Below is a selection of poems by myself. They are numbered by when they were released and published here, and dated by when I started and finished writing them.
8
A poem in its roofless hotel,
the doorman blocks the way.
Then to evict the silence
he sizes me up:
“Give me the smallest word.”
“The smallest is I.”
“Wrong, there’s no room for you.”
“But I, I took so long to get here!”
“Get lost, traveller.”
“Surely the answer is… I?”
19 May, 2025 - 22 May, 2025
7
We fasten hopes in coffins
to weigh them to the floor.
Containers within containers
are easier to carry
when harder to see.
On the bright side,
we can carry breathless
bodies across corners, like mould.
Framed in eyes
hiding eyes,
before tears bleach everywhere.
Airtight as silhouettes,
or shelter-laden sleep,
we just can’t bear
to live against. Stiffening
possibility. Shadows clutter
across etiquettes
Still memories clog the crowd.
Shoelaces are tied with eternity (never done again).
Hearts are tucked into hearts
and we share being
shut inside.
22 May, 2025 - 20 August, 2025
6
I knew a stranger only once,
only once the dazzle paused,
it burrowed like the sweat of lightning,
choking the ground.
The flash was drawn out just enough, but
I knew the absence was the same, but
still the static rose in me
and now I feel endings
5 April, 2025
5
Since momentum was tried,
art is tried.
22 June, 2024
4
The day we met, an orchid
sprouted for the first time,
saw for the first time,
two ideas of one another:
petals quiet in the night.
An entanglement of colour, spread
petals from darkness,
drew mornings halfway. Until
there were no more enclosed
shadows, as ideas of one another.
Now memories in full daylight.
Too many days have passed
since then to judge its growth.
You see more suns than me, but most
are city lights, so I find mine natural.
But considering once, you shone twice,
I see and still these thoughts:
the day we meet, the petals
will wilt and fall, to the weight of reality.
That’s if this strange day reveals
this orchid to be seen.
Or if the day is late, maybe
ideas of us will have already been
set away.
10 May, 2024 - 31 December, 2024
3
Art is not the maze,
but the footpath left behind.
We trail each other, because we live
for exits. We are lost
without intention.
Either way, we can't exit
our humanity, we can't finish hope.
So the exit becomes the entrance.
Loyalty is our privilege.
28 March, 2024 - 4 September, 2025
2
The nightjar will float tonight.
Watch his wings give out; the fall of the day.
Endowed, the foragers below
will remove him,
from the boundary.
Reach, and the sky’s reflection
will pick apart at dusk.
Over him, a disarming tear,
so strong it persuades all
to wipe the air dry
of the disturbances in the atmosphere.
Imagine finally, we’ll someday hear
the chase in his call
flying off the sawtooth wave.
He should have deadened now,
my friend: there is nothing left to oscillate.
27 May, 2024 - 11 October, 2024
1
I met a dormancy, inside a sea
it called out, by a shore thirsty
for four nights, when it was deserted,
it wanted me, it attracted me
so I’d stop at the shore.
The first night, I ran out seduced,
the first call, a surprise, from the sea
at the shore, I only had nightclothes
when I dipped into the deep, it willed.
A current twirled me as it went by.
It'd take my weight, it’d make me fly
The second night, I slid in, wore trunks,
the second call, a bond.
In a newfound flush, my skin, a trust
I could dive deep, we could feel. Together
my feet would kick off the sand
The third night, I wore only myself,
came before the call.
I dove in, tore the surface,
swam down. The sea felt raw.
I marked my palms in the sand then
any trace I made would wash away
The fourth night, the tide was gone.
The fourth call, its deafening confession:
the night calls.
I looked into the dusk, and thought
I mistook the sky for the sea,
but it was the truth, at last.
A tsunami hurtling towards me
29 March, 2024 - 10 June, 2024
My earliest surviving titled poems at 9:
Earlier (undated):
