Written beautifully with a deep message and theme that crosses multiple paradigms
A spare elegant poem but one with deeper meanings. And a duck. This unique poem made voters think. They kept going back to it again and again and, so, it is for this reason that ‘What Comes After Death?’ is the IS&T Pick of the Month for January 2023
Shakiah K Johnson is a Black American poet, actor, and dancer living in Norwich. She recently completed her MA in Poetry at the University of East Anglia. She currently works as a virtual teacher, tutor, and mentor.
What Comes After Death?
A duck stood on my grave the other day
I felt my wits travel up my spine
And settle between my shoulder blades
Each one, pulling further from the other
Until I am split down the middle
After a moment the feeling is gone
And I sew myself back together
Other voters comments included:
Phenomenal poetry with a deep meaning
It’s a fun idea presented as extremely macabre
There’s so much to unpack in this piece!
This poem resonates with the way I currently feel and speaks to an aspect of my loneliness that is hard to describe.
I like the use of vivid imagery in this poem, particularly the image of the duck standing on the speaker’s grave. The physical sensation the speaker describes, of their wits traveling up their spine and settling between their shoulder blades, is also a powerful and unique way to convey a feeling of unease or discomfort.
Gives a short look into what reincarnation may be like, very interesting concept presented succinctly and neatly
I love the imagery and the juxtaposition of something cute like a duck being associated with a grave.
It’s so emotional and impactful I can really feel through the screen when I read it. Amazing!!
Shakiah really has a talent of giving life to her words, even when she’s writing about death.
It was beautiful, and the idea of death while living resonated with me
I think it has such a beautiful meaning about the earth and nature pulling your physical body apart to nurture itself and continue its own life, and your spiritual being is aware of that and is then repurposed into a new life and body
Phenomenal
This poem sent chills down my spine.
She makes me think, opens up our minds
I love everything about this poem! It is absolutely beautiful.
It truly pulls you into a setting you wouldn’t consider, while leaving you plenty of room to imagine the outcomes yourself
Stark and original
The words are breathtaking and have such a powerful message!
This poem really spoke to me and had me evaluating feelings I have never explored
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THE REST OF THE JANUARY 2023 SHORTLIST
Cassandra Atherton is a widely anthologised and award-winning prose poet and scholar of prose poetry. She was a Harvard Visiting Scholar in English and a Visiting Fellow at Sophia University, and is Professor of Writing and Literature at Deakin University. Her books of prose poetry include Pre-Raphaelite (2018) and Leftovers (2020). She is a commissioning editor for Westerly magazine, and associate editor at both MadHat Press (USA) and Axon: Creative Explorations journal. More here: https://cassandra-atherton.com
Paul Hetherington has published 17 full-length collections of poetry and prose poetry, including Ragged Disclosures(Recent Work Press, 2022) and Her One Hundred and Seven Words(MadHat Press, 2021), a verse novel and 13 poetry chapbooks. He is Professor of Writing at the University of Canberra, joint founding editor of the international online journal Axon: Creative Explorationsand founder of the International Prose Poetry Group. More here: https://researchprofiles.canberra.edu.au/en/persons/paul-hetherington
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Holly Bars is a mature student currently studying at the University of Leeds. Holly’s poems have been published since January 2021 by The Moth, Ink Sweat & Tears, Fragmented Voices, Porridge, Anti-Heroin Chic, Visual Verse, Runcible Spoon, and more, as well as appearing in anthologies. Her debut collection, Dirty, is available from Yaffle Press. Twitter: @holly_bars
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Hysteria
say you’re on stage or in Tesco buying tinned fish for the dog or it’s
a dream in which you’re arguing with your mother
and your womb starts moving about your body like it’s got a mind of
its own
the Ancient Greeks called it wandering but a better word might be
prowling
the cure was to put good smells under a woman & genitals and bad
smells under her nose to drive the womb back to its proper place
so you open the tin and inhale sardines in tomato sauce whilst
squatting over the mangoes but your insides are in a deadlock
you are a tall square-rigged ship and the fear is a monster squid with
its suckers round the beams of your belly
I’m so sorry about this you tell the audience ruffling your papers I
appear to have lost my place
as the kraken pulls you under you realise you’re not even a real ship
– just a painting of one on fraying parchment
why can’t you just accept me for who I am you scream at your
mother who is smoking a packet of crayons
you’re not even an original – the audience are heckling you – the
critics studied your brushwork and found it to be fake
when the house lights come up you’re holding the open sardine can
like an Oscar and your mother says you’ve a stain on your knickers
Genevieve Carver is the author of A Beautiful Way to be Crazy (Verve Poetry Press), and Landsick (Broken Sleep Books). Her poetry has appeared in journals including The White Review, Magma and Poetry News. She was the 2022 winner of The Moth Nature Writing Prize.
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An Elegy for a Stinking Pigeon
I jump at a thud against my window, but nobody’s there.
I look into the courtyard and glare, see nothing, until
My sight falls upon the pigeon, dead as a dead pigeon,
The corpse nestled into the leaves to hide from the wind.
That’s the problem with death, turning from a thing into
A body. And now I have to get rid of it, fling the carrion
Over the wall, and try not to look the pigeon, dead
As a dead pigeon, in its flat black eyes.
Gloves and a facemask, I have plenty of those,
So I put on my pigeon-corpse-disposal outfit,
Take a laboured breath, and build a small white tent
Out of kitchen roll and matchsticks. Next, a small vigil,
Last rites are read out, pigeon prayers to pigeon heaven
To help this pigeon out. And I apologise, in advance,
For disturbing such still remains, to refrain from letting
The poor old soul melt away with the rain.
I hope they don’t have to move me like this, I would prefer
Not to die and become some logistical issue.
I hope they don’t chuck me over a wall, retch at my stench.
I will find a tree drenched with shade far away from anybody,
Dig my own grave, and take a bottle of whisky for the way down.
So long for now and don’t try to find me.
Solomon Elliott is a working-class writer based in Newcastle Upon Tyne. His poems have appeared in From the Lighthouse and Cygnet. He has also written articles for The Palatinate and is currently writing his first novel, ‘Fantasy Material’.
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Heart
Waves of air
set in motion. The
greater the vibrations
the higher the duties and
impulses.
The power of
the heart is separated from
the ticking of
ordinary surroundings
Murmur. A sound
in breathing. This is
not a murmur, but
involuntary. A
rubbing or creaking,
soft, blowing, harsh –
fleshy fibres.
Murmurs may be the
night raiment of the heart,
the under-surface of
the heart’s action,
the control of the will
and an insertion.
Callum James is a queer poet, bookseller and magical practitioner. He writes about memory, trauma, bodies, landscape and magic and his poetry has appeared in Ambit, Magma, The Dark Horse, Lighthouse and others.
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