His eye wept perpetually. In the 1970s there was an explosion in the mine where he worked.
“I survived the blast but a shard of wood from one of the pit props lodged in my eye,” he said, dabbing the corner of his eye with a tissue. “It’s not that I’m crying, you understand.”

muddied snow –
ten funerals
in a week

Stephen Toft

Self-harm exists on a spectrum. The mildest, most invisible to the outside, the one that hurts so much on the inside, is that I bury my feelings.

succulents stripping in my skin

Hardly anyone can tell when I need to cry. I don’t realise it, too, I just stand beside myself and watch my smile as if it were one.

parentification
echoes of an echo
come back

I believe that when you grow up in love but it’s not the one you need, you learn to throw it against the wall under a different name, like shadows.

sleepwalkers an intimate cup of poet’s jasmine

One day you turn around to the sun and weep in horror, because it’s bright, it’s big, shifting the shadows to become real. The ground disappears into them.

a late evening sun,
we mark the foothills
in the dust

Again I can’t cry. It is a new day. I carry guilt and shame, unclear if they are really mine.

semicolon tattoo
making myself
sigh

When I seek expression for the turmoil within me, I crank up the volume, let the singers scream for me. That’s better than being completely silent.

death growl petals enter the ether

But I don’t know what real silence is. So often something inside needs sorting, nurturing, is wild, wants everything everywhere all at once.

spring tide the headlines after Ophelia

I think we have art to keep us alive.

sunset meadow
it is as if there were
a thousandfold of bars*

I feel like I need to apologise, but I don’t want to. No-one’s eager to see this. But it’s human to get lost. To be found. To struggle with oneself.

microscoping class
the world composed
in breakdown

Self-harm is a state, it begins, it ends. Turn the pain inside out like a sock. An illusion: to think we’re at any given time the same person.

the realm of and
i’ve held a snowflake

Someone thought they should comfort me by saying the wounds will surely disappear. I look at the old scars on my arm and think: they’ve never bothered me,

but the humans
do unkind things…
reading from the prophecy

My consolation now is to see my scars. I read in their existence like I read poems, and write some, and the most important of them are like socks, too.

I study Joseph Wright’s play of light for a long while
if I just had a final say in it, and I have

Kati Mohr

…………………..

*Excerpt of “Der Panther”, Rainer Maria Rilke. Translation by Kati Mohr.

On my first day in the case room a fellow apprentice compositor had spilled a case of 9 point Palace Script. The letters lay in a big pile. The foreman called me over. ‘It could happen to a bishop’, he said gleefully. He dismissed the other apprentice and turned to me. ‘Now I want you to pick up the letters one by one and put them in your compositor’s stick. Then I want you to put back in the case each letter in the right place. I’ll check back on you tomorrow or the next day’, he giggled. The small ornate letters were hard to make out. The heavens had given him an opportunity to break me in and take my place with the others who were in for the long haul. He was a diminutive man and we had clashed earlier when he was leading me down the long corridor to the case room. He said ‘you’re too tall for your age’. I replied, ‘maybe you’re too small for your age’.

fallen silent
ensnared in letters –
the forty year pension

‘I won’t be in today, my mother died last night’. There was no grieving. Feelings were buried. We just got on with things. I wore a black badge on my sleeve to show I was in mourning. My eldest sister took over cooking the dinners. One lunch time I went back to the empty house. There was nothing to eat, just an onion. I ate the onion and went back to work. One of the older men came up to me. The smell of onion hit him. He recoiled. I was embarrassed. I said I was eating onion flavoured chewing gum. He called over the other men to get a whiff. They laughed at the idea of onion flavoured chewing gum. I insisted. I didn’t want them to know there was no food at home.

at night I searched
every hidden place-
I could find nothing

Gerry McDonnell

noisy carrefour
our conversations drown
in the melee

deep blue eyes sweaty skin shining pectorals summer heat lashing out young lust

a lifetime later

salt and pepper emotional quotient intellectual wordless conversations silent wars cerebral love

just the sound
of tinkling windchimes
logical moon

Mona Bedi

Rules, I hate them
and they should die.

Kati Mohr

* https://www.houseofstaunton.com/special-moves

I’m waiting. No post for a day or two so perhaps there’ll be something.  I’m not expecting much but you never know. I’ve heard of letters arriving decades after they were posted. The road remains blank as an unwritten page. Just a pale space between ruled dark lines . Then suddenly it comes past the window before you can say Miss B with her blackboard rubber. One of those slates where the chalk makes a sound that can put your teeth on edge. She was writing some sums and the next moment she was there by the window pointing. It all  comes back like one of those missives arriving from over the years as clear as black and white.

first swift
a high pitched squeak
lost on the wind

Diana Webb