Dearest,
I recently sent out a poem for the Wingword Poetry Competition, 2023.
I didn’t win. 🥲 But I got a mention. Apparently, there were over 1300 entries. So I will take the mention as a win! 😛
For today’s edition, I thought I will share the poem with you. Let me know what you make of it. 💗
For We Are the Middle Class
We lay down economic maps
on our laps every night,
and draw coordinates
to find ourselves,
forgeting how they move
like the staircases at Hogwarts,
for we are the middle class.
Our pride, however,
climbs onto a trains
that travels time,
dropping us off at Aristotle’s
who tells us
how important we are
for we know how to obey,
for we are the middle class.
We are the boiling frogs,
the ostrich with its head
buried in the sand,
staying in abusive relationships
with the sttae
for we know no other way,
for we are the middle class.
Our fate is forever sealed
in metaphors that we have stored
in airtight pickle containers,
washed and dried
on verandahs where we say
most of our goodbyes,
for we are the middle class.
Center of the fairness scale,
we are inconvenience to some,
but triumph to others
depending which side
you begin the count from,
for we are the middle class.
We live in moderation,
stock our hopes
in plastic bags
that we throw away, without rebellion
when asked politely,
for we are the middle class.
We have been making
lemonades from wedges
often squeezed before they are
thrown at us,
saying it tastes better that way,
for we are the middle class.
Our souls like our floors
have scratches from much scrubbing
and we wonder over a cuppa
if that’s clean or dirty,
for we are the middle class.
Our lives mimic bad TV
the sounds erupting thus
rattle the books
that we have stopped reading,
for we are the middle class.
We are the middle class,
and we won’t revolt
as long as the newspaper
is delivered at our door
on time.
Some verses:
#1 When Did It Happen? by Mary Oliver
When did it happen?
“It was a long time ago.”
Where did it happen?
“It was far away.”
No, tell. Where did it happen?
“In my heart.”
What is your heart doing now?
“Remembering. Remembering!”
#2
#3 I Still Forget We’re Not Even Friends by Trista Mateer
I still wake up
with things to
tell you.
One day, I won’t.
I will learn placid acceptance.
I will stop panicking when I can’t perfectly remember
the pitch of your voice
or the curve of your jawline.
The smell of cinnamon won’t
make me sad anymore.
At this point it’s not about finding someone
to replace you. I have spread my love
all over the place.
It’s about trying to sleep
knowing
I live in a world
that has your hands
in it.
A playlist I made for the workshop:
Feed yourself: Meat Beliram
Current Read:
Enjoyed watching:
May you stop to adore every blossom on your path,
Ree!
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or,
See you next Sunday,
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I think the first step to win is to put ourselves out there :))