were too late

it didn’t help to bury our pain inside- ...

bruised bunting

garnish the earth
it’s such a sickly thing

decorate it with honey
and other glistening things

crown it with petals;
milky and tinted with coral

carpet the hardened floor
with manners and good morals

put daffodils in the skyline;
bruised bunting

sip leek soup at breakfast time;
insanity funding

be proud like the gushing sea
be red and green like me

Online School Emails//a handwritten letter to my best friend

Dear Rosie,

How is your dearest composition on this fine day? I found that we are to write an essay today - ah, how bleak! If only we could spread our souls and palpate our bones upon a picnic mat in a park, or huddle before a blazing fire with the reflection of stars in our eyes. We can only dream such possibilities! We are ever bound to this perpetual wait for the weekend, as you are aware. And whence that weekend creeps toward us, it blunders right away! The sheer misfit nature of those two days does bring quite a salted tear to my cheek, don't you agree? Well, I daresay I have rambled! Rosie, I wish you a darling of a day! Please do post me a response reflecting the class and dignity that we, two young ladies, should bear!

My deepest sincerity for our souls and kindest wishes,
Rha 

poet(ry)

blind passion;
tantalising metaphors
enriching pathetic fallacy
fluttering fingers-
poetry

groped wisdom;
dog eared dictionary
wistful window smudges 
staggering shadow-
poetry

brimmed appreciation;
highlighted passages
scraps of scribbles
lethargic lungs-
poetry

i have so much to live up to
we have so much to live for

my soul might just spill out
like a shadow disobeying light;

fractured, distorted, rebellious-
poetry

fluttering fingers
staggering shadow
lethargic lungs-
poet 
 

what is earth? (just another planet)

what is five thousand to a world of billions?
what are friends to a heart of stone?
what is earth but just another planet?
what pierces these emotions in my bones?

internet injections lull my arms
social media medicine causes me harm

the antidote is not a numerical value, i know
so why do followers aid my growth?

i am ivy climbing cobblestone
i am tired of being green
and alone

but as i said-
what is earth 
what are my bones
what is my heart
if not sculptured stone?

what is earth? (just another planet)

what is five thousand to a world of billions?
what are friends to a heart of stone?
what is earth but just another planet?
what pierces these emotions in my bones?

internet injections lull my arms
social media medicine causes me harm

the antidote is not a numerical value, i know
so why do followers aid my growth?

i am ivy climbing cobblestone
i am tired of being green
and alone

but as i said-
what is earth 
what are my bones
what is my heart
if not sculptured stone?

Mid-February Grab Bag

dishwasher songs, fishnets and toast

what makes me different?
special, needed, unique?
the music that i chose to let echo in my ears
my obscure playlist names which label my soul:
"maybe i have a purpose"
"shouldering the weight of the world"
"i (don't) care"

the songs that i sing when i unload the dishwasher
"the dishwasher is empty
my soul is so blueeeeeee
the dishes are sparkly and beautiful
like me and youuuuuuuuu"
i then proceed to flutter past my little sister and spin her around
she grins while i sing, giggles while we spin,
then leaves the kitchen wondering if all big sisters do that-
i'm a different kind of big sister. 

what makes me different?
special, needed, unique?
the jewellery which ornaments my face like the perfect frame
fluid and gold on my collarbones, ears and nose
the fishnet socks i asked for a birthday years ago
which have only been worn once; i didn't have the guts
my love for ballgowns...

Dream Big

my purpose and passion and the antidote to this perpetual state of punctuated pain

my eyes widened and my hands shook violently. 
"what. what. WHAT THIS IS NOT HAPPENING RIGHT NOW?"
the paperback that i was holding wobbled precariously, projecting a sly sense of "what is this woman on about?"
i felt like stepping into the stars and pressing them like flowers to save in my scrapbook. i felt like leaping towards the moon and collecting moon dust; i felt the moment fade into a "world renowned writer slips into insanity" headline.
but it was an occasion to rise to. i took a deep breath and coaxed the stars, patting them fondly.
 "bestseller... bestselling... my poetry?" my voice grew louder with each pause, and i gasped like a madwoman
"it can't be!"

i was content. my dog raised his head up at me and stared at me with his chocolate eyes. no champagne fizzled in glasses and no friends danced around me with wide smiles. i abruptly suffocated my phone underneath a sofa cusion and...

​lover from the past

i see you.
the engraved words on my bedroom walls
which bear your mark and read like sweet, mumbled things

i feel you.
the flitting shadow behind my figure
which wanes as the waxy sun descends down the hills

each evening, as dusk deliberates with the gold circle
i turn to you and chuckle, “when will they learn? darkness conquers all.”

i need you.
engulf me like a velvet embrace, musty and pristine!
speak to me, when are you from?
i feel dislodged in this century that isn’t mine
as the dates of our days begrudgingly pass me by-

i confess
you are for me, trapped under pages,
too far beneath…

but may i shoulder your shadow and whisper to my crumbling walls?
you know the sun only rises for the hope of it all. 

