When it’s quiet
I think I’m deaf or dead
But—
How do I tell?
So, I say (quiet)
Hey—
Anybody out there?
Sometimes
The cat comes (quiet)
But all remains—
Quiet
It’s Weirdly Quiet
Category: Poems
Wait, That’s Not Even a Poem
In my past life
When I dropped myself on the bed
Overworked, exhausted & sleep-deprived
After studying English poetry all night
There were snippets of rhymed lines
Waging a war of verses in my mind
Warning me
I have promises to keep
And miles to go before I sleep
Do not go gentle into that good night
Rage, rage against the dying of the light
What a heap of shit
How did I think
Any of that matters
It doesn’t pay the bills
So, flashforward to now
When I drop myself on the bed
Still overworked, exhausted & sleep-deprived
After translating a company website all night
There’s a war of visions going on in my head
A clash of clichés making me wish for brain death
I laugh at the line The extrusion line strikes back
Though there’s nothing funny about that
It’s pathetic, really, just like me
I still don’t pay the bills
But, at least, I’m not buying this shit
Maybe I’m brain-dead already
As I wish
That would be—a happy ending
I think
Staring into That Good Night
So it’s night and I go to smoke
Outside
And see—so many fucking stars
Just hanging up there
Flickering like crazy
(Maybe
Some of them are planes)
Anyway
Here’s the epiphany:
I feel existential fear
Because I’m so tiny
So tiny
I can’t see but a microscopic bit
The whole of it I can’t see
Because of these spiky things
Of roofs
Thrusting upwards into the sky
(Not going gentle into that good
night)
They’re cutting out a miniature piece
For me to see
While the whole of the universe
Is laughing at me
Bastard
Walls Make Neighbours
There’s a wall between me
And the gritty city street
Just a wall
Of concrete or brick or shit
One and something feet maybe
Separating me
From everything not-home
Not-nice, not-warm, not even
A not too thick wall
Between me and someone
Next to me
Above me
And next door—the post office
That’s not too much
When you think of it
A teeny-tiny willy-nilly wall
Between you and all not-you
And that’s it
Random Suggestions Poetry
I’ve been fascinated with the relatively recent feature of the WordPress Reader: the Suggestions that show at the top, just above the feed. What’s so curious about them is:
- I often have no idea what the suggested keywords mean. Homesteading? Sous vide? Come on, don’t swear at me! Don’t tell me what that is though, I already Googled and confirmed that I’m highly uninterested in these subjects.
- The suggestions are extremely random. I would’ve thought that as all other advertising (which is what suggested content really means), the keywords would be personalised. I don’t think they are, otherwise I couldn’t have been offered Homeschooling, Politics and Toddlers, all of which I intensely don’t care about.
- The whole thing is so hilarious! I waste time taking the three words suggested and using them in a poem or something. Like the thing below, which incorporates my latest incongruous suggestions of Beauty, yoga and Batman.
Beauty is—not a thing
But if it were
real
It would be
me
With my arms up
in a flying V
In the position
of a tree
Doing yoga
Flying—
Like a fucking
Batman
Zombies’ Night Out
People swarm and swell
And form a dumb mass
Of bodies to fill the train
Their vital signs are sound
Except—they are dead
And there are too many of them
In this hell hole of a train
Don’t they have somewhere else
To be—or un-be—these undead?
Like, I don’t know—
Home, for instance?
I’m open to
Tolerate
Respect
Embrace
And all this crap
It’s just that
I’d rather for zombies
To have their night out
In elsewhere.
Intimacy with Strangers
Elbow to elbow | Thigh to thigh
The guy on a packed bus | Sitting next to me
No | On top of me
He’s in my personal space | I’m in his
Hardly humans, more pigs | In slaughterhouse no. five
Thrown together by chance | Forced to intimacy
With strangers | We are
He’s on the phone | So am I
He doesn’t know | I’m watching
With a keen eye | and writing about
Him and me being here | now
Tenement Rules
I was on community service this week. I call it community service but it’s in fact a chore wheel where the six flats in the tenement take turns in cleaning the common areas. I hate doing it more than I reasonably should.
There’s no logic in my thinking, still, I can’t help telling myself, as I swing the mop, Damn, I have a PhD degree and here I am, cleaning after other people. Not so much after myself, as I’m not the one who drops chewing gums and corn at the stairs.
As I was scraping the flattened chewing gum stuck on one of the stone steps, I composed a poem in my head. After all, I’m still a doctor of English Literature. I’m also the concierge, which gives me the privilege to stick signs on the board. Like this.
WIPE YOUR BOOTS
KEEP THE COMMON AREAS CLEAN
KEEP THE DOOR LOCKED AFTER 8 PM
NO SHOUTING
NO SMOKING
NO LITTERING
NO LOITERING
NO CHILDREN
NO PETS
DON’T BE A PIG, BE A PERSON
OR JUST KEEP OUT
That’s it, that’s my poem. I’m proud of myself, how well I’ve cleaned everything. You could eat from the floor (if you don’t much mind getting hepatitis). If I catch anyone dropping food or fags on the stairs, I’ll beat them up with my mop.
So I Got These Ikea Glasses…
Design IKEA
Made in CHINA
What the f*ck?
Well *shrug*
Glass is glass
You drop it
.
It breaks
.
.
Into millions
Of shards . . .
Except, I guess
In CHINA
There’re no unions
Sorry about the Silence
I haven’t been around for a while. (Stating the obvious.) I’ve been busy busting my ass working like my life depended on it (it sort of does). It’s not that I have a history of overwork and psych ward incarceration (I do). So, to make up for it, I’ve penned a terrible pseudo-poem.
I’ve been quiet
Catatonic
Vegetative
Pathetic
Not keen on
—anything
I’m not good
But better now
Thank you
Mara Eastern 