Tulips-Sylvia Plath

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The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here.
Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in.
I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly
As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands.
I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions.
I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nurses
And my history to the anesthetist and my body to surgeons.
They have propped my head between the pillow and the sheet-cuff
Like an eye between two white lids that will not shut.
Stupid pupil, it has to take everything in.
The nurses pass and pass, they are no trouble,
They pass the way gulls pass inland in their white caps,
Doing things with their hands, one just the same as another,
So it is impossible to tell how many there are.
My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water
Tends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently.
They bring me numbness in their bright needles, they bring me sleep.
Now I have lost myself I am sick of baggage——
My patent leather overnight case like a black pillbox,
My husband and child smiling out of the family photo;
Their smiles catch onto my skin, little smiling hooks.
I have let things slip, a thirty-year-old cargo boat
stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.
They have swabbed me clear of my loving associations.
Scared and bare on the green plastic-pillowed trolley
I watched my teaset, my bureaus of linen, my books
Sink out of sight, and the water went over my head.
I am a nun now, I have never been so pure.
I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted
To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty.
How free it is, you have no idea how free——
The peacefulness is so big it dazes you,
And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets.
It is what the dead close on, finally; I imagine them
Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet.
The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me.
Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe
Lightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby.
Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds.
They are subtle : they seem to float, though they weigh me down,
Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their color,
A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck.
Nobody watched me before, now I am watched.
The tulips turn to me, and the window behind me
Where once a day the light slowly widens and slowly thins,
And I see myself, flat, ridiculous, a cut-paper shadow
Between the eye of the sun and the eyes of the tulips,
And I have no face, I have wanted to efface myself.
The vivid tulips eat my oxygen.
Before they came the air was calm enough,
Coming and going, breath by breath, without any fuss.
Then the tulips filled it up like a loud noise.
Now the air snags and eddies round them the way a river
Snags and eddies round a sunken rust-red engine.
They concentrate my attention, that was happy
Playing and resting without committing itself.
The walls, also, seem to be warming themselves.
The tulips should be behind bars like dangerous animals;
They are opening like the mouth of some great African cat,
And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes
Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.
The water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea,
And comes from a country far away as health.

Suckerpunch, the Second Coming- Henna Sjöblom

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Have you ever tasted true revenge?
Ever feared the loss of a wound more sacred
than the hollowed out palms of Christ?

I’ll tell you, I dip my knuckles in holy water after each defeat,
so that soon my skin will be impenetrable. I charge my gun with self-pity,
coat my blade with spite.
Don’t talk to me, I grin.
I am self-destructive.

Don’t get me wrong.
I’m not stigmatizing, and I can’t be a martyr, as I never bowed to anyone.
Who the fuck set the rules anyway?
I’m a bloody artist, displaying slashes as exhibits in a showcase,
and I take pride in my performance,
but presenting wounds won’t omit the truth,
and the truth is
I’ve never felt better

Than the night I woke up in the hospital,
screaming,
chains rattling around my wrists.
Nurses with faces made of paint scrapers.
Is that what I am?
An exhibit
in need of restoration?
Or the answer to the sarcastic questions
generally asked by horny men around their 50’s?

I’ll tell you what I am.
I am too big for this place.
Acid-tripping deicide angel,
fast-forwarding trough my own rapture.
Unashamed,
unrefined,
I am what mourning widows sing of
on their way to the gallows pole.
We’re the girls that already died once.
We don’t need anybody else.


The goth girl next-door. Aspiring author. Monstrophile. Horror enthusiast. I write to cope with mental illness and everyday experiences.  You can read more of my writing at Murder Tramp Birthday.

[Untitled]- Henna Sjöblom

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I had a dream I was at a party.
The lights were low, all the flooring made of glass
everyone around me were previous versions of myself
Someone flashed a camera in my face
I didn’t want my picture taken
because I was ashamed of what I might not yet be
I told the 5-year old me there was no one waiting for her
and nothing bad would happen if she stopped waking up at midnight
to check the dark corners of her room
I warned the eleven-year old me not to cut her hair
or pout her lips at the school photographer
the 16-year old me’s all had bruises, corsets, and striped thighs
they were dancing alone, crying, and yelling that they were feeling great
I gave them each three shots of vodka
and the number to the hospital emergency clinic
I turned to my incarnation from last year,
and opened my mouth to tell her
“yes”
“the answer is yes”
but just then a squint-eyed boy grabbed my arm
and dragged me out of the apartment.
Under the bright urine-colored streetlight, in the tapping November rain,
he lit a blunt, turned to me and told me he was god
and that I had exceeded my limit of legal intervention
he said I was losing time
trying to redeem the already forgiven
I cried while he pulled a deep breath, the sweet, prickling scent of marijuana filling the dampened air,
I cried because I didn’t want to go back
nor did I have time to be anyone’s Jesus
I cried while he just stood there and got high
and when I woke up the fog had been lifted from my eyes
it’s not that I don’t care, not that I don’t wish for a
redemption, to try again
it’s just that I have grown sick and tired of this place
that I’ll never be anything but incomplete,
leaving behind unmade beds, hair-filled sinks and broken hearts,
signs of a calamity
still in process


The goth girl next-door. Aspiring author. Monstrophile. Horror enthusiast. I write to cope with mental illness and everyday experiences.  You can read more of my writing at Murder Tramp Birthday.

