Page:
Obscure poets
I used to “discover” published poets by trawling webpages for different ones, and have happened across some lasting favourites that way, including a lot of largely forgotten or neglected ones.
Joe Bolton was such a find. He was an American poet of the late 1980s who committed suicide in his late 20s, before his work had had time to find an audience. From the little I’ve managed to scrape up about him, he was a raging alcoholic who took the cruel final step of waking his girlfriend before shooting himself in front of her.
As you can imagine, his poetry is of a depressive nature. Therapy and medication would have helped him to develop a richer emotional palette, probably. But the small body of work he left behind can be startlingly beautiful. A couple of examples:
The Light We Dance Through
This is the afterlife. Her gin-
tinged breath came like a cool
injection in my ear.
We were dancing after midnight in this place
called 32nd Avenue, dancing
over cigarette butts & against
bodies not our own & through a light
of such blue density
it almost wasn’t light at all.
But outside, there were stars,
& though all around us the city was playing games
with its deranged souls,
we danced three times around the parking lot–
a waltz, for chrissake, a fucking
waltz. That
was 1981, & each year
there are fewer & fewer people I’ll admit
as my acquaintances,
& fewer still I’ll dance with,
& it’s probably the case
that, on those all-too-rare occasions,
the light we dance through is the closest
we’ll ever come to any sort of afterlife.
Days of Summer Gone
It’s too late to go back to that apartment
In Bowling Green, Kentucky, where we slept together
So many nights. I wonder if whoever lives there now
And fucks in that bed ever wonders about us?
If memory’s any good gauge, the place
Must be ghosted with us even now—
Where I read aloud to you the love stories
Of other languages, and where there was no part
Of your body my tongue couldn’t locate in the dark.
Don’t try to tell me you’ve forgotten.
I can’t let them go, those days
Of summer gone, for under my eyelids you move
As you moved through the changes of light in that room.
But it’s raining tonight
In Houston, Texas, and how is your weather
In Berkley? What happened to us?
Westward is the world’s motion, and time’s,
If not memory’s.
***
Feel free to share any obscure poets or poetry that you’ve become intimate with down the years.
Joe Bolton was such a find. He was an American poet of the late 1980s who committed suicide in his late 20s, before his work had had time to find an audience. From the little I’ve managed to scrape up about him, he was a raging alcoholic who took the cruel final step of waking his girlfriend before shooting himself in front of her.
As you can imagine, his poetry is of a depressive nature. Therapy and medication would have helped him to develop a richer emotional palette, probably. But the small body of work he left behind can be startlingly beautiful. A couple of examples:
The Light We Dance Through
This is the afterlife. Her gin-
tinged breath came like a cool
injection in my ear.
We were dancing after midnight in this place
called 32nd Avenue, dancing
over cigarette butts & against
bodies not our own & through a light
of such blue density
it almost wasn’t light at all.
But outside, there were stars,
& though all around us the city was playing games
with its deranged souls,
we danced three times around the parking lot–
a waltz, for chrissake, a fucking
waltz. That
was 1981, & each year
there are fewer & fewer people I’ll admit
as my acquaintances,
& fewer still I’ll dance with,
& it’s probably the case
that, on those all-too-rare occasions,
the light we dance through is the closest
we’ll ever come to any sort of afterlife.
Days of Summer Gone
It’s too late to go back to that apartment
In Bowling Green, Kentucky, where we slept together
So many nights. I wonder if whoever lives there now
And fucks in that bed ever wonders about us?
If memory’s any good gauge, the place
Must be ghosted with us even now—
Where I read aloud to you the love stories
Of other languages, and where there was no part
Of your body my tongue couldn’t locate in the dark.
Don’t try to tell me you’ve forgotten.
I can’t let them go, those days
Of summer gone, for under my eyelids you move
As you moved through the changes of light in that room.
But it’s raining tonight
In Houston, Texas, and how is your weather
In Berkley? What happened to us?
Westward is the world’s motion, and time’s,
If not memory’s.
