WORLD: noun /wɜːld/
the earthand all the people
places and things on it
clustered to see
the half-eaten
word-book
saved from
the half-burnt
word-house
frozen
toxic-liquid
was called water once
(there was a thing called world that had real words)
the field of
carbonised-extensions
was called forest once
(there was a thing called world that had real words)
pus-globe
hung in the sky
was called sun once
(there was a thing called world that had real words)
a group of things
such as countries or animals or
an area of human activity or understanding
emplastic
parasite-things
were called human once
(there was a thing called world that had real words)
and we
the inhabitants of the city
were called monsters once
hiding in the toxic-liquid flowing
in the carbonised-extensions
under the pus-globe
in a world of real words
belonging to the parasite-things once
a planet or other
part of the universe especially
one where life might or does exist
(was there a thing called world that had real words?)
Note: The italic stanzas are taken directly from the ‘world’ definition of Cambridge English Dictionary
Exquisite Corpse
Dark of the morning. Or light.
On an emerald field.
Of hope.
Even the stones sing.
And a vulture, like an arrow.
Pines stretch out
their nails
to the skin of the sky.
The air tastes like crepuscular things.
An empty tire
swing swinging.
And a vulture, like an arrow.
A goat drinks from a frothy brook.
A forgotten mirror under a tree is starred
with blood.
Breeze brings the smell of honey
suckles.
And a vulture, like an arrow.
Butterflies carry the colours
of matchless times: Matte.
A doll lies naked on the soft grass
headless.
Crimson flowers burst out. Smouldering.
And a vulture, like an arrow.
An
aureole
over the field
surrounded by
the dirty glass
of a bell jar.
And a vulture, like an arrow
hits the jar and hits and hits.
Hungry. For the liver
outside.
Growing back
in the ashes.
Maroon.
Like the houses we built inside our houses
to pump life into our amphibious bodies
with serum pipes
SOS
It was our last day together, it was the lastday before the airstrike sirens but then we
didn’t know that. It was your idea to go
to the rocks for a picnic which would be
our last memory, a small slice of time
stolen from the upcoming cruelty, but
what is a memory apart from two hearts
pulsing with love, excitement, and hope?
The rest is pure pain and all that remains
is to remember with a twinge in the brain
how you held my hand while carrying
the basket we filled with wine, cheese,
and sugar-coated apples, how we walked
down to the windy rocks by the dark winter
sea, how we kissed and your breath tasted
like candy whilst ABBA’s SOS was playing
on the radio, how innocently unaware we
were that those three letters would be a part
of daily life one sun later, how we laughed
when I poked a grape-like thing, it squirted
me right in the eye, and how you told me
when they stop moving, sea squirts digest
their own brains because they do not need
them anymore which has become my only
expectation from a life without you; to be
able to eat my brain to forget that memory
stuck on me like a sea squirt on a rock.
Scarlet Door
Özge Lena Reads Scarlet Door:
Özge Lena’s poems have appeared in The London Magazine, iamb, Ink Sweat & Tears, Green Ink Poetry, Verse of April, Dark Winter, The Mantelpiece, Sky Island Journal, The Selkie, and elsewhere in various countries including the UK, the USA, Canada, Iceland, and France. She was nominated both for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Her poem, Celestial Body, was selected for Flight of the Dragonfly Press’ 2023 anthology Take Flight. Özge’s poetry was shortlisted for the Ralph Angel Poetry Prize and the Oxford Brookes International Poetry Competition in 2021, as well as for The Plough Poetry Prize in 2023. Twitter: @lenaozge
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