Liar- K. Barratt

Liar KB

At night, she pretended she was one of them. She

Did her oms and chants, anchored her feet behind

Her ears, shared the organic rice with pure, cold-pressed

Virgin oil and laughed, with them, about

The rest: the junk food eaters and murderous meat

Eaters; the zombies attached to I-phones and I-pads;

And the junkies getting high in the poison Big

Pharma had convinced them to buy, to be well,

To think well -oh poor dears, not seeing the truth

That only came from a dedicated life of oms and chants;

And cotton weaving and whale watching from a kayak.

And she would remember the whales watched

From a tourist catamaran. And the hamburger shared

With Mike when Mike was still around and she

Was part of ‘Jenny and Mike’, and there was no tombstone,

Somewhere, polluting the earth, saying ‘Mark’.

Mark with no Jenny. And on and on they spoke,

About all their wisdom, masters, gurus, shamans.

One even swore he had seen a fairy and no one doubted it.

Yet she dared not to confess about the gorilla

In the kitchen, the child in the corner, how she

Knew she belonged to another dimension, and

There was a planet where fish behaved like men

And they came and visit, some times,

Through the multi-plane hole behind

Her fridge door. She breathed deeply

With them, a communion of air, someone

Said, and she heard the noise in her head, the

Voices pulling left and right, and the anger

Raging, her heart pounding, like a giant

Drum in a slave galley, and all she wanted

was to scream that she wanted to go home,

Wherever home was; yell them out, to get out,

Shriek them out existence,

Tell them to go, that she knew not

their names, their words meant nothing

To her, nor did the hated green

Smoothies and raw nuts, and she just wanted to

Vanish, disappear, and find that quiet

Place inside of her, to which no prayer, no

Meditation, no gong bath or drumming session

Had ever taken her before.

She was sweating, panting, but not one noticed.

They were deep, inside  their holly, hallow selves.

She tipped top to the bathroom

And took her magic pot, her miracle

Pill, velvety white.

Swallow it.

And waited, until upside down became upside right.

She was out of the hole. She could breathe.

She could slither back to her place

And joint the meaningful silence,

Just in time. In time to smile, beatifically.

In time to adjust her saintly mask.

In time to lie, again, to lie because

She did not know what else to do,

Where else to go, who else to turned to.

And as they left, one of them commented

She had not finished her smoothie. She said she would

As she close the door. And then threw the

Green concoction down the drain.

The gorilla handed the cola as

He faded and she sat in front of the TV,

Drinking her coke, eating her chips,

Watching her game show, at peace.

Accepting herself completely just

As she was: a pill-popping nut

Case wanting to fly. Like an angel.

Like a saint.

And for today, that was okay.


I can’t say I follow any particular tendency or style. I pretty much let my heart sings and copy the notes into the computer, and then play with the sounds and meanings until I feel the poem, idea or musing have taken their own shape and personality. I am originally from Venezuela and have been in the UK for 14 years. I am a writer, poet, blogger, life coach, interfaith-minister, celebrant, language teacher, Domestic Goddess with an edge,  Tarot reader, mother to a girl (light of my eyes), a dog, a Guinea pig and five plants, and wife to the most patient man in the world, who sometimes appears in my poetry. I feel very lucky to be multi-racial: Spanish, Nigerian, Native American, Jewish, Italian, Arabic and Finnish. Somehow I think that influences my eclectic style, which flourishes in almost everything I do, from my writing to my cooking. Like everyone I have had my ups and downs. I have experience domestic violence (first hubby) and ridiculously sweet loving (second hubby). I am immigrant and right now I am witnessing the loss of my country (long story) and yet I have been very much welcomed in the UK and have grown to love it very much. I am bipolar, psychotic, suicidal and suffer from psychosomatic epilepsy, which can make life a challenge at times, and, at others, weirdly fun.

I blog at Singing Heart

Untied-1Wise-Woman

There is a darkness tied up inside

Breaching the boundaries

Captivity amplified

It’s difficult to breath

Contaminating me

Skin and bones

With no one home

But for all

That should not be spoken

Teetering on the edge

Elaborate steps to prevent malice

From being woken

These are the secrets I keep

Lest a stir, a face, a sound, a place

Startles the unavowed

So I tip toe around myself

And everyone else

Perpetually panicked

Cutting and drinking and starving

To leak it out, drown it out, kill it out

Time and connection has shown me

It’s better to be quiet and lonely

Why is the silence so loud?

Stuck between solitude and kindness

And repressed

Brutal remembrance

If only

I hadn’t grown in a box made of wood and danger

Built by strangers

They were so good at pretending to care

Hold me in your thoughts and prayers

Or please just hold me

So I don’t fall apart

Like a work of abstract art

None of it fits quite right

With eyes that see what they should not

Ears only hear what they want

Hands hide truth behind your back

Hearts afraid to unpack

I’m bulging at the seams

Forsaking my dreams

Made of strings

Insidiously unraveling

Dangling

By a

Thread

Scissors whisper freedom

If I could just reach them

But I am

Shackled and shrouded

Awaiting

Life

Unclouded

And a safe space to hide

Biding time

Until I become

Untied

(Image from Tumblr)


1Wise-Woman: “I am living, fighting, and thriving with mental illness and chronic disease and a need to express myself. Writing eases some of the weight I carry.” When she isn’t yanking shadowy strands of leathery clumps of unconscious, and tenderly placing them into word documents, she is creating at A Lion Sleeps in the Heart of the Brave.