ISSUE 6: raison d'être

ISSUE SIX

raison d'être

JULY 2023

contents page 02

contents page

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editor's note

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beautiful things by anna davis

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outsider complex by lydia rae bush

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wander/wonder by trinity day

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through the trees by christ keivom

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wisdom from the night sky by mardoqueuo arteaga

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the children by halle preneta

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simple route by diana beas soto

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the correct answer is the correct question by em tolman

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midnight prose by chris mardiroussian

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the vain age of morrow by shamik banerjee

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anti gerascophobic lessons by inimfon inyang-kpanantia

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time loop by zoha sh.

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to be by arundeepa deka

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haikus for a home find by natalie fock

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the death of my ars poetica by christiana smith

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little reasons by nicole zamlout

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contributors list

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ISSUE 6: RAISON D'ÊTRE

editor's note dearest friends, readers and writers alike— we are incredibly thrilled to present to you the sixth issue of poetically.

aptly themed "RAISON D'ÊTRE", this issue delves into the profound exploration of purpose, meaning, and the essence of existence. through a myriad of poetic voices, we embark on a transformative journey that illuminates the intricate tapestry of human experiences. from the introspective musings on the intersection of love and purpose to the existential contemplations of the human condition, the diversity of thought and emotion captured by 16 of our wonderful writers has truly made this issue an evocative collection of poetic expression. the poetically team and i are so proud to have created such a remarkable issue and we hope that you enjoy reading it as much as we enjoyed creating it for you.

— d . d a w n

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beautiful things anna davis

1. witch covens / dark hair on a white pillow / écriture féminine / banana cake with dark chocolate chips / smooth wet hair / orange oil / clean smells / kissing behind his ear after a shower / apple and caramel / two magpies / almond croissants / a heron shimmering against grey / hosiery / a good sentence / film photos of a night-lit city / figure skaters / the labyrinth ballgown / his palm at my wrist / crisp bedding / sticky rocky road / feathers / amber windows at midnight / orange against blue / nakedness 2. old projector slides / marble / tarmac after rain / pressed flowers / handmade cotton paper / notifications from loved ones / a white eggshell in the grass / art catalogues / bright red fire hydrants / my parents holding hands / beach-combing / beth march’s piano / second-hand bookshops / a poem cut out of the newspaper / a pink mark by his hipbone / small weddings / bodies on film / gold jewellery with green / lace tablecloths / bones 3. men moaning during sex / rain on my bedroom window / homemade mince pies / break-lights through cloudy bus windows / maximalist fashion / golden age musicals / quiet / citrus perfume / letters to a young poet / pride / his green hoodie / big colourful scarves / tuesday / hot chocolate / tracing paper / yellow bedrooms / gentle hair brushing / mango smoothies / women in ties / backstreets in lyon in the summer / saying i love you during sex 4. curly hair in animation / monoprint texture / yellow road markings / abstract photographs / dark pine furniture / rock pools / calligraphy / old trainers / an ocean swim / found footage / stacked tin cans / dreamlessness / hands making things / the word beautiful / my sister laughing / european galleries / gloves / unexpected gifts / documentaries by women / fresh books / braids / decorative china / ornate combs / streetlights in fog / eyelashes / dandelion seeds in the wind / biblically accurate angels / the reflection of an avocet 5. folktales / bars of light / masturbation / parcels / old underwear / toasted marshmallows / my sister’s top lip / illiam blake’s fairies / full length mirrors / carousels / forest streams / mushroom circles / garlic / annotated library books / coloured walls / liquid ink / crisp shadows / golden hour lighting up the tops of buildings / his head on my chest / plenty of coat hooks / outsider art / hand-painted plates / tiny birds / projectors / crying

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outsider complex lydia rae bush

sometimes i would like to be a hero— clean-handed, showing up, averting eyes while all the villains fall on their own swords. (after i stare morbidly while my beloved bargaining chips cry.) i would get all the credit, despite never accepting it— vulnerable to my enemies, impenetrable to my friends, like i really did have a death wish for a messiah complex. they would call me special, and i would agree, so no one would truly challenge me inside my 2-D fantasy. then, i think i’ll stay the villain, for the thread through fact and fiction is music, and surely it is not the worst of lives with the best of songs.

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wander/wonder trinity day

i long for something bigger than myself, a desiccating thirst that only being above ocean can quench. flying towards tomorrows despite the uncertainty of it, leaving behind the past, (assured emotional baggage) one suitcase at a time. to wander all places. without particular rhyme or reason. measure of metered words in miles above the sea. in a traveler's trance, i have walked these streets before, floating in and out of places like a ghost, haunting cities that made my heart flatline. to wonder about people. inundated thoughts of their existence and the space they take up within the confines of my mind. the feeling of meeting somebody for the first time, then leaving them a nobody for the last time. the reason for being: the lust for life, the longing to live.

