Is this going to be one of those poems
That claim the title
By virtue of line divisions where line divisions would not be
Were it prose?
Because what if it flows and it flows and it flows and instead of neat rows it tumbles and rolls and runs over rocks and zips past the toes and imbues tingling verve in the feet as it goes and the verve ascends over knees and elbows and up through the heart till it reaches the nose where it catches the wind and with it it blows up to the sky where in starlight it glows and brightens the world till everyone knows
there is light at the end of the tunnel.
Is there light at the end of the tunnel?
Is this going to be one of those poems
That claim profundity
By virtue of allusion
To existential angst?
Because I have it in spades.
In the thickness of my gut,
I feel my futility lurking,
Weighting my feet as I dance.
Perhaps it is this that the water obliterates, not a washing away, but a numbing.
You might feel a little pressure.
Is this going to be one of those poems
That claims artistry
By echoing itself endlessly
Like I do.
I am ninety seven percent ruminant. Two percent is fresh horror,
Bonded like a hydrogen to one percent fresh oxygen - love. That pool from which we drink.
The thing about streams is that they keep moving, chattering, chortling, bobbing and weaving, carrying their flotsam and jetsam, the accidental wreckage and the jettisoned heft of the mind, flowing, inexorably, downhill.
And what when my stream is no stream, one winding ribbon from the heights to the depths?
What when it is a delta?
Where this thought, and this thought, and this thought, and this thought, and more thoughts still, seep through sodden ground and tangles of weed, feeding into and bleeding between one another until fertile plain becomes swamp becomes the sea? How do I tell about that? How do words
Which by necessity come in linear form
Show that here the flotsam has blocked the channel
And here the silt which fed the richest grass has thickened and clogged the stream and the flow must be diverted.
And here, it is too deep to walk.
Would you prefer I track one line, point out where the mangroves grow the thickest, and where the alligators lurk, show you where its least dangerous to swim and where the ground would take planting in the summer, and where the children slipped in and were swallowed by sucking sludge that sounds like farting hippopotami when the water is low and you wade out because it looked untouched and touching is what we do. Treading and stomping and tracking mud where it should not be is what we do.
It will still lead to the sea.
Which looks like freedom,
But treats life and death as equals
And will not be tamed by poetry.
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Comments (26)
outstanding and brilliant
This is stream of consciousness at its greatest height .....both literally and figuratively!
I think this might be only the third time this year I've used "outstanding" AND "compelling writing" 👏
This transcends poetry. It was a fantastic experience.
I’m not going to lie, usually when I encounter stream of consciousness pieces I end skipping over or skimming the big block lines, but the ones in this had such a flow to them that I continued right along uninterrupted, and in my opinion that’s a mark of some excellent craftsmanship
I love the rhythms here! Disjointed and exactly like a stream of consciousness! Very well done!
So when we look up the definition of unfiltered, it references your work here... I'd say that's rather fitting! Great work Hannah!
I just read this about 10 times because it is so good, and so personally relatable. As a person who, roughly 20 years ago, was was diagnosed with epilepsy, I have never been able to accurately describe the feeling of a seizure. From here "And what when my stream is no stream" to "the flow must be diverted" nails it. This is exactly how it feels. I know that wasn't your intention, but it blew me away. I truly hope this wins.
Just...I share Katarzyna's views actually. This is pure unadulterated brilliance and it kinda makes me feel less of a writer and more of a pretender. another er word, so that's something. I guess? But, anyway, enough of that. This should surely figure in the winner's circle. I love the content, the way it's presented and the way your thoughts flow. Amazing.
Well-wrought! The muddy banks of the Mississippi Delta gave birth to the Blues as surely as those who lived there. We poets give our selves back to the world whence we came, come Hell or High Water, and, though I may just be consoling myself, I believe it all for the better, as with your undulating ruminations here!
It's pieces like this one that make me depressed and thinking that I'm an impostor and a laughable immitation of a writer... Why can't this brain come up with something like that? My hat comes off as I am bowing with a flourish. Only chocolate can make today livable now.
Whoaaaa, that was so profound and beautiful! My favourite was those last four lines!
I feel this poem debates with the boundaries of what poetry can be. Love it! 💌
I love the metaphor here of thoughts as silt that in their cacophony clog the flow of themes, and wisdom even as the freedom the words are straining towards is there whether the thoughts meet the page or not, a kind of poetry of absence.
Brilliant as always 🤩… I especially love the end: “It will still lead to the sea. Which looks like freedom, But treats life and death as equals And will not be tamed by poetry.”💖
Gosh. Wow: that’s all I’ve got tonight.
Oh you nailed the stream of consciousness. I'm definitely expecting this to win! I can't even begin to explain how masterfully done this is Hannah!
The first long section really drew me in! That was awesome!
So gorgeous!! You describe a sight I’d love to see!
so utterly amazing. I love this and they in which it was written.
I wish my stream of consciousness was this poetic! Incredible!
I rolled right along, feeling the ebbs and tide of questioning yet relenting to the great unknowns. Such an eloquent release of prose.
Dang, Hannah. That flows and rolls like the polyphonic prose that only the stream of consciousness knows! Seriously, outstanding job!
Those last four lines .... convincing evidence that this is indeed poetry.
OMG, Hannah, who would have ever thought that such a beautiful poem could be done about a flowing river and its delta?