Two Poems
I’m ashamed of my body but I put it on the page
where it buzzes like a phone that should be silent. I sometimes wish to be on a beach and just so precisely in the moment that I feel the sand and the sea and the vibrations of a low mood in which I can write. My subconscious is a terrible writer, though: dreams of being unable to fly home, losing my sister in the dark, no-one hearing me cry and I call a name out like trauma and the call is coming from inside the house etcetera. If I wade deeper into Silent Mode, however, I can write nothing. That’s not true; I write the same thing over and over, against tides, in the failure of home over and over again I write: waah-waah-waah write a poem about it.
He’s as deep as The Mariana Trench (when it writes poetry)
He’s all about that darkness
and what we still don’t know,
mysterious
like someone on an app
inviting you to meet
to drown
in their self-regard.
and what we still don’t know,
mysterious
like someone on an app
inviting you to meet
to drown
in their self-regard.
You breathed the sea once
and did not die;
you read coral lines of drama;
single cell organisms
rewarded with caves
and all that darkness
he hasn’t earned.
and did not die;
you read coral lines of drama;
single cell organisms
rewarded with caves
and all that darkness
he hasn’t earned.
Nowhere near.
Ewen Glass (he/him) is a screenwriter and poet from Northern Ireland who lives with two dogs, a tortoise and a body of self-doubt; his poetry has appeared in the likes of Okay Donkey, Maudlin House, HAD, Poetry Scotland and One Art. Bluesky/X/IG: @ewenglass
* This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are producs of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to real events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