***
Feel free to share any obscure poets or poetry that you’ve become intimate with down the years.
Anonymous
Joe Bolton soulds like a character from a soap-opera, but intriguing find CR.
Not so much obscure, but always felt HD (Hilda Doolittle) deserved a wider audience. An American, attached to the Bloomsbury set (the shivers) but her words are mesmeric.
Sea Poppies
Amber husk
fluted with gold,
fruit on the sand
marked with a rich grain,
treasure
spilled near the shrub-pines
to bleach on the boulders:
your stalk has caught root
among wet pebbles
and drift flung by the sea
and grated shells
and split conch-shells.
Beautiful, wide-spread,
fire upon leaf,
what meadow yields
so fragrant a leaf
as your bright leaf?
Not so much obscure, but always felt HD (Hilda Doolittle) deserved a wider audience. An American, attached to the Bloomsbury set (the shivers) but her words are mesmeric.
Sea Poppies
Amber husk
fluted with gold,
fruit on the sand
marked with a rich grain,
treasure
spilled near the shrub-pines
to bleach on the boulders:
your stalk has caught root
among wet pebbles
and drift flung by the sea
and grated shells
and split conch-shells.
Beautiful, wide-spread,
fire upon leaf,
what meadow yields
so fragrant a leaf
as your bright leaf?
Anonymous
^ HD wrote at a time when Sappho love was very much discouraged. The poem is loaded with sensual and sexual metaphor. Think you'd really appreciate her novel Bid Me To Live.
Waldo Williams was one of the leading Welsh-language poets of the twentieth century. He was also a notable pacifist, anti-war campaigner and Welsh nationalist. Here is a translation by Tony Conran of one of Waldo’s finest poems called in Welsh ‘Cofio’:
Remembering
Before the sun has left the sky, one minute,
One dear minute, before the journeying night,
To call to mind the things that are forgotten
Now in the dust of ages lost from sight.
Like foam of a wave on a lonely seacoast breaking,
Like the wind’s song where there’s no ear to mind,
I know they’re calling, calling to us vainly –
Old unremembered things of humankind.
Exploit and skill of early generations,
From tiny cottages or mighty hall,
Fine tales that centuries ago were scattered,
The gods that nobody knows now at all.
Little words of old, fugitive languages
That were sprightly on the lips of men
And pretty to the ear in the prattle of children –
But no one’s tongue will call on them again.
Oh, generations on the earth unnumbered,
Their divine dreams, fragile divinity –
Is only silence left to the hearts’ affections
That once rejoiced and grieved as much as we?
Waldo Williams was one of the leading Welsh-language poets of the twentieth century. He was also a notable pacifist, anti-war campaigner and Welsh nationalist. Here is a translation by Tony Conran of one of Waldo’s finest poems called in Welsh ‘Cofio’:
Remembering
Before the sun has left the sky, one minute,
One dear minute, before the journeying night,
To call to mind the things that are forgotten
Now in the dust of ages lost from sight.
Like foam of a wave on a lonely seacoast breaking,
Like the wind’s song where there’s no ear to mind,
I know they’re calling, calling to us vainly –
Old unremembered things of humankind.
Exploit and skill of early generations,
From tiny cottages or mighty hall,
Fine tales that centuries ago were scattered,
The gods that nobody knows now at all.
Little words of old, fugitive languages
That were sprightly on the lips of men
And pretty to the ear in the prattle of children –
But no one’s tongue will call on them again.
Oh, generations on the earth unnumbered,
Their divine dreams, fragile divinity –
Is only silence left to the hearts’ affections
That once rejoiced and grieved as much as we?
Anonymous
She's not very prolific, but Rebecca Perry excites me (oo-er missus)
Kintsugi 金継ぎ
You said I treated you like a dog,
stroking through your hair
and down over your ears,
and that’s what can turn kindness bad.
I would apologise,
but love is the soft parts of us.
*
There is a Japanese word to describe
the sense a person has upon meeting
another person that future love
between them is inevitable.
