<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Our padded white rooms<\/strong><\/p>\n <\/p>\n I am<\/em> Potentially lovely<\/em> Regina Spektor, \u2018Open\u2019<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Birdie<\/strong><\/p>\n A dead bird lives here It doesn’t take its last breath here Here that tangle Here you haven’t pulled at anything <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Care<\/strong><\/p>\n Guard it in a cage of fingers. Watch it gasp for air Tomorrow it will be colder <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Habitat<\/strong><\/p>\n It resides in pictures and a tea set It resides in taking chronic detours It resides in little white pills We all gasp for air <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Classification<\/strong><\/p>\n It’s a festering pin feather It’s the insatiable drinking It’s the shapeless prayer It’s everything you once forgot or lost, destroyed <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Conception<\/strong><\/p>\n We tripped over the edge, were pushed The perps are at their best when you love them will only hurt ourselves. There is no black and white There are no victims. <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Gestation<\/strong><\/p>\n Fold in on yourself with your head Take in your own breath. You are Think. Think. Sleep.<\/p>\n Get up. Walk. Your arms are free now. closer to me. Carry yourself out of your body <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Runa Svetlikova<\/strong> (1982) is a poet, writer, student and visual artist. Her debut Deze zachte witte kamer (2014; These Padded White Rooms, Marmer Publ. Netherlands) won the Herman De Coninck Debut Prize in Belgium in 2015.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Willem Groenewegen<\/strong> (1971) has been translating Dutch-language poetry since the late 90s. Work published with Arc Publications, Shearman, Seren. Rutger Kopland selection (Dublin: Waxwing Poems) shortlisted for Popescu Prize in 2007. www.willem-groenewegen.nl<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Our padded white rooms I am In a room I\u2019ve built myself Four straight walls One floor One ceiling And day after day, I wake up feeling Day after day, I wake up feeling, feeling Potentially lovely Perpetually human Suspended and open Regina Spektor, \u2018Open\u2019 Birdie A dead bird lives […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[7],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-9348","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-prose-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/9348","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=9348"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/9348\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":9350,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/9348\/revisions\/9350"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=9348"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=9348"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=9348"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nIn a room I\u2019ve built myself<\/em>
\nFour straight walls<\/em>
\nOne floor<\/em>
\nOne ceiling<\/em>
\nAnd day after day, I wake up feeling<\/em>
\nDay after day, I wake up feeling, feeling<\/em><\/p>\n
\nPerpetually human<\/em>
\nSuspended and open<\/em><\/p>\n
\nin a box of threadbare shoes.<\/p>\n
\nbut keeps heaving, up and down.<\/p>\n
\ncurled about that russet tongue
\nthrough the gullet right into that stomach
\nhas not yet been seen<\/p>\n
\nthere\u2019s nothing bleeding,
\nbare skin that is far from going cold.<\/p>\n
\nWarm it with your breath.
\nFold its wings.
\nCarry it through the day in a box.
\nLet it sleep.<\/p>\n
\nwith shoulders raised.
\nCaress it and then close the box.<\/p>\n
\nsmooth out all goose bumps with a kiss
\nwake it with a breath and carry it along.<\/p>\n
\nin the dog that died.<\/p>\n
\non your way to anywhere.<\/p>\n
\nin taking them so you can take it
\ntill it all dissolves.<\/p>\n
\nin our padded white rooms.<\/p>\n
\nthe maniacal licking of dry lips
\nthe endless pouting.<\/p>\n
\nthe boorish bellow of laughter.
\nThe shivering in the bath.<\/p>\n
\nsaid in front of every altar, any god
\nit’s the unshaken heretic.<\/p>\n
\nthe blessed body in your grave.<\/p>\n
\nwe let go tried to save ourselves.<\/p>\n
\nthe love that gnaws its way in
\nlike semen does into an egg. Revolt<\/p>\n
\nwe flutter with clipped stumps it\u2019s just conception.<\/p>\n
\nThere is no perpetrator.
\nThere is just posterity.<\/p>\n
\nbeneath the blanket. Rock to and fro.<\/p>\n
\na naked bird in its hermetic nest.<\/p>\n
\nIt carries itself. Carry yourself<\/p>\n
\nand totter into me.<\/p>\n