A flame was never meant to extinguish this abruptly. Starved of oxygen, your origami letters became ash in a mouth that bled (for too many years). I would say goodbye, but the word is a branding iron razed against a smoldering tongue.
Forgiveness never came easily for the dead. Graveyards are full of grudges and barely concealed debts. When I told you that I loved you, I disguised the words (behind shattered glass bottles and origami letters confettied like New Year’s).
I remember your eyes cold like marbles, frozen like winter ponds. (I made a half-joke and thought myself funny, but your lips never curled up in a smile.) This is autobiography, but all you ever asked for was a poem or a story (but not this – not an obituary or an elegy. Not a eulogy or a goodbye).
I could never say goodbye. I ran from endings & ripped the last page out of every book I ever read.
Sometimes, I even wrote stories that ended in the middle of a —
White knuckle it, and the pain still sears through these autumnal bones. Crumble them like my skeleton has memory. It hasn’t forgotten the calendar days piling up (as thick as novels).
It’s time to start spitting matchsticks and not caring about the consequences (the aftermath) of fire.
My ears, stuffed with cotton, muffle the sound of silent, blood-curdling screams. I have crushed tears into my palm and have screamed silently into lungs of shower stalls (yet the world still whirls as though I were flung off a carnival ride).
I wasn’t being coy when I said “no”. I was being adamant. My teeth marks in your shoulder blade should serve as a reminder.
I will punch through glass with words alone. No amount of duct tape, super glue, will repair the realms destroyed.
Memories are like binge drinking. I wake up with my throat burning. (The ghosts wail outside my house, rattling the windows and causing the rafters to shudder. Begging to be let in.)
He mistook my empty for hollow and tried to fill me when I was merely seeking fulfillment.
Another left shadows form-fitted to my figure, lying, saying I was just an angel slut falling when really, a shove sent me flying. (The truth tastes as rusty as nails and goes down just as smoothly.)
He lied to me about the taste of electricity, claiming it was a needle to a vein. And all I ever wanted was the stars to be bright enough, I never needed a neon sign again in this town.
These memories are skyscrapers, and these skyscrapers are leveled by volcanoes. (And now, I am soaring like a phoenix, above the rubble, taking me beyond the landscapes I once knew.) No longer do I care about where these matchsticks may land, nor who may scorched by the words that sear.
I remember tasting the tobacco shored in your lungs, and you had the courage to tell me my auburn hair smelled of a bonfire.
I once vowed a dress I owned would forever smell of rain and my ink-stained fingertips would fidget – restless with memories, but now, when I cradle myself to sleep, my eyes are empty.
I no longer name the silhouettes that landscape my bare walls or dance along my broken skeleton bones.
I remember when my brittle skin was scented like my favorite library, but no one picks up an abandoned tome when the ink that travels the pages is nothing more than a smudge and ashy dots.
I am an empty teacup in a house that is haunted with your name. When I reread the letters you wrote me, shards of glass glitter along voids of thought, threatening to lacerate the emptiness. To puncture the silence where memories once towered like infernos.
Eryn lives in South Germany with their family but is originally from Oxford, UK. They work freelance as a translator and a teacher. When not writing, they’re out on their bike in the forest or dreaming up new ideas to write about. They are obsessed with vinyl, fountain pen ink, dragons and cheese. Preferably not all together. Their current favourite thing is spring blossoms against the white clouds. They are working on two new poetry collections which will be released this year, Masquerade Me and Death by Sugar, and two fiction works, a Dystopian Scifi novella called The Dust Collector and a Gothic Horror called The Black Cat Bookshop.
As a huge fan of your book, which features illuminating poetry on PTSD, I feel like I have to address that. How did you overcome your initial fears and write about a topic that is still so taboo in so many places?
I didn’t want to write something hard, or dark, and I really didn’t want to write a poetry collection that is largely autobiographical. But I found that on occasion when I shared an individual poem, that people really resonated with it. I saw that there’s a lot of poetry about anxiety and depression, but hardly anything for PTSD. And ultimately, sometimes, it is on you to begin it. It was on me to say, this is what PTSD looks like. So it became a collection. It was, and I think will remain, the most difficult collection for me to complete and publish. But I don’t regret it.
Do you sit down with a poetry idea in mind or does it slowly develop as you sit in front of the page or monitor? In other words, what is your process?