This is not the same as love at first sight.
For example,
your smell was never unfamiliar.
*
You asked ‘How can a human being
be so much like a leaf?’
I became infuriated by your questions,
but it’s true my veins are alarming
in the shower, blue and desperate
to find each other.
There is a German word
to describe the blue of veins,
which is also grey metal and green
and the colour of haunted houses.
*
There is a Japanese word meaning
to repair broken pottery with gold.
*
Two days alone and I’m talking
to the chilli plant – watching the red
seep through the last green one
like a limb coming to life.
I never noticed how long the light bulbs
take to be bright. I also realise I don’t know
the way anywhere. The streets
always just appeared before.
*
The sky is darkening.
How to explain the sadness
I feel in winter, which is a sadness
inextricable from winter. A sadness specific to the cold,
which sickens my skin.
Winter-sorrow,
when the bed is an iceberg at sea.
*
Of course your preferences present
themselves quietly in the layouts
of rooms. The few things you left
are shadowy objects at the
edges of a Renaissance painting,
waiting to catch the light
when I’m weak.
*
There is a Cheyenne word for the act
of preparing your mouth to speak.
The months spent readying mine
tasted like metal,
food was unpleasant to chew.
*
I look at a bunch of grapes in the bowl
and even their refusal to grow alone
is nature’s unnerving bell clanging out
when I’m trying to sleep
in the afternoon.
*
The feeling of remembered love
is so easy to put in the oven and heat up.
It’s your ears I long for
when my hands are empty.
Kintsugi 金継ぎ
You said I treated you like a dog,
stroking through your hair
and down over your ears,
and that’s what can turn kindness bad.
I would apologise,
but love is the soft parts of us.
*
There is a Japanese word to describe
the sense a person has upon meeting
another person that future love
between them is inevitable.
This is not the same as love at first sight.
For example,
your smell was never unfamiliar.
*
You asked ‘How can a human being
be so much like a leaf?’
I became infuriated by your questions,
but it’s true my veins are alarming
in the shower, blue and desperate
to find each other.
There is a German word
to describe the blue of veins,
which is also grey metal and green
and the colour of haunted houses.
*
There is a Japanese word meaning
to repair broken pottery with gold.
*
Two days alone and I’m talking
to the chilli plant – watching the red
seep through the last green one
like a limb coming to life.
I never noticed how long the light bulbs
take to be bright. I also realise I don’t know
the way anywhere. The streets
always just appeared before.
*
The sky is darkening.
How to explain the sadness
I feel in winter, which is a sadness
inextricable from winter. A sadness specific to the cold,
which sickens my skin.
Winter-sorrow,
when the bed is an iceberg at sea.
*
Of course your preferences present
themselves quietly in the layouts
of rooms. The few things you left
are shadowy objects at the
edges of a Renaissance painting,
waiting to catch the light
when I’m weak.
*
There is a Cheyenne word for the act
of preparing your mouth to speak.
The months spent readying mine
tasted like metal,
food was unpleasant to chew.
*
I look at a bunch of grapes in the bowl
and even their refusal to grow alone
is nature’s unnerving bell clanging out
when I’m trying to sleep
in the afternoon.
*
The feeling of remembered love
is so easy to put in the oven and heat up.
It’s your ears I long for
when my hands are empty.
Ben Belitt. He taught at Bennington College for fifty years. His poetry is on the difficult side, according to some, but rewards the effort. His language is metallic, resonant, deep. Hard and stony, baroque. A genius.
An Orange in Mérida
BY BEN BELITT
The orange-peelers of Mérida, in the wrought-
iron midday, come with mechanical skewers
and live oranges, to straddle the paths
on caissons of bicycle wheels
and work in the dark of the plaza, like jewelers’ cloths.
The orange is ceremonious. Its sleep
is Egyptian. Its golden umbilicus
waits in pyramidal light, swath over swath, outwitting
the Caesars. It cannot be ravaged by knives,
but clasps its mortality in, like the skein of an asp.
