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 3345° 
Ksenija Ostojić
she was 12,
of course no one believed her.
she was 12,
of course she was blamed.
she was 12,
of course she thinks its her fault.
she was 12,
of course they laughed at her when she opened up about it.
she was 12,
of course she thought it was love.
she was 12,
of course it was the clothes.
she was 12,
of course she couldn't press charges.
she was 12,
of course it still haunts her.
she was 12,
of course she's disgusted by her self.
she was 12,
of course she wasn't taken seriously.
she was 12.
 866° 
Anais Vionet
(a university-life vignette)

It’s a Friday night, Leong and I are at a small restaurant close to the dorm called “Ordinary.” We’re in a cozy, pleasantly dark, little red booth—waiting for Lisa—who’s running late. This is Leong’s favorite bar and her taste in exotic drinks is labile—tonight she has us drinking ‘Maker’s Mark,’ a delicious, straight-up bourbon, with a twist of orange peel.

We’re on our second—and I’m starting to buzz—did I mention Lisa’s running late? On a hot note, we’re celebrating. I turned in the first draft of my thesis prospectus last Wednesday and this morning I got it back - accepted.

But more importantly, when I tore into the envelope, back in my room, there was a yellow sticky-note on the prospectus that read like an academic valentine. It said:
“Anais, you write beautifully, with the economy of a poet.”
I may have danced around my room.

So, we’re sitting there, sipping our drinks and noshing on a charcuterie platter when this cute, hipster, Princeton transfer-student guy named Milo showed up—drink in hand. He’s like, 5 '11 with light-brown medium-longish hair tucked behind his ears and he’s wearing a light blue, textured cardigan over a tan t-shirt and leaf-green work pants. At first, he’s walking by, but he spots us and stops.

“Has anyone ever told you look like Anais Vionet?” He asked me.
“No,” I replied, “never.” “You sound like her too,” he followed up.
“Well, I wouldn’t know,” I answered, shaking my head ‘no’ and shrugging.
“But she’d never come to a dive this cheap,” he updogged.
“Oh, yes she would,” I assured him.

Then, I gasped, remembering. Milos on one of Yale’s 500 soccer teams. “You guys lost to Princeton the other day! Isn’t that your alma mater? Congratulations!”
“Thanks, for bringing that up,” he said somewhat chagrined,
“We lost one-to-nil—it was just bad luck,” he said defensively.
“Oh, bad luck,” I chided him.

He did look tired and defeated, so I motioned him to take a seat. He slid right in next to Leong, who’s hand he shook, “Milo,” he said.
“I KNOW,” she said, in a sly and evil way—we’ve talked about him, conspiratorially—even she thinks he’s cute—and cross-culturally-cute isn’t easy.

“Are you superstitious?” Milo asked us—turning so Leong was included.
“Oh, sure,” I spoke first, “I was raised catholic, and even if you don’t hundo-p believe, it carries over. I always carry a lucky crystal with me—you know, for tests and what-not—I depend on that, as opposed to diligence and studying.”

“You have one with you now?” He followed up.
“I do,” I confessed, “I always have one in my bra.”
“Wow,” he laughed, “Why?”
“I don’t know,” I chuckled, “For luck—in case I need to appear supper fun and sassy? Though I guess I’m proof crystals don’t work.”
“Do you really have a crystal in your bra?” He asked, sipping his whisky.
“Yeah,” I said, sliding my hand discreetly into my left cup and bringing out a tiny, flat green, polished Jade stone crystal. “Isn’t that uncomfortable?” He asked.
“Nah, there’s plenty of room in there,” I admitted, sliding the crystal back in place.

“Leong’s superstitious,” I said, nodding to her.
“All Chinese are superstitious,” Leong pronounced, “whenever I had a big exam at school, my mother would go and leave a chicken at the temple.”
Milo and I chortled—I’d actually seen women do that when I lived in Shenzhen.
“Well, I guess it worked!” Milo pronounced, and he and Leong high-fived.
“We have a saying, ‘it’s better to be lucky than good,” he added.
We say, “Yùnqì zhòngyàoguò nénglì,” Leong noted, in Cantonese.
“Luck is more important than ability,” I translated.
Speaking of luck, Lisa finally arrived.
.
.
Songs for this:
Where Are You by 54 Ultra
Cut Glass by mark william lewis
Merriam Webster word of the day challenge 11/12/24:
Labile = open to change.

