How do we tell the difference between light and flight?Because what is unheavy, unheld by the weight of bloodwill always make it to the sky. The cricket knows toSlice the evening with its chirping. The songbird knows itmust gift its voice to the frailness of morning just like I knowI must gift all my tenderness to the women who planted
time & seasons are in God’s handsit is Friday/ i sujood in the masjid & asks God to return meback/ to the spring of my life a life where there’s still enough light/in the eyes of my mother where the pictures of our homeis still hanging/ perfectly/ on the walls & not fraying at the edges/ decaying/slowly/ gathering dust no
AN Grace lives in Liverpool. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Another Chicago, North Dakota Quarterly, The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction and others.T: @isthisboring Buy issue 13 today. Lucent Dreaming is an independent creative writing magazine and book publisher for beautiful, imaginative and surreal fiction, poetry and artwork from emerging authors and artists worldwide. Subscribe to Lucent Dreaming
We’re looking at an empty plinth. The signdescribes an unseen installation, the artworkof the Internal Anxiety of my Lover Leaving.You taste me open, one hand gripping thewhite of a gasp. Inside I sound tidal. You holdyour ear to the part where I feel it build, yousay you can only hear silence. This is true. Ioften pretend we’re at an undisclosed
As frosted flakes go limp in milkI guide an ant with sugar grainsover the dents of our tabletop – I make a shellof my palm against my earand listen to the ocean, it has nothing much to say. That night, I eat three carrotsso I can see in the dark –perhaps, in monochrome,I will feel again. I want to dip
There is so much that wishes to go about unseen.Lilac diffusion beyond the dilating window.Everyone driving home in traffic eating privately.Someone holds a sandwich after falling apart. Pauses.Turns it. Turns it again. Yesterday’s grief was adjacentto oak. Witnessed from above and chewing the trunk.This morning the sun rose in my secret sheets shouting now, now!There’s no time, now! I felt
Due to limited control of our formatting on posts, the formatting of the following poem is different from the print version. I want to invent a type of suffering my mother hasn’t had a chance to get to know.Write something my mother wouldn’t like or understand. One past day haunts mestill, but a future day haunts me better. I have
an ayah in the qur’an says Allah has promised gardens ofbliss to all believers. tired, i light a brokencandlestick. its flame, a miniature sun, spreads todouse the darkness in my room. tonight,everyone i’ve lost returns to me in memory. ifollow their faces, trailing each into theglazed edges of my thoughts. thinking of what couldhappen next in the city, i grow
In July 1518, a woman whose name was given as Frau (Mrs.)Troffea (or Trauffea) stepped into the street and began dancing –Britannica I forgot the broom(do I mourn thesesplit yellow hairs)forgot the child whocannot tell persimmonfrom breast forgotthe husband (what wasa husband) I followedthe sound of my fattwo feet (oh earthfamiliars) I followedmy blood’s wind sillydown to the city streetswollen
This week we’re putting the spotlight on debut poet and Children’s Laureate Wales Connor Allen. Isabelle Copland interviews our author about his new children’s collection Miracles. “Every child and every person on this planet is a miracle…” What inspired you first to pick up a pen and start writing? Reading Harry Potter as a child and escaping to Hogwarts was
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