The bandstand glitters like bone, in laurel
and spittle. Behind their triangular
catafalques, the orange-peelers move through the thirst
of the world with Rameses’ bounty
caulked into the hive of the peel
while ratchets and wheels spin a blazing
cosmology on their little machines. Under
skewers and handles, the orange’s skin
is pierced, the orange, in chain-mail and papyrus,
unwinds the graveclothes of Pharaoh
in a helix of ribbon, unflawed, from the navel’s
knot to the rind and the pulp underneath, like a butterfly’s
chrysalis. And sleeper by sleeper, the living turn with their thirst
to each other, the orange’s pith is broken
in a blind effervescence that perfumes the palate and burns
to the tooth’s bite.
And the dead reawaken.
An Orange in Mérida
BY BEN BELITT
The orange-peelers of Mérida, in the wrought-
iron midday, come with mechanical skewers
and live oranges, to straddle the paths
on caissons of bicycle wheels
and work in the dark of the plaza, like jewelers’ cloths.
The orange is ceremonious. Its sleep
is Egyptian. Its golden umbilicus
waits in pyramidal light, swath over swath, outwitting
the Caesars. It cannot be ravaged by knives,
but clasps its mortality in, like the skein of an asp.
The bandstand glitters like bone, in laurel
and spittle. Behind their triangular
catafalques, the orange-peelers move through the thirst
of the world with Rameses’ bounty
caulked into the hive of the peel
while ratchets and wheels spin a blazing
cosmology on their little machines. Under
skewers and handles, the orange’s skin
is pierced, the orange, in chain-mail and papyrus,
unwinds the graveclothes of Pharaoh
in a helix of ribbon, unflawed, from the navel’s
knot to the rind and the pulp underneath, like a butterfly’s
chrysalis. And sleeper by sleeper, the living turn with their thirst
to each other, the orange’s pith is broken
in a blind effervescence that perfumes the palate and burns
to the tooth’s bite.
And the dead reawaken.
RolloMartins said:Ben Belitt. He taught at Bennington College for fifty years. His poetry is on the difficult side, according to some, but rewards the effort. His language is metallic, resonant, deep. Hard and stony, baroque. A genius.
An Orange in Mérida
BY BEN BELITT
The orange-peelers of Mérida, in the wrought-
iron midday, come with mechanical skewers
and live oranges, to straddle the paths
on caissons of bicycle wheels
and work in the dark of the plaza, like jewelers’ cloths.
The orange is ceremonious. Its sleep
is Egyptian. Its golden umbilicus
waits in pyramidal light, swath over swath, outwitting
the Caesars. It cannot be ravaged by knives,
but clasps its mortality in, like the skein of an asp.
The bandstand glitters like bone, in laurel
and spittle. Behind their triangular
catafalques, the orange-peelers move through the thirst
of the world with Rameses’ bounty
caulked into the hive of the peel
while ratchets and wheels spin a blazing
cosmology on their little machines. Under
skewers and handles, the orange’s skin
is pierced, the orange, in chain-mail and papyrus,
unwinds the graveclothes of Pharaoh
in a helix of ribbon, unflawed, from the navel’s
knot to the rind and the pulp underneath, like a butterfly’s
chrysalis. And sleeper by sleeper, the living turn with their thirst
to each other, the orange’s pith is broken
in a blind effervescence that perfumes the palate and burns
to the tooth’s bite.
And the dead reawaken.
This is excellent, thank you for sharing.
An Orange in Mérida
BY BEN BELITT
The orange-peelers of Mérida, in the wrought-
iron midday, come with mechanical skewers
and live oranges, to straddle the paths
on caissons of bicycle wheels
and work in the dark of the plaza, like jewelers’ cloths.
The orange is ceremonious. Its sleep
is Egyptian. Its golden umbilicus
waits in pyramidal light, swath over swath, outwitting
the Caesars. It cannot be ravaged by knives,
but clasps its mortality in, like the skein of an asp.
