Latest Stories
Most recently published stories in Poets.
In Geraldine Connolly's Newest Book, a Beautiful Melancholy Is Found
Instantaneously mesmerizing, Aileron's cover alone alerts tempted readers that they will be transported to elsewhere, perhaps to some mysterious plane which will allow them to view this mortal coil through a different, more illuminating lens. Once inside, the readers are indeed sent whirling down a rabbit hole of verse. Be "...afraid to touch this book, this volume of stories..."; these are not simplistic poems, nor are they happy. Geraldine Connolly's choice of subject matter and forms do not allow for thoughtless consumption. Reading them is akin to eating a peach still encased by its fuzzy skin. The delicious sweetness of her work's imagery and manipulation of language is accompanied by an agitation to the throat as the readers recognize the darker intonations of gender politics and other nefarious themes when traveling down each poem's stanzas.
By Laura DiNovis Berry8 years ago in Poets
Anxiety
Anxiety. I hear its name and the sound crawls through my ears like spiders. Anxiety. I say it and the words tastes like poison, it makes me sick. Anxiety. I feel it overpower me, I'm surrounded. I gasp for air, but I can't breathe, I'm suffocating, I'm drowning. My chest tries to expand, to get the smallest fraction of oxygen, but instead it is denied. My lungs are crumbling, my chest is cracking, my head is splitting in two. The worry, the what ifs, the regret, the self loathing, it all buries me. I measure my worth with a teaspoon, and it's rarely occupied with any value. I'm a prisoner, tortured by the the idea of normality, of peace. I beg for freedom, I dream of quiet, I wish for a calm breath. My fear of everything anything turns the most boring mundane thing into another monster that feeds on my heart. When will I find myself calm, in control, at peace?? I journey to find a path that allows me break out of this cage and fly free.
By Lauren Large8 years ago in Poets
Smoke and Home
I was told, I smelled like cigarettes and an antique shop. The one from home that is. Home is a very strange place. I never grew up there, moving from home to home. Home was my family, and the occasional friend that matched the home. Home was the smell of cigarettes on every piece of clothing, even though I never touched one. I scrubbed the orange film off the kitchen curtains, from cigarettes. My throat burned when smoke was blown into my face, my ears poured tears, and I knew I deserved it.
By Zoe Lawton8 years ago in Poets
