@lamartin.bsky.social
'Made me recoil, worm-like' - Naomi Booth. Runner up @Writers_Artists 2023, poems @rustandmoth, @madness_press, @OcculumJournal etc 🐇🪱 insta @/lamartin.art
More worms... a new poem in Stone of Madness! 🪱✨
stoneofmadnesspress.com/la-martin
And more: lornamartin.co.uk
24.10.2023 08:28 — 👍 0 🔁 0 💬 0 📌 0
Ode to Denial You beautiful fine line, you sickness You careful you anvil You palm down, delicate steel You band around the heart Your mouth and your heart in separate spheres You safety warning You small comfort You gut-punch, you dragged out longing You edge of grasping, the act of opening gripped fingers You empty palm flat of the hand Rationality giving me a talking to, outlining the barely conscious form of a body The mould a child grows to fill The protections, the bliss in ignorance The answerable, the way I must explain myself The assembly of a drafted life The decision to be one kind of happy and not another The kindness Oh, the kindness
4. Ode to Denial, a poem that speaks for itself
pctothepowerof2.wordpress.com/2019winners/...
In the land of poetry I was by Lorna Martin sick of things, these stupid birds everywhere shrieking heartbreak as if that could touch me here five fathom deep in this lurid swimming pool I am the money I will give to myself. Clink clink! I will drink my own gods I will mink my way open I am writing a mansion with which to lure screenwriters. Don't be so clinical, it's coming for me, this disaster of dreams, this shaking and frothing, my heart's ice turning in the glass, chirping its fear.
3. In the land of poetry I was, a poem about choices of imagery and facades
stoneofmadnesspress.com/lorna-martin
The Darkroom —after Louise Bourgeois One day I’ll write about anything else. I long not to write about family. It creeps in like a darkness that loves you. It says, I am afraid of being alone. do not abandon me. Once I was rawer and lived inside her. I had them then, all the eggs I’ll ever have. They clutched me, nestled, the first blood and the last. Barely half-formed and already the future held me, mother before mothers, while the past was busy developing my childhood. In the red dark, spaces bloomed solid and solids retreated into spaces. Mine a photonegative of theirs. When the image births from its chemical pool, it takes time for the last drops to fall, for the paper to dry, for us to see what it is.
2. The Darkroom, a poem about murky inheritance
rustandmoth.com/work/the-dar...
hello! here is a thread of my work!
1. Would You Still Love Me?, a short story in which a boyfriend turns into a worm:
www.writersandartists.co.uk/advice/write...
