Sam Alexandra Rose

Tag: amwriting

  • The Longshort of June

    June, d’you know
    when you will end
    can anyone tell me
    when it ends
    if it ends
    I have been searching
    for the tail of the thread
    but it disappears between
    my fingers
    the month so short
    already gone
    yet not
    never-ending
    but not
    where does it end

    in July
    what lies ahead
    what sinks beneath
    the surface of calm
    the surface of thirty
    degree heat
    of sweat
    of sweet words
    of meet again soon
    of I love yous
    of ways we amuse ourselves
    press the panic down
    press ourselves
    into each other
    grapple for something
    resembling reassurance
    resembling advice

    we must voice
    what lurks beneath
    the fear that penetrates our skin
    the worry we absorb
    anxiety we bathe our muscles in
    desperation that resides within
    something akin to over-feeling
    that overwhelm that sinks between

    our skin and bones
    and bones
    and bones

  • when I die I want to be a tree

    Listen to this poem on my Soundcloud: https://soundcloud.com/writersam/when-i-die-i-want-to-be-a-tree

    I have been thinking about death a lot –
    picking out my plot instead of turning away
    and I have decided that I want you to hollow
    out a tree trunk and place me inside. Don’t
    chop it down, leave it growing and upright. Keep
    the top open so that crows can make nests
    in my hair. It is always a mess anyway. Leave me
    there with my arms splayed like branches
    so the local kids tell each other terrible stories
    about the dead scarecrow woman who lives
    in the woods. I wouldn’t want my stories to stop
    after I have lost the power to tell them myself.
    Could you also make sure I am wearing a welcoming
    smile, not a grimace, as even though my face will be
    hidden within my standing grave, I still want to be the
    light relief. And we mustn’t call it a grave. I was never
    that serious, more of a hedonist with tendencies
    towards deceitfulness and an unreasonable amount
    of laughter which I also think must continue. So with
    that in mind, could you record the sound of my
    snorts, my giggles, my guffaws and sometimes
    play them in the forest, in the dark? Set up your old
    boom box among the rocks and put it on repeat. I just
    want to lark about and as the afterlife is still uncertain
    I need my body to do the work. Just set this up
    for me and we can both enjoy the looks of terror
    on people’s faces as they rush by. Maybe when you die
    you can be a tree here, too. I have been thinking
    about life a lot – losing the plot instead of turning
    away and I have decided that I want you to turn me
    into a wildlife reserve, maybe take a knife to my
    stomach where squirrels can burrow when it gets cold
    and insects can borrow my eye sockets to use as their home
    and the stories about the dead scarecrow woman
    who lives in the woods will never stop being told.

  • Brain Blade

    New poem! Read it below or listen to the audio version on Soundcloud: https://soundcloud.com/writersam/brain-blade

    the word is too big for my mouth
    so it stays shut and won’t let anything out
    and instead all the thoughts crowd my skull
    like passengers being dropped  into a small
    room from an escalator
    squashed together and asphyxiating.
    meanwhile my brain is playing with a blade
    fingering the edges, wondering
    what it would be like
    to press, to gently slice,
    to ignore all advice,
    to plot its demise,
    else the body will get there first.
    is it better to surrender the country
    before the invasion gets too much?
    is it better to stop trying, to spend
    energy on living brightly and blindly,
    than to expend all resources on surviving?
    my brain considers this as it tosses
    the knife between its hands,
    waiting to stop caring about
    whether it grasps the handle in its fingers
    or catches it by the blade mid-air,
    a perfect curve of blood forming
    across its fleshy palm
    but never quite getting to that place
    of complacency. We are none of us safe,
    thinks the brain, though minutes ago
    it was laughing manically. The brain thinks:
    first it comes for the body, and one day
    it will come for me.

  • the knife

    there is a minute, literally sixty seconds
    or less
    when the knife you’re using at dinner
    looks inviting
    sharper than a butter knife, not quite
    a steak knife
    enough to elicit something red that just
    for a minute
    feels like a solution, despite you never
    taking it seriously
    before, despite your wrist’s resistance,
    your arm
    thinks maybe, your skin thinks maybe,
    somewhere
    in the back of your mind a tiny voice
    says maybe,
    but you keep cutting up your chicken,
    finish eating,
    take your plate into the kitchen, put
    the cutlery
    in the dishwasher, let the thought
    slip away
    as quietly and unnoticeably as it came.