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through the trees christ keivom

where you and i walked, so quiet, as if silence were a kind of thread. and words, the sharpness to cut it, we began speaking. of many things: sunset as a person leaving behind a trail of footprints in the sand. detachment; the past that slowly rises from the bottom of a memory, like bubbles to the mind's surface. god; a searchlight in the sky of dark and doubt. death as an appointment that one cannot keep from meeting or put off the day of dying. what we did not know about life was more of a gift than knowing— though when our eyes met we fell in love, immediate and permanent. our lives awakened, alerted to the possibility for more— of what life has been now translated to what will be, the years left in you and me. suddenly saved, as a flower on the sidewalk. no matter what tomorrow could be, you and me, to remain one, what better poem can there be? our lives, reduced to ashes in a jar, scattered to the wind.

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wisdom from the night sky mardoqueo arteaga

celestially aware they’re not alone, the countless stars pay homage to the sun as though the brilliance was their very own: it takes one to know one. because our time on earth is deadly short, let friendship be the first and last resort. though memories are a tangle of distraction, they soothe us with nostalgic satisfaction. genius is expressed in every guise; when yours appeared it still induced surprise. let life and love become the son and daughter, who stir the dormant psyche of still water. deeply silent is the soul at birth. but clamorous assaults of joyless mirth so strike the spirit much to its chagrin, that finally the frenzied world breaks in. the metaphor of being deaf and blind means likewise “clear the clutter of your mind.”

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the children halle preneta

there is a child’s voice playing over the loudspeaker, telling a story, and my smile at the sound is so bright it would’ve blinded you. there is a child bouncing a stuffed bear around my torso, making it speak to me, telling me it likes me, and i play along in a high pitched voice you could hear from countries away. there are children running around a post, acting like i am evil and therefore need to be avoided, and i play with them among their hyena-pitched laughs and happy screams of delight. there is a child who is suddenly hugging me, saying “i like you” muffled through my hoodie and on instinct, i hug back and say “aww, thank you. i think you’re pretty cool too.” when i write to you later, i write that these kids are giving me a purpose through depression and anxiety and loss of love for life so full. they make life so bright, they see the world changing before their very eyes, they tell wacky stories that take me on adventures i could never come up with on my own. you say i shouldn’t romanticize life. and you’re right, maybe i shouldn’t. but when my friend says “you seem like the kind of person who won’t have kids of her own but instead, will view your students as your kids,” i know she is right. i know i want to build a family around unknown souls. i know i want to build a brighter world the more i see it through their magical wonder filter. i know i want to build a safe space for them, a space where they can just be who they are without fear. i know i want to build something that has a purpose, has a meaning, has life overflowing, glimmering like glitter in sunlight reflected as shadows on walls. i want to build a new world, a new future for the kids who hug me because they need it. i want to build a new world, a new future for every kid that plays with me because they have no one else to play with. i want to build a new world, a new future for every kid that’s ever felt alone because i know that feeling too well and no one deserves to feel it. i want to build a home for these kids, brimming with their wild wonder and curiosity and life so bright it might just blind you.

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simple route diana beas soto

isn’t it funny how mundane a bus ride can be, that is only if you want it to be. because behind the smudged windows, a world unfurls. every passing scene is a glimpse of life that softly swirls. it’s the perfect escape for moments of serendipity to break your gloom, a passerby’s smile, a knowing glance, where stories bloom. faces of strangers, each with a tale to be conveyed, different cultures, emotions and dreams become a varied parade. and for a moment on this bus ride, our journeys intertwine. we come from bustling cities to tranquil countrysides. a sanctuary for our thoughts, where we can make big decisions, or feel like the character in a movie. where the ordinary confines, as we traverse through life. the bus ride, a conduit, from here to there. gives us time to ponder, to throw our ideas up in the air. i cherish these moments, although seemingly small. the simplicity of a bus ride so pure some take it with a grain of salt. isn’t it funny how mundane a bus ride can be, and yet, within its embrace, it’s a type of magic that can set us free, 10