The bandstand glitters like bone, in laurel
and spittle. Behind their triangular
catafalques, the orange-peelers move through the thirst
of the world with Rameses’ bounty
caulked into the hive of the peel
while ratchets and wheels spin a blazing
cosmology on their little machines. Under
skewers and handles, the orange’s skin
is pierced, the orange, in chain-mail and papyrus,
unwinds the graveclothes of Pharaoh
in a helix of ribbon, unflawed, from the navel’s
knot to the rind and the pulp underneath, like a butterfly’s
chrysalis. And sleeper by sleeper, the living turn with their thirst
to each other, the orange’s pith is broken
in a blind effervescence that perfumes the palate and burns
to the tooth’s bite.
And the dead reawaken.
This is excellent, thank you for sharing.
Here's a list of names which will be obscure to most:
Hebu Ada Nada, Omar Abu Shaweesh, Refaat Alareer, Abdul Karim Hashash, Inas al=Saqa, Jihad Al-Masri, Yusuf Dawas, Shahadah Al Buhbahan, Nour al-Din, Hajjaj, Mustafa Al-Sawwaf, Abdullah Al-Aqad, Said Al-Dahsan, and …Saleem Al Naffar.
They are all Palestinian poets/writers killed by the Israelis since October 7th 2023.
You can read more about them here:
https://lithub.com/these-are-the-poets-and-writers-who-have-been-killed-in-gaza/
Just taking the last on the list (on behalf of all the others as well as it were), Saleem Al-Naffar (1963-2023) was killed in Gaza, along with several family members, on 7th December 2023 by an Israel airstrike.
In order to honour him and his fellow poets, and to save them from total obscurity, here's a poem by Saleem:
Drawing Class
(by Salim Al-Nafar)
Translated by Danielle Linehhan Kiedaisch and Lorna MacBean, as appeared in A Bird Is Not a Stone, with permission from editors Sarah Irving and Henry Bell.
If we stopped
would the endlessness stop too?
Screaming from the fire,
I shout into darkness.
Did you hear me?
Did you answer?
The children dipped their bread in my tears
while we wrestled the chains of time
drawn to drag war onto beauty.
A child told me
‘They took my father…can you see them?’
I looked, but could not see.
But I am tired
from seeing
from journeying
from anxious days
Mother, I am tired.
Delirious our joys: delirious our sorrow
And the travel nips, nips, nips, nips…
When we stop
life becomes memory.
When we sleep,
with time
to talk.
At drawing class
time is mapped onto the contours of our homeland
and on takes of knights who kick time with their souls.
Our teacher tells us the story
And colours our minds.
Putting place into heart into the question:
What happened to our teachers?
My teacher was made absent.
No drawings, no stories, no beautiful dreams.
Tired from my travel and my question
and from a life lived in pain,
I wander.
Who will see these footsteps?
Denied in love, exhausted of anger,
they stood on clouds and took
the stars from the sky and changed
the rhythm of time.
If we stop,
will time walk on?
Never thought we would lead the young into the waves.
…
What happens to us?
Are we to learn from the absent?
That wilderness does not protect life?
I battered the door of death
and found no answer.
From this small land, we grew.
From the water came our life.
Argue with this:
The skies crush our land:
our song sings on.
Hebu Ada Nada, Omar Abu Shaweesh, Refaat Alareer, Abdul Karim Hashash, Inas al=Saqa, Jihad Al-Masri, Yusuf Dawas, Shahadah Al Buhbahan, Nour al-Din, Hajjaj, Mustafa Al-Sawwaf, Abdullah Al-Aqad, Said Al-Dahsan, and …Saleem Al Naffar.
They are all Palestinian poets/writers killed by the Israelis since October 7th 2023.
You can read more about them here:
https://lithub.com/these-are-the-poets-and-writers-who-have-been-killed-in-gaza/
Just taking the last on the list (on behalf of all the others as well as it were), Saleem Al-Naffar (1963-2023) was killed in Gaza, along with several family members, on 7th December 2023 by an Israel airstrike.