I should probably mention that I am an aphant, which means that I have no visual landscape. I cannot conjure a memory and play it back as if it is in glorious technicolour. If someone asks me to imagine a box, I cannot see the colour or texture. I see a nondescript box. So when it comes to poetry, you could say that I am a blind poet.
My visual landscape is layered with music notes and quantum physics. I hear a concept of a poem, a shiver of something, and I have to follow it through to the end. It happens a lot with a phrase, an overhead conversation, perhaps, and then I have to chase the thread to the end. I do not always know where it will turn up.
It’s cliché, but each person’s answer is uniquely their own: what is the best writing advice you have received?
Don’t lose your own poetic voice.
What are three words you would use to describe your poetry?
Lyrical Layered Whimsical
Why do you write poetry?
I have been writing poetry since I was 16, and really, have never stopped. I never intended to make something from it, I never intended to call myself a poet. I studied both poetry and playwriting at University but poetry was the one that survived the grind of assignments, of life getting in the way, and it kept coming back. I write poetry because I need to write it. It is cathartic, somehow.
Is there a common motif in your writing that you find yourself returning to?
There are a few, yes.
In Of Swans and Stars I explored the ideas of my own North Star, that place that calls you home, the direction on the compass that we follow. So swans and stars, are very important to me, and you see amber, being cast in amber, featuring often. I write a lot about Druidry, mythology and folklore. Dragons will always be in my poetry. But at the heart of it all, is always love. Love for who we are, for where we have been, and where we are going.
If you could attend a poetry writing conference taught by any author, lyricist, poet, etc., living or dead, which two to three people would you choose and why?
Larkin. I love him, I love how he writes, his raw energy. Peter Gabriel. His wordsmithery is without equal. WH Auden. I want to hear him read and see how it is reflected in his eyes. I want to see how he writes.
A thousand cranes Paper art flying For peace in the world A thousand cranes Countless painstaking Paper folds For peace in the heart A thousand cranes Flying their dance On white string For peace in the eyes A thousand cranes Quiet time Each repetition A healing caress For peace in the soul A thousand cranes Origami sorcery Peace in the world Starts with ourselves.
Dallas, Texas Poet J.G Gibson is a first time author with his debut book, ‘Feelings’. He is known among the poetry community as clever, poignant and creative in an original way. Most of his work, surrounds the themes of heartbreak, loss, depression, and death but are not limited to those categories.
Upon reading J.G. Gibson’s poetry, on first glance, I was deceived into thinking it was aphoristic writing – somewhat simple and with a clear message. Then, I read it again. And again. Until I realized there is so much more to his poetry than what appears.
What are three words you would you use to describe your poetry?
Clever, lyrical, and entertaining are usually three words that come to mind when I think of my poetry.
From quick wit to rhythm and rhyme, I tend to leave the reader entertained and amazed.
When did you begin writing poetry and what was the impetus?
At age 16. I like to blame music for me becoming a poet. I remember always searching for the lyrics of songs and reading them in my head, without the music playing in the background.
Some of my favorite artists today, are Taylor Swift, Eminem, Kendrick Lamar and The Weeknd.
What are some of your writing habits? How do they affect the content of your poems?
To say I have any writing habits would be a fib. I write sporadically, there’s no schedule or direct process. I do not write everyday.
All I know for sure is I write most frequently when I am emotional – good or bad.
With that being said, most of my themes surround relationships of all kinds – whether it’s death, the downfall of one, weddings, or meeting parents.
My choice of content allows me to highlight different moments and aspects of a relationship.
What is the most difficult part of the poetry-writing process?
For me personally, it is finding subjects I can personify or use as metaphors to elaborate the story that I’m trying to tell. It drives me insane trying to write the perfect-worded poem.
I find in my writing, I include little metaphors or references that only certain readers will understand. Having said that, do you ever include similar references?
Yes, in my upcoming book, “Feelings”, there will be references throughout the whole book that connect poem by poem. I like to think of it as, a loosely episodic structure of a poetry collection.
Why do you think so many readers find poetry inaccessible?
Actually, I do think it’s accessible, but I think it’s been watered down, or modernized. In today’s climate, I always see poems as a caption: it’s a one-line, witty attention grabber. Or it’s substance when posted in other places is cliché. So I do believe poetry is accessible, I just think the people who really love it, don’t really appreciate the statuses which are aka, “the new poetry.”
Carousel
Farewell, carousel that takes me back to you. Round after round thinking, you’ll go around too But you just add change, and yet stay the same, and around I move.
Isabelle Palerma 