Day Fifteen- The Man Who Was Poetry 

Day Fifteen- and big news! My first book is finally close to completion. Stay tuned for updates on The Man Who Was Poetry.🙂 
And I need lots of advice from those of you who have published already. Tips and suggestions are most welcome! 

Love, 

Your Yusra Cookie ❤️

Hercules

20140730-185407.jpg

 
I don’t know how you are so brave
How everything that bruises you leaves so
un-touching-ly
You smile that secret smile and carry on
As though you weren’t stopped, but you’d paused
And now you were walking on again
Not crippled, just resting one leg
Not sad, not aching
As if you hadn’t built that house of cards so
pain-staking-ly
Then you listen to me
And you laugh
And I forget what I was even angry about
Because you are so brave
So in-defeat-ably
That just the aftertaste of you is strong
enough to
make-me-see
Courage is as much about not mourning
as mourning
everything-that-could-not-be-saved
Or
Loving that fish,
Respecting a donut
Not wearing underwear on principle
Waking up early on thursdays to shave
And just as much shrugging
nonchalantly,
making a wrinkly nosed face, and
carrying on, because you are
that brave

 
Hercules

(c)CM
10.02.2017

Malediction- A Four Year Anniversary Curse

I am told he had ink in his veins
And she, suffered unspoken miseries
He had his heart crushed to pieces
She lived in a cottage by the sea

He walked barefoot, searching, learning
She wrote each day a different song
He grappled his whole life with intoxication
She? Delighted in being considered wrong

He was a man of a different kind
She was a girl with a bent, touched mind
He refused to conform, his will was rebellion
She had left all societal norms behind

At least, these are the reasons I could find

I have none of these, and yet all of them
Writing demented, born of a whim
Compulsion, impulsion, imprudence beget
Some reasons I cannot, some more I forget

A common disease, this malediction, this curse
To sit and remember what never occurred
Distort reality, fever blind wide open eyes
Scratch and claw paper with ink wounds incurred

Till the fit passes, and the inspiration fades from sight
We have our demons, and our redemption-
We write

 

 

Malediction

©CM
15.01.2017

 

My reasons for writing may keep evolving, but that’s alright. As long as they never run out… 🙂

 

Four years at WordPress. four  years of Calliope’s Lyre. I can’t fathom what directions my life would have taken, had I not had this blog to fall back on mentally, at so many points.

Thank you for taking this journey with me. It goes up and down but I promise, the excitement never diminishes. And as the great man said, we have miles to go before we sleep.

 

Stay tuned, dear Readers. I have just started telling my stories to the world.

 

Love, light, and monsta-sized hugs,

Cookie ❤

Existential Crisis 

 

Existential Crisis

‘Poetry doesn’t exist,’
he said sadly
He put his hand on my chest
Soft fingers that still smelt of whiskey
‘This.’ He whispered. ‘This is real.’
‘This imaginary dialogue in your head
This narrative, descriptive of he said she said
-It doesn’t exist.
I know you want it to
I know it makes the world more beautiful
To you
But it’s not real,’ he added,
with the air of someone breaking bad news
‘Poetry doesn’t exist.’
And he lay down with me under the moon
In the wet grass that needled my back with
Its tiny points
And his arm was under me
And we kissed

‘Stupid man,’ I thought languorously
Stretched out next to his chest, damp
With dew and sweat
He slept, and I watched him

My poetry

©CM
18.09.2016