In order to honour him and his fellow poets, and to save them from total obscurity, here's a poem by Saleem:
Drawing Class
(by Salim Al-Nafar)
Translated by Danielle Linehhan Kiedaisch and Lorna MacBean, as appeared in A Bird Is Not a Stone, with permission from editors Sarah Irving and Henry Bell.
If we stopped
would the endlessness stop too?
Screaming from the fire,
I shout into darkness.
Did you hear me?
Did you answer?
The children dipped their bread in my tears
while we wrestled the chains of time
drawn to drag war onto beauty.
A child told me
‘They took my father…can you see them?’
I looked, but could not see.
But I am tired
from seeing
from journeying
from anxious days
Mother, I am tired.
Delirious our joys: delirious our sorrow
And the travel nips, nips, nips, nips…
When we stop
life becomes memory.
When we sleep,
with time
to talk.
At drawing class
time is mapped onto the contours of our homeland
and on takes of knights who kick time with their souls.
Our teacher tells us the story
And colours our minds.
Putting place into heart into the question:
What happened to our teachers?
My teacher was made absent.
No drawings, no stories, no beautiful dreams.
Tired from my travel and my question
and from a life lived in pain,
I wander.
Who will see these footsteps?
Denied in love, exhausted of anger,
they stood on clouds and took
the stars from the sky and changed
the rhythm of time.
If we stop,
will time walk on?
Never thought we would lead the young into the waves.
…
What happens to us?
Are we to learn from the absent?
That wilderness does not protect life?
I battered the door of death
and found no answer.
From this small land, we grew.
From the water came our life.
Argue with this:
The skies crush our land:
our song sings on.
And if you were to come
face to face
with your future self,
I imagine that they would
wrap you in a warm embrace
and whisper the following words to you:
"Thank you for the mistakes you made,
so that I could discover what it means to be wise.
Thank you for the moments of doubt you faced,
so that I could discover what it means to have faith.
Thank you for the wrong roads you took,
so that I could discover what it means to find my way.
Thank you for the grudges you held,
so that I could discover what it means to forgive.
Thank you for the masks you wore,
so that I could discover what it means to be authentic.
Thank you for the moments you took for granted,
so that I could discover what it means to be grateful.
Thank you for the pride you displayed,
so that I could discover what it means to be humble.
Thank you for the times you were judgemental,
so that I could discover what it means to be accepting.
Thank you for the fears you faced,
so that I could discover what it means to be brave.
Thank you for the conflicts you navigated,
so that I could discover what it means to find harmony.
Thank you for the storms you weathered,
so that I could discover what it means to be strong.
And thank you for the rejections you faced,
so that I could discover what it means to truly love,
not only others, but myself,
and life itself.
I look back on you
not with shame,
but with pride and admiration
for without you
I would not be who I am today."
Words by Tahlia Hunter
Artwork by Elaine Bayley Illustrations
Not necessarily a poet, but the last few years I have gotten to know Adam Duritz of Counting Crows fame. His songwriting abilities are far superior to any other I've heard. Also, oddly enough, I inherited my rhyming obsession from Dr Seuss.
I’ve been enjoying this poets work lately.
Diorama (woman on a cameo brooch) by Catie Rosemurgy
Watch for them. Faint as aspen, peeled as birch,
walking the edge of the field raw. Any minute now,
you should start to see remote women flickering in the distance,
their smiles more flickering inside the flickering.
It isn’t hard to find them, but once you do, don’t believe them.
Confessing is just a big part of their drama.
Don’t we all know someone pale and drawn out from coming back so many times,
someone worn thin from having to turn into the thread that turns into the rope
that turns into the river that leads her out of the fire she may have started?
It was supposed to be fragrant
and perennial like blossoming.
Their returning.
It was supposed to be copious and make you reach
for a wide jug hoping to catch it all.
Come back, that’s what these women do.
They climb out of oval frames hung on walls.
They use any open page as a little ladder.
