{mournful harmonica solo}

 

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introduction

only the best poems and scrap from the unprofessional poem junkyard, collected and bound for the first time and at great personal risk by ivor stanton! 

themes contained herein may include mental health - or should we say mental hellth? either way, there's certain to be a fair amount of brain-related content, from affirmations to consolations to lamentations! the perils of gender and a significant amount of queerness are also included! also featuring: monsters, the oceanfossilsbears and wolves, stories and ghosts!

this collection is organised chronologically, by the time of writing.

thanks for reading!

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆

 (a fair few of these poems are personal, and some deal with negativity, self harm and suicidal ideation; there's also discussion of death, of drowning and being underwater, animals, bones, blood, dissociation, so if any of that is likely to make you uncomfortable or unsafe, be careful about reading)

these poems can also be found, in slightly earlier incarnations, on my tumblr and my blogspot; for a glimpse of the author that isn't in the guise of ivor stanton, and to contact me, you can visit my main blog here.

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december

all the wide frost-hard dark earth lies.
the sky and the world form a bowl of white ceramic,
snow glazed with dawn
and the fields lie with in it, dark and rich and cold,
wide earth stretching to the rim, and above it
the day is dawning, and 
 
a spatter of birds in the cold sharp air
so sharply cold you can see it,
the birds graven onto the telephone wires, notes on a stave,
and the whistling of one not visible below,
against the frosted planes of the clods,
the sharp and cold whistling, like a liquid note of ice
piercing
through the air which shudders cold like shaken glinting tinsel
 
and the fox that runs in the fields,
cold, cold, over the rich dark earth,
over the grey road hard as steel,
the fox that runs like a flame, like a will-o'-the-wisp,
burning like berries, a ghost-fire,
an oil-painted fox in a picture book
passing over the wide white pages of the sky
and the hard pressing earth
no heat from its flame.
 
and the whole thing so still,
so still, and so cold,
a bell-like morning, earth on clay,
sound zinging on silence, oil dancing on paper,
all the wide frost-hard dark earth lies
and on it the bright day.

(norfolk, 10.12.14) 

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atlantis

there's a thin tall tower
in Atlantis sunk
with a bell in the window
high below
    there's a fat stringy cobweb
    like the blood I've drunk
    from the flesh of my lip
    where the scarring grew
        let me go down
        let me be pulled
        down, high down,

vertigo underwater
I'll fill bubbles with my screams
and pop them all by clapping my hands
merrily, merrily,
all the sunken horses and the sunken weeds
    think of all the drowning people
    they lived in the water long before they drowned
    skeletons inside them long before they were dead
    I wish I could have told them
        'I do not feel real, I am not really here'
        'I'm a ghost punched through with the dry air of land'
        'please, save me'

there's a bell in the window
in Atlantis drowned
and it rings in my ears
as I walk in the towns
deep above, let me go, -
    let me go down
    let me be pulled
    down, high down,        

I do not want to be here any more

(22.12.14)

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death is loud

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queer (lamentation)

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June 5th-6th, 1832

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sea glass (consolation)

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bury me under the earth

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slipshod (affirmation)

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(like a child's skipping rhyme)

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hauntings, of the three-am kind

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a trip to the seaside (consolation)

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The Lighthouse-Keeper on Halloween

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tory majority

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postcard from ghost hill! your favourite mental hell for panic attacks!

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relations with past, present, future

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destress (lamentation)

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breathing space

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an invocation for new life

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half sick of shadows

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felix felicis

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pins and needles

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Illumination/Conflagration

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for crying yourself to sleep (consolation)

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~

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