    (I never have, and I won’t. It was just a minute. Please don’t worry.)

  • Messages from Floridian birds

    I spend the first morning eavesdropping on the birds, carefully noting each inflection, every declaration. They trust me to handle this information with complete accuracy:

    too, too
    too… too too
    whi whi whi whi whi whi
    too too too too too
    hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo-
    hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo-gasp-hoo-
    hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo
    thp-thp-thp-thp-thp-thp

    The meaning of this compilation of sounds is top secret.

    A lone duck goes about its important business in shallowing waters. It appears there has been a drought here, but it is the place that makes me feel the most full, in many ways. Welcome home. There are only good things here.

  • Dew

    The day smells like yellow with a hint of blue
    and you look like petrichor –
    a little misty around the edges
    a haze following you

    and who am I, I ask,
    now the whisky has stopped
    obstructing my view

    who are we, in this fresh
    morning with dew on our lips,
    beads of it at the ends of our hair

    and who will we turn into after
    noon, when the sun is burning loudly
    when our eyes can’t block out the noise
    and my hands still smell like your voice

    I breathe you in
    and wonder if your mouth still
    feels like how I looked the night before
    spongey with alcohol and thirst
    stretched with smiles and open, wild
    tongue trying to dampen the fuzzy inside
    of your cheek, like dew trying to reach
    a dandelion seed

  • If In Doubt

    If in doubt, grasp all of your words:
    Close your eyes.
    Reach into the lucky dip bag of vocab
    like a child fishing for sweets.
    Feel for the ones that best fit the palm of your hand,
    the ones that mould to the hills of your knuckles,
    that give way to the swirls of your fingertips without
    leaving sticky residue on them.
    Squeeze the words, with their hollow vowels and
    crunchy consonants. Don’t crush them. Test them to see
    which ones are hard, which ones will have the most impact,
    which ones will bounce and which will fall flat.
    Pull out those words and throw them
    in the direction of your target. The page, the
    cat, your mother. The armed robber in the bank with the
    hostages. Make sure you get the delivery just right –
    a gentle underarm toss or a heaving thrust for
    those targets who are harder to reach. Let the words fly
    and pray the good ones stick –
    else be ready to flee for safety when it backfires, or to
    work your arm until it’s sore and your message is received.

  • Lashings of Ginger Beer

    I still have last night’s smell on my hands:
    the fruitiness of my perfume;
    the remnants of a spicy ginger beer cocktail;
    a glass full of limes;
    a whiskey I can never remember the name of;
    burnt, sweet, sticky marshmallows;
    warmth and comfort and heat and ease –
    so much ease.

  • Another Dream

    Another dream is dressing,
    preparing for her entrance.
    I hope she is good. I have
    not paid for a ticket but
    I have rights. The curtain
    twitches and the lights
    dim. I hope the dream is
    in her best dress. Something
    gold and glittery, hip-hugging,
    trailing down to the floor as
    the dream sways like she is
    about to walk onto the red
    carpet. Maybe her hair will
    be wavy and flowing, topped
    with a tiara. Stilettos lifting
    the dream a little, making her
    walk taller and stand straighter,
    proud and excited to perform.

    Sitting in the front row of the
    theatre by myself, I am underdressed
    in my pyjamas, but I am an
    eager audience – stripy blue
    and white bottoms and even
    though it’s February now, a long-
    sleeved top with Rudolph’s
    face on it and a gimmicky
    pink ball for a nose, which
    strangely sticks out not far
    from where my stoma used
    to be. I am comfortable yet
    vulnerable. I urge the dream
    not to read my thoughts, not
    to think about the day just gone
    or the day about to ascend. I ask
    her to perform a work of fiction,
    to sing a happy, upbeat song
    I won’t want to wake up from.
    I pray for a play that strays
    from my normal viewing –
    that strays from dead relatives,
    from haunted houses, from
    familiar fears, from realism. The
    curtains open and I see the silhouette
    of the dream walk to the microphone.
    I clap, my hands hollow and echoing
    in my private purgatory. The
    spotlight shines on her, and she begins.

  • New Guest Blog Post at Lucy Turns Pages

    I have written a guest blog post for Lucy Turns Pages! It’s all about how writing has helped with my mental health in relation to cancer survivorship. Please take a look and let me know if it strikes a chord! You can find it here: “Writing About Mental Health and Cancer Survivorship”.