 

untitled

i don’t really like my phone
but it should be my mechanism to cope;
my equated strategy of scrolls and taps
so that i can elope
with happiness

love fuelled by a battery
recognised by coffee splattered maps
and bundles of climber’s rope

and so we shall rise, rise, rise
until candle light returns
and the palm sized pacifier dies

an era of letter writing, bonfire burns,
mechanic time and sweet wine

books are my coping mechanism
i’ve grown tired of tapping in to technological lies

mapped pages turn
drawing me in like a background character sketch

clouds of caffeine tumble up slabbed steps
their perfume is infectious

and so i rise, rise, rise
i scamper like society’s slave
my collar pinches like a necklace

i use the creamy candle wax to cover the lie
which is tattooed in green ink

as stark as the sky oppressing the moon
against my dark skin
which is further from white and closer...

​a poem from the peculiar to the people

why would you turn a handle if the room is engaged?
let those four walls be with their love night and day!

what more is a girl’s bedroom than a velvet fortress that lays
stoops, struggles, sings
for crinkled paper notes and whispered praise?

at last i leave my castle in the sky
tell me mortal,
who deserves to live and who to die?

stop. you blubbering mop.
your lips are tainted by temptation
if your parents had taught you patience
you would see that it is a sin to pry.

so drop your tray of sliced apples
and let the caged bird fly;

so kneel toward your mother
upon the realisation of your
inconsequential life.

Pandemic Memoir

2021

vaccine race;
stumbling

window pane;
crumbling

Bread and Light

tea time @ 5

  • settling in front of the news with my mother
  • leaping at the sound of the kettle
  • sprinkling a few grains of sugar in my tea- for the act of sweetness more than the taste
  • wondering "is it too early to change into my pyjamas?"
  • half scolding my tongue on the tea
  • wishing i had a proper cup and saucer
  • daydreaming of being a victorian lady with a cup and saucer
  • consuming. absorbing. realising the news that flickers in front of my eyes. numbers, this many dead. this many suffering. numbers, this many vaccinated. shuddering with fear, exhaling with hope
  • hope
  • the light at the end of the tunnel
  • another cup of tea.

THE POET WHO LIES

i call myself a poet but it's all a guise;
my biggest secret is that i cannot write

i wind and strangle cream pages with lies
with metaphors and symbolism that
mystifies

want to know another confession?
i don't know what's inside-

my rotting brain and heart
scarcely even cry.

they decay with silence
broken cages harbouring a 
life

they depart with violence
which surprises me
every time.

I TRIED TO WRITE
I DID
I DID

BUT ALL THAT CAME OUT
WERE LIES.

 

Setting as Mood

the soundless sea (the screams)

sometimes i feel as though my heart will burst. there are too many things to do; to achieve, to lose, to be. there are too many experiences that i’m yet to see- i am the shell of a bomb, i’ve been shredded a thousand times over. but i can appreciate further destruction. further pacing on the beach as sand settles in your shoes and thinking, “they said this would help”. and then the waves wash over you. waves of guilt. they sting your eyes like the saltwater drenched coastline but they contain something else. droplets of blood, and shark fins and the soundless sea that somehow retches, “it's you. you’re next to-” but you don’t hear the next word because the singing of sirens draws you in as you lose your limbs to a bloodthirsty sea giant but your brain stumbles across two oysters treasuring pearls. one reads “die” and the other “fly” and you scrunch your shoulders up and...

Lost in Translation

am i scared of myself?

am i scared of myself?
how does it feel to be whitewashed and have a vitamin D deficiency because your body was built for hotter weather? my body was built for working in the fields, cutting grass for the cow. it was built for playing hide and seek behind the village huts. i used to have muscles but they’ve escaped me; i used to be contoured but now i’m just bones. bones that are looking for a home and a fire and some boiled rice. bones that are uneasy from their lack of sleep because of the raging storm outside. i hate the winter because it’s as cold as my heart; it’s relentless and you think that hot chocolate might cure it but it doesn’t. you’re mistaken year after year as you misjudge how early it gets dark and the squelch of muddy socks in your boots fades away from your memory...and then it falls on you. it lands in...

Why I Write

clarity and christmas and culture

i'm a writer; i grasp feelings and places and plant them on paper. i am british-nepalese. this influences my writing as i've felt the feeling of losing culture, the fear of letting a language forget you. i've run into sheets of musty, red velvet and felt no comfort. i've stared at a christmas tree blanky and whispered, "angles. find me." what i'm trying the express is that i don't write for anything else than clarity. the words that once relentlessly rearranged in my mind line up on a page and sink in. they bring me clarity and christmas and culture.