the correct answer is the correct question em tolman

the answer that is the question: joy in other words, i am playing jeopardy a. what is the name for when you’re in the car with a bunch of mentally ill teenagers and their babysitters and you start belting out “i want it that way” by the backstreet boys and you find out that the guy from alaska who refuses to take his meds is actually a karaoke rock singer disguised as a guy from alaska who refuses to take his meds and you’re all singing so loud and you forget for a second that you’re all going to get searched for contraband when you get back to the house, but actually you didn’t forget it’s just that maybe it doesn’t really matter in this moment? in other words, i learned in therapy that the goal of self-enquiry is not to find the answer to your question, but to find the question that pushes you to your edge b. what gave you permission to roll down the hill like a river, tumbling and tangling and turning your clothes green? in other words, curiosity is more important than the satisfaction of an answer c. what is softer than peach skin but harder to reach than the peach itself? (if you select this answer, you must remember that the alternate method of picking a peach is shaking the tree that it grows from. be gentle, and provide aftercare.) in other words, i don’t remember signing up for this kind of discomfort, but people have been telling me for years that this is the only way i will grow d. why do you stay when you don’t know why you are continuously circling this giant ball of radiation or for how long you will be circling or what will happen as you circle? why do you stay when your throat becomes a vacuum that you are trapped inside and the only way out is through your hand moving over the paper? why do you stay when the bills and the bans and the burnings and the rallies and the riots all seem to be pointing towards the elimination of your very self? why do you stay? in other words, you are never wrong if you never have an answer

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midnight prose chris mardiroussian

there are a hundred things we could be doing better to make our affair less hollywood tabloids and more youtube comments, but instead, all we do is send cataclysmic concoctions of clusterfuck chaos over text: 12

“i've been doing a lot of thinking, and our relationship just isn’t working out for me anymore. i think it's time we both find happiness elsewhere.” — her “i want to be honest with you and admit that my feelings have changed.” — me “i've realized that i'm not as invested in our relationship as i used to be, and it wouldn't be fair to continue pretending.” — her “i never imagined i would be writing this message, but i've come to a difficult decision. i've realized that we want different things in life and have different priorities. it's unfair to both of us to continue this relationship when our goals don't align.” — her “i hope you know that this decision hasn't been easy for me, but after much consideration, i believe it's the right one.” — me “our relationship has been struggling for a while now, and we both deserve to find someone who can make us truly happy.” — me “i've realized that i don't see a future for us as a couple.” — her “it's better to end things now rather than prolong the inevitable. i hope we can both find happiness separately.” — her “i think it's best if we end things now.” — me all we do is collide and combust with our callused hands. sometimes, i imagine our bodies in open, polished caskets that drift endlessly at sea— cutting, clashing, and making a dirty splash.

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the vain age of morrow shamik banerjee

loiter not in this vain age of morrow; rather come to poetry's sorrow, to make your gated speech fit any tune and, from its oceanlike clavis borrow— your motioning platoon. for such sorrow, is more a sweet recluse, than the glamour, all middling lives effuse; stay here— ennoble; romanticize, never will its bower, your thoughts refuse; come! your muse— idolize! here dwell in the many orbits of bliss, unlike smug worlds that only vaunt of this; here, the recondite universe explore to converse with the outflow of gnosis, and leave earth's morbid door. so come from your land to its crystal skies; leave your egritude; come to this emprise— rich in philosophy, vitality; and, where an eternal sturnidae flies, with immortality.

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anti-gerascophobic lessons inimfon inyang-kpanantia

you'll grow child en route eternity. the veld you never see its blessed tip stabbing the air, its busy roots trespassing but by sunrise watch it swallow a chunk of sky know this: by default existence is a rebel to stillness not an algebraic equation where x and y are definite integers minus every variable. fancy not yourself a square, prim and proper about the edges. you are not destined for small spaces. wing. unwind. lend yourself to dragonflame. i know responsibility confounds you, & the mire of expectations pose in the guise of garlands around your neck. fear not young spirit, stallions were never made for taming. make merry with your wildling & levitate. you chaste mutation. you mongrel cloud breaker. find your place among the stars in the palm of careless explosion burn with the potential of an endless day, of light au courant with the stretch of its brilliance &

know it's all worth it. this scissoring of your soul for the infallible ink. remember: life can be ice let it thaw, drip, trickle give it time to ocean.

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time loop zoha sh.

i. i think i’ve been here before. i remember the absence from decades later, a perpetual light from a long extinguished star. this winter i’m relearning how to live without having people to die for, though given half a chance i’d lie on train tracks for the stranger who smiled at me on the subway, would — ii. i think i’ve been here before. i recognise the silence like i was the first to stumble across yearning and give it a name. maybe i was, maybe i keep discovering it into existence again and again, like a doomed pendulum swinging in hypnosis, begging to be held and stopped for a moment of — iii. i think i’ve been here before. i’ve been breaking my heart along these same cracks until they’re self-fulfilling prophecies. you could read them like palm lines and see a reminiscence for lifelong delusions, a longing for an imagined love with unconditional specificity and miraculous mundanity and — 17