Diorama (woman on a cameo brooch) by Catie Rosemurgy
Watch for them. Faint as aspen, peeled as birch,
walking the edge of the field raw. Any minute now,
you should start to see remote women flickering in the distance,
their smiles more flickering inside the flickering.
It isn’t hard to find them, but once you do, don’t believe them.
Confessing is just a big part of their drama.
Don’t we all know someone pale and drawn out from coming back so many times,
someone worn thin from having to turn into the thread that turns into the rope
that turns into the river that leads her out of the fire she may have started?
It was supposed to be fragrant
and perennial like blossoming.
Their returning.
It was supposed to be copious and make you reach
for a wide jug hoping to catch it all.
Come back, that’s what these women do.
They climb out of oval frames hung on walls.
They use any open page as a little ladder.
Ahavati said:And if you were to come
face to face
with your future self,
I imagine that they would
wrap you in a warm embrace
and whisper the following words to you:
"Thank you for the mistakes you made,
so that I could discover what it means to be wise.
Thank you for the moments of doubt you faced,
so that I could discover what it means to have faith.
Thank you for the wrong roads you took,
so that I could discover what it means to find my way.
Thank you for the grudges you held,
so that I could discover what it means to forgive.
Thank you for the masks you wore,
so that I could discover what it means to be authentic.
Thank you for the moments you took for granted,
so that I could discover what it means to be grateful.
Thank you for the pride you displayed,
so that I could discover what it means to be humble.
Thank you for the times you were judgemental,
so that I could discover what it means to be accepting.
Thank you for the fears you faced,
so that I could discover what it means to be brave.
Thank you for the conflicts you navigated,
so that I could discover what it means to find harmony.
Thank you for the storms you weathered,
so that I could discover what it means to be strong.
And thank you for the rejections you faced,
so that I could discover what it means to truly love,
not only others, but myself,
and life itself.
I look back on you
not with shame,
but with pride and admiration
for without you
I would not be who I am today."
Words by Tahlia Hunter
Artwork by Elaine Bayley Illustrations
That's inspiring and comforting. If I were to write that it would be a lot of 'I wish you didn't ' 'you shouldn't have'.
I have read poems by not too famous people that are good.
face to face
with your future self,
I imagine that they would
wrap you in a warm embrace
and whisper the following words to you:
"Thank you for the mistakes you made,
so that I could discover what it means to be wise.
Thank you for the moments of doubt you faced,
so that I could discover what it means to have faith.
Thank you for the wrong roads you took,
so that I could discover what it means to find my way.
Thank you for the grudges you held,
so that I could discover what it means to forgive.
Thank you for the masks you wore,
so that I could discover what it means to be authentic.
Thank you for the moments you took for granted,
so that I could discover what it means to be grateful.
Thank you for the pride you displayed,
so that I could discover what it means to be humble.
Thank you for the times you were judgemental,
so that I could discover what it means to be accepting.
Thank you for the fears you faced,
so that I could discover what it means to be brave.
Thank you for the conflicts you navigated,
so that I could discover what it means to find harmony.
Thank you for the storms you weathered,
so that I could discover what it means to be strong.
And thank you for the rejections you faced,
so that I could discover what it means to truly love,
not only others, but myself,
and life itself.
I look back on you
not with shame,
but with pride and admiration
for without you
I would not be who I am today."
Words by Tahlia Hunter
Artwork by Elaine Bayley Illustrations
That's inspiring and comforting. If I were to write that it would be a lot of 'I wish you didn't ' 'you shouldn't have'.
I have read poems by not too famous people that are good.
Grace said:
That's inspiring and comforting. If I were to write that it would be a lot of 'I wish you didn't ' 'you shouldn't have'.
I have read poems by not too famous people that are good.
It was comforting to me too. xo There are no mistakes, Grace. Only experiences that take us into a future us.
That's inspiring and comforting. If I were to write that it would be a lot of 'I wish you didn't ' 'you shouldn't have'.
I have read poems by not too famous people that are good.
It was comforting to me too. xo There are no mistakes, Grace. Only experiences that take us into a future us.
