Poetry
Long Live Poetry
A poem can never die
I’m waiting outside your house.
The sky glistens pink with streaks of silver
soft white clusters float merrily
colourful butterflies skip through air pushing gentle zephyr through ruffled hair
beauty surrounds beauty surrounds your house.
I tread lush grass that tickles naked feet
verdant expanse of joyous summer days, the whiff of barbecues still lingers uneasily in the breeze
I slither through cracks that appear only to me
push and penetrate
cold marble sends shivers up my skinny legs.
From deep inside a deafening wail punctures stale air
a flicker of terror soon expires
rosy cheeks drained of colour.
The poet smiles.
You will live in verse now.
Three Single Poems
Ephemeral, uncertain, a single plane upon which our whole existence is built. Priyanka Srivastava situates our whole life in a poem:
Poetry is a form of memory. We replay a single moment or fleeting second over and over in our mind. Jay Sizemore shows that the poem, like memory, finishes in liminal space, between the lines:
Most men die between blinks, trying to remember something
Like Aaron Quist, we’re all searching for the elusive muse, that single feather that inspires the perfect combination of words:






