Currently a drama student at Exeter university, but actually a compulsive writer, with various publications in The Journal (Uni literature magazine) and second runner-up in the 2008 Paddon Award for poetry. I write material with a focus on performance and live reading, and tend to swear a fair bit, being young and hip and all that. Currently touring as support to Hollie Rogers And Men In Shorts. Email: email@example.com Website: www.myspace.com/isleylynn - where i have up some recordings as well as some short poetry in the blog section. If you're at ALL interested go and have a look see!
The Stag My dog had left me behind, the way she loves to Far too impatient to stall her legs for a girl who cannot fit through brambles And my boots were sucking in mud the way they love to And the distance between me and my dog and the way the sludge padded my footsteps was a blessing And the way a far-off bird call caught me, forced me to turn my head was a prompt All of this, and sweet serendipity, led me to the stag I was swiftly eye to eye with him His flaring nostrils matching the pulse in my lungs His flanks were full of red blood and his eyes were full of dead bark And his horns were two dying trees Each hair on his shoulders was a blade of grass Each eyelash a reed And his ears heard my panic, two supple cups drinking in an air heavy with fright We had no eyes, only reflections of each other’s sight The stillness was feverish and my breath was hot with oxygen And we were pulling each other out of our skins: An examination of his wide stomach A curiosity for my hairless chest I believe he knew I could not hurt him And I knew he could still my thrashing heart and snap my ribs That must have been why he padded away from me instead of fleeing So he melted into the forest and left me stranded in the field Both worlds now his I could listen to his movements long after I knew what they were And my dog arrived, oblivious, sniffing a little at his footprints before darting off But I stood longer, now a stone among pebbles I would return to that spot many times and wait As he never did But when out walking, I can still feel his breath in my muscles and his fur on my cheek His parting gift to me
All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.
Viewed 1304 times since 12 Apr 2008
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