My thesis topic is "Molecular dynamics simulations of protein folding (or protein-protein interactions)." It isn't easy to give it a poetic twist.

Our cast:
Leong, (roommate) 21, is from Macau, China - the Las Vegas of Asia and she’s a proud communist (don’t knock it til you’ve tried it). She's a ‘molecular, cellular, and developmental biology major.’ I speak Cantonese—which may be why we were paired—I lived in Shenzhen China (about 30 miles from Macau) - we talk a lot of secret trash together.

Lisa, (roommate) 21, my bff. Grew up in a posh, 50th floor residence on Central Park South in Manhattan. She shares my major (Molecular biophysics and biochemistry) and is easily the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in RL (and is sensitive about it). Our tastes match, in everything (fashion, media, music, humor) except men.
 597° 
Nat Lipstadt
Oct 2020
Poets, let us examine this friendship thing, again.


Poets, let us examine this friendship thing, again.

This is a poem of humans, regardless of our natural multi- flavored striations, that tend to over-define us, thus separating, instead of celebrating commonalities.

Like most things we enjoy, our five senses are the gateway to pleasure, even the pleasure of friendships. They act in concert, a symphonic interplay that reenforces and heightens so that in combination they create a whole greater than a single sense could provide singly.

This is on my mind this week, as I wrestle to understand the meaningful possibilities, the limits of friendship.

Poets form bonds without hearing each other’s voices.

Poets connect despite geographic distances that makes grasping each others sinewed arms, caressing the softness of hard cheekbones, without ever having been granted the unique, all encompassing satisfaction of embrace, hugging.

Poets sometimes can hear but not see each other’s words.

Poets sometimes can see/read each other’s words, but never hear them voiced aloud in the authors own, true voice.

Poets sometimes cannot smell or taste each other’s words, though it can take a poem to another, higher sensory level of coloration.

And yet, a bond so strong forms that defies the conventional limitations of the physical. Should we share such a bond, them you know it, no need to ask for confirmation.

Words, can be gifted, without teleportation, even when and if the bridge of a shared spoken language is not extant.

This is nothing short of miraculous.

Just like friendship.

All my wrestling to true comprehend this state, for naught, for the miracle of words is like the color of water. Universal, invisible, but so varied, that it too bridges and is shared by every ! human body regardless of any human shape, color, form of the billions conceivable.

But wrestle I do nonetheless, for the pleasure of this (non?)soluble problem that both creates queries & quenches simultaneously, so I break off this thinnest wafer to share with you, offering this notional:

All humans are poems.

All poems are human.

Solve this poem for human.

(And ignore the wet spots of my watery, clear tears staining this poem).
written Oct 2020. in conversation with SPT
 520° 
Tye
If I die tonight,
Bury me shallow,
So I can wake from the abyss,
And leer at the hazy moonlight,
As it bounces softly through the treetops.
Where I can hear the birds,
Chirping to greet the sun.
Where others can hold their breath,
And hear my soul through the ground.
 489° 
Edoardo Alaimo
This is not meant to be a poem.

Never delete what you were. Even though it doesn't reflect your current being. You must be proud of what you were because it got you until now and it prepared you. It gave you the tools. It WAS you and hence it IS still you.

Never be ashamed of the love you felt and gave. Instead. Grow in love and grow the love.

And if things did not go the best possible way. Well. What even is the best possible way? Things went the only way possible. You learn from what happens and live the way you think is best for you. Maybe learning from mistakes too.

There are no true immortal beings, but immortal are the feelings we feel and the ideas that we bring to others. This is because ideas and feelings will move through generations as long as someone is willing to talk about them. Share them. Write them. And speak about them with other people.

This is magic.