iv. i think i’ve been here before. i fall to the floor at 27 but hear myself hit the ground at 17, resigned and brazen blue. and i’m crying about this now but i’ve cried about it before and i can already hear myself crying about it from millennia away, a plaguing echo soundtracking my every move until — v. i think i’ve been here before. i end each year with the same lightbulb epiphanies and spend months forgetting them anew. like how are we all so united in our own separate un-lovings, separate un-belongings, separate un-knowings and un-seeings and un-needings and yet so unable to cross and close the distance of — vi. i think i’ve been here before. i think i’ve always been here, fleeing from endings destined to become inescapable beginnings. all the clocks are beating in reverse but it’s not enough to take me back, not when time is an immortal circle spinning around my head and god, i’m so fucking tired of a survival that never ends. i think i’ll always be on my way here, rearranging the puzzle pieces of my life and pretending there’s any other way they could fit, giving in to every deceptive promise of a reality free of fate. this is a very old story, one with an inherited emptiness as my outline and a desperation to rewrite it until being known is more than an invented memory, until — 17

to be

arundeepa deka shimmering in the cold of breeze, warmth of a beating heart. windows open, the scenery of mauve. fingers strumming a worn-down guitar tunes being woven, to the melancholy of a somber mind walls of the silent streets etched with thoughts unspoken, words mystic as the chants of prayers. when the heart tumbles and falls, the mind runs in a sprint, breaking what could happen. what beholds, is what is seen. tender spoken, with a will to be. a pen runs along, a thin sheet. fingers trembling, wrist bended and words flowing agile what glows is a passion of expression as gold it turns into amber. nothing is more beautiful than the grief of an artist as sadness is serene in their mind. looking at a kaleidoscope of sparkles reflecting in the sky in an endless pattern. embraced by the blues of the higher ocean, to be caressed by the blowing wind. dance in the sunlight, feel the water cool, as it decorates your lashes with harsh sweep. to cry to laugh to look at the endless days and nights, with a wonder unknown. is it what to live for or are these moments too less to hold one more breath?

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haikus for a home find natalie fock

sub-zero gelato churning continuously, share your cup with me. c rushing pistachio it’s cheaper where the heart lives here, all is quiet. s piritual sweetness: our prayer for star-dripped milk hold me here, and here and here you will find in the fridge, cut oranges, we’ll juice them later. t he kitchen’s love is presently available. m elting chocolate on the countertop, i draw a heart on pancakes, sunlight walking in our little home of lily, fig, pothos and cane, shades of simple green. w elcome back, darling. this space we carved from hoping, is for our keeping.

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the death of my ars poetica christiana smith

stuck in this prison of their making | waiting to be freed | i will wait no longer | i will make them watch me from inside these bars | i will create a weapon that can slip between the gaps | pencil touches paper | the words are etched into their skin | burned into their brains | i will force them to watch | silenced | as their burns heal over as an open wound | i will force them to stay | echoing in their head until they are in the ground | buried and still never at rest | with my sapphic throat | i will sing for the whole choir that i am tender and yielding and sweet | that our love is not their forbidden fantasy | not their fetish | i will staple their eyes to my graphite on the paper | their lids pried open with my fingers | and when i read these words aloud | i will force them to understand | chain their ears to my lips so they can not miss a single word | i will force them to finally see | to finally hear | to finally comprehend reality | they will know that these words on the page are my oxygen | my water | my sustenance | but they refuse to let me free | my words strong enough to reach them | but not powerful enough to save me i have poetry for my last meal 20

little reasons nicole zamlout

when someone talks about their reason for being it is tangled often with love songs or artistic goals so lofty the gods cannot help but chuckle. these pursuits are noble but for me it is the smell of coffee in the morning, a blank page that is always willing to embrace the ink i lovingly place upon it. it is the dinners with friends that connect us as we pass into that odd realm called adulthood. it is the stars in my driveway, orion ever reminding me of strength and folly. it is my favorite stories that shock me no matter how many times i read them. these may seem rote, a sentiment as well worn as a loved pair of socks but it really is true: it’s the little things, these thousands of little reasons, that give life meaning.

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contributors list ISSUE SIX: RAISON D'ÊTRE lydia rae bush christ keivom halle preneta nicole zamlout shamik banerjee anna davis mardoqueo arteaga natalie fock em tolman inimfon inyang-kpanantia zoha sh. trinity day christiana smith chris mardiroussian diana beas soto arundeepa deka

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for

wordsmiths, for

wordsmiths,

storytellers storytellers and the poetically & the

poetically

inclined. poetically

inclined.

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ISSUE 06: RAISON D'ÊTRE

© 2023 POETICALLY