Lorna Martin (@lamartin) — Bluesky Profile

4 months ago

Issue 31 - LA. Martin — Stone of Madness Press

More worms... a new poem in Stone of Madness! 🪱✨

stoneofmadnesspress.com/la-martin

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2 years ago

And more: lornamartin.co.uk

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2 years ago

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/...

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2 years ago

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

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2 years ago

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...

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2 years ago

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...

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