Little Mumbles

thoughts, poems and ramblings of an Oxford creative writing student

stalking myself on facebook

to check who i am and

how i see me see myself

then and now and then

as when we’re walking

and waking the body

feels differently to how

it sees itself at times

and thinking

who is looking now?

This is beautiful. The ghazal is such a great form!

fluttering-slips:

Red Ghazal


I’ve noticed after a few sips of tea, the tip of her tongue, thin and red
with heat, quickens when she describes her cuts and bruises—deep violets and red.
 
The little girl I baby-sit, hair orange and wild, sits splayed and upside down
on a couch, insists her giant book of dinosaurs is the only one she’ll ever read.
 
The night before I left him, I could not sleep, my eyes fixed on the freckles
of his shoulder, the glow of the clock, my chest heavy with dread.
 
Scientists say they’ll force a rabbit to a bird, a jellyfish with a snake, even
though the pairs clearly do not mix. Some things are not meant to be bred.
 
I almost forgot the weight of a man sitting beside me in bed sheets crumpled
around our waists, both of us with magazines, laughing at the thing he just read.
 
He was so charming—pointed out planets, ghost galaxies, an ellipsis
of ants on the wall. And when he kissed me goodnight, my neck reddened.
 
I’m terrible at cards. Friends huddle in for Euchre, Hearts—beg me to play
with them. When it’s obvious I can clearly win with a black card, I select a red.
 
I throw away my half-finished letters to him in my tiny pink wastebasket, but
my aim is no good. The floor is scattered with fire hazards, declarations unread.


AIMEE NEZHUKUMATATHIL

Sadness

teetering

the edge

pulls deep,

the tides

moon after day

never knowing

they go

the wrong way

Born of the sun
Raised on water
Under bridges
Over laughter.

Barbara Kruger in Oxford!!! WHAT!?! Wish I’d seen her speak at the launch. Amazing to finally experience her work after so many years referencing it in life and essays. She’s been such a big influence on my thinking. Incredible to stand on all those words, to read the letters warping under your feet and over your head as you struggle to take in their enormity. So much more powerful than I imagined! Like seeing Guernica for the first time.

Frowning at badly written feminist criticism in The Taylorian, Oxford. 

Frowning at badly written feminist criticism in The Taylorian, Oxford. 

Successful shopping: my very own tent and bedroll. Eeeeeeeee!!! Summer festivals here I come!!!

Successful shopping: my very own tent and bedroll. Eeeeeeeee!!! Summer festivals here I come!!!

A dirty day planting my overgrown seedlings with homemade compost.

A dirty day planting my overgrown seedlings with homemade compost.

Pillow Face

Recently I watched my housemate say

goodbye to her mother, visiting from France.

There was a well of tears and I wondered why

and how I didn’t cry when mine went

back to Australia. I couldn’t face that distance

couldn’t let it take me into the gap of it.

Pillow faced, I held a part of her to me,

couldn’t let any escape, saving it 

for later, alone, watching Frozen.

Can I buy a pair of

plain black Nike high-tops?

What will happen if

this one decision is made?

How will I go on with it?

Shorty

I go to this amazing zumba class

in the old Oxford fire station.

The instructor is a shorty

fire bombing red curls—

booty shaking a mad one.

Always full of teeny tiny crowded 

bopping college girls in tight

spandex jumping round and side.

Today was extra packed with

elbow-knocking Spanish teens

on a language excursion.

Boys at the door

hiding behind their hands:

a triangle of heads together

at the top—not moving,

just watching all those girls,

bums going round and round,

and wondering what they’ve got

themselves into and how

to get out of it.

There’s a problem with an “i”
Can you fix it

bobholman:

In Australia, when someone says they speak “language,” they mean an Aboriginal language. It’s very common when asking in English, “How many languages do you speak?” for an Aboriginal in North Arnhem Land to take a minute, count them up (usually seven or eight), and then realize that they’ve left out English. “The Endangered Language Crisis” is unwieldy, stiff, doomsday. Call it the “Language Movement” — like the Aboriginals use it: when you speak a bully language (English, Mandarin, Spanish, et al.) you are speaking “a language.” But when speaking an indigenous language, you are simply speaking “language,” without the “a.”

bobholman:

In Australia, when someone says they speak “language,” they mean an Aboriginal language. It’s very common when asking in English, “How many languages do you speak?” for an Aboriginal in North Arnhem Land to take a minute, count them up (usually seven or eight), and then realize that they’ve left out English. “The Endangered Language Crisis” is unwieldy, stiff, doomsday. Call it the “Language Movement” — like the Aboriginals use it: when you speak a bully language (English, Mandarin, Spanish, et al.) you are speaking “a language.” But when speaking an indigenous language, you are simply speaking “language,” without the “a.”

Dreaming

I miss the smell
of the dirt;

the feel of the earth,
dusted, salty;

the clay shaping the palm

skyward with the eucalyptus
bending 

to catch the wind; 
the largeness of every

rock, tree, hill
expanse of river;

the sound of the cockatoo
splashing to sea

Arbitrator of maturity
Singer of justice
Gremlin of anger
Flora of joy

Joy of summer
Wisher of well
Well of gander
Justice of joy