Due to the nature of a good amount of my poetry (siken- esque) being inherently incompatible with Substack’s formatting options, for some poems I have screenshotted the original and included a transcript below.
(the poet as hamlet, 2022, by Laura Stewart)
DAY EIGHT: What’s the Truth?
I am the drama queen, the evil that sticks to the bottom of your shoe.
I spill my soul by accident, and the domino effects immediately.
I cough up your future like an accident—
I have these psychic visions and
I fear they’ve gone too far.
I confess: my lips are chapped and I love the way you dress,
I’m spiralling and hating it.
I stutter out my truth, my cup runneth over,
I wipe it up with a paper towel.
I don’t take my trash out for far too long,
I let the paper towel grow into an abomination that
I am scared of.
I spend all of April singing my too-late siren song.
DAY NINE: Bad Habit
(this is a very long poem and will be posted as an individual post but here is a peek)
I sat blue, too low, baby, all I want is you.
This Good Friday was cursed by rain; my blessed rainbow did not arrive in time.
Now the eclipse has come and gone.
I haven’t desired, asked, or even begged, you leave.
You have a stupid face, forgettable really, I tell this to the bartender on Bell street.
My new friend snorts, and I see your face in his.
I walk away, Lucy’s coat protects me from most digressions.
But I break down crying anyway, was I worth this mess?
After everything and my little blue dress,
After everything I must confess, I laugh at you.
DAY TEN: Fog
I bash my way
—through the fog
and the sticky sounds it leaves behind—
up the hill to
your house,
and by the time I leave
it has swallowed
the whole street.
I listen for rain
but I have my earbuds in;
I look, instead,
grey slate,
brown brick, green grass,
clear pipe,
I could laugh with you all night.
I try and let it envelop me,
it caresses me
so tenderly,
yet I yearn
for only what
I lack.
I agonize
less, inside a cloud
then I do when
faced with shiny
reality— the mist here
is famous bright—
I am the loud noise keeping everyone up at night.
I’m fine with
being spiteful,
but when the sun sets
and the fog sinks in,
I’m faced with my own watery reflection;
this game
I do not win.
DAY ELEVEN: Posture
My back has been bad since I saw my mother
Go Down.
Hit the bureau with a bang;
Call the babysitter, again.
A book a week will keep me sitting straight.
My brother throws peas
at the ones stacked on my head.
And they fall,
one
at
a
time.
They all end up in my lap.
One smudges my glasses,
Another makes the cat spit up.
I forget!
I hunch.
The paperbacks murmur in my ears,
Silent in comparison
To the crack
My back makes as I
Unlock. The babysitter comes back in
A second too late to see me slouch.
All is well.
A car is usually faster than an ambulance,
But the sirens had come,
Before the lights.
A different wailing than on TV.
And you were too scared to move her.
I slept on the couch,
Forgotten Blackberry imprinting on my back,
Never to be discovered.
Now the drawstring’s pulled tight,
I forget how it was before.
I forget things easily, don’t be so reassured.
If my shoulders ever unbound,
I’ll let you know,
To bring the towels in,
Bring my mother back home.
DAY TWELVE: Oh, the light!
I’m swimming upstream, my lungs burning; If I let the light in, will the moths come too? I spot the sun; my hope is returning! I’m drunk, skin covered in blue. My head cracks the surface; smoke in my face! The river begins to rush again, I think of the starry sun— can they see me drown in space? I don’t think they can, so I immortalize my drowning with a pen.
DAY THIRTEEN: Purr
(the poet’s cat, and muse, Chesapeake)
Upon the hearth where golden sunbeams play, There lies a tabby, brown as autumn's hue, In slumber sweet, where shadows lightly stray, With whiskers white as frost on morning dew. Beneath the boughs where verdant leaves entwine, This feline finds her arboreal nest, In dappled light where branches softly twine, She dreams of hunts in forests manifest. Her fur aglow with tawny shades so warm, A creature of the earth and sky she seems, Yet in her chin, a snowy, gleaming charm, A mark as pure as moonlight's gentle beams. In sunlit dreams and arbors tall, she thrives, A regal queen, where nature's beauty thrives.
DAY FOURTEEN: A recurring dream
I can feel the cricket’s dancing even in my dreams; Their tight bodies strung expertly for their nocturnal orchestra. I fall asleep knowing, Benadryl closing my eyes, too afraid to hope. It’s new every time; the season, the shirt, the light in your eyes. I freeze, every time, I’m knocked out; you’re inside. The things I remember come back to bite: the jello shots the sheepskin rug the sound of kanye no solo cups. BYO-Mug the crickets on the way there the cock’s first crow my way back Different every time, there is no pattern, reason, end-game, or rhyme. I’m trapped here; this bitter end, this bottom line. It always begins with the crickets, it always ends with your ceiling light. It’s purple most nights— this time I haven’t found the fantastical. The fantastical, the weird, the uncanny— is it 70 F and snowing? do I have ten legs? are all my friends penguins? Any element to tell me it’s a dream, to reassure me of my waking. This time nothing. Last time, nothing. Time before last, penguins. I still did not believe myself to be dreaming. Tomorrow, nothing. I don’t believe I will forgive you. Although it’s the only thing you ask. But for as long as my heart pounds without a nightlight, I don’t think we can be friends. Your recurring face is the only constant, the one thing that will not change. I want to punch it, kick it, slam it, kill it. Not even my dreams grant me that. I think about you every night, if I dream or not. Do I ever cross your mind? Do you know I crossed the pond? I open my mouth to ask you; but just as I get my voice; I wake up (still dreaming) barren and cold. The big light shines through the window and wakes me up, Peeled and left to rot, Banana bread attack. The cock crows as I lick my wounds, dogged tail between my legs frigid and frail. Not even my real big light wakes me up; my body moves, My mind stays there— four years of dust hiding the trap. I slog through waking, your face superimposed On to every new person I meet. But do I want this dream to leave? What if it’s the last defense? What if it comes back? What if I have to deal with it, awake, all again?
If you have made it this far- thank you. I love you. xxx.
Plum and I love Posture!
you are so talented