I guess that's all.
मैं आपकी तरह छिपा हुआ नहीं हूं, इसलिए कृपया मुझे लिखें या संदेश भेजें। मैं आपको उचित उत्तर देना चाहूँगा
 386° 
Kai
Im so sorry
I said I'd stop
I lied.
I said never again
I lied
I didn't mean to
I wasn't thinking
It was to much
Im sorry
 303° 
Germaine
Within my fallen body,
Roots will thrive.

And in them, I am alive.

As old as my arms reach,
They will bare the fruit of all that has come before me.

I shall feed to the next generation of disciples,
The sugars that are born from this forgotten language.

And there we will all rise,
as we flow back down the river line.
This unfortunately was brought on and inspired by a Kanye song
 246° 
Kelsey
I want my writing
To be profound
A work of art you just
Want to hang on your wall
And when you look at it
Day in and out
The words will seep
Back through your skin
And melt in your heart
And suddenly, you feel
Like someone you've never met
Knows you better than
Your closest companions
And somehow that's okay
Because now you know
You've never been alone.
I've finished the first draft of my novel. What I want most is to make an impact on those who read it and to know that my words matter.
 233° 
Lost Indeed
I think I’ve loved you my entire life,  
From the moment I was born  
Until the day I die.
ForI
 224° 
RMatheson
Can you see yourself
the way the mascara runs
the wings splayed out
like an angel
naked
pale
leaning into her own
dissolution.
Heaven knows, I ain't getting over you.
 223° 
VinceV
I
No
Longer
Long
 213° 
Cyndi Allens
I am nothing but a shell of who I used to be
mindlessly wandering the earth
and searching for my purpose
eternally bound to suffer in silence
while looking for an answer
that doesn't exist.
Short poem today. Happy new year.
 183° 
Larry Berger
On a tranquil sea, I float,
upon a cloud;
streaming from my mind
are many flowers,
lilies I lay gently
in array, upon the water.
The wind arranges them
in pleasing patterns,
but then, the wind
grows stronger,
and stirs the water
and the flowers
begin to sink.
I reach desperately
for the ones nearest to me
and fall from the cloud,
helplessly into the sea.
Struggling to stay afloat
I sink beneath the waves,
and there, I am floating
with the sunken flowers,
only now there is no surface
I must remain upon
 172° 
Liana
Ugh
Flash cards
Headaches
Studying for hours
Trying so hard
Just to be heard

Trying to make friends
Trying to be social
So difficult when your not normal
The things you have to tell yourself
To keep yourself together
"It's okay
Your okay
Everything's okay"
All lies

Concerned looks from your mother
As you say that yes, today was the same
You can tell she's trying not to cry
Guilty

Procrastination
Lack of motivation
Working so hard for this presentation
And for everything else
Even when it all gets deleted in my head immediately after

The crowded hallways
You can barely squeeze your way through
They're so loud
And full of people
Most yelling
Some banging on lockers
Jammed
Like my head

Painted spirals on the wall
Not as real as mine
Random
 162° 
Melanie Munozz
Sun you bring death
Yet I swim and I sweat
In the rays of you
Bright yellow sun.
It didn't matter who he was, I was there for him.
chain-knees
sullied
debut of
tie
&
episodes. A
secret
trill,
like an
eagle's evil cry, lacerates the die-hard spirit of death and hardship.

~MIKELSON
Diasy chain is a wordplay in poetry where the letter that ends a word start another word.
 145° 
Amani Niros Khan
She stood infront of the mirror,
Looked at her reflection,
A spitting image of hers on the mirror,
To her eyes, it held more,
It held her darkest secrets,
Her worries,
Her inner turmoils,
The storm raging inside her,
The mind that's at war,
She being a lone warrior fighting it all,
Closed her eyes,
Took a deep breath,
Let out a long sigh,
She wanted everything to be cleared,
Once and for all,
She had to find answers, a voice whispered inside her "Find answers! Find answers!"
And the answer striked in her like a lightning,
"Change. Yes, change, it's change"
She opened her eyes,
Looked at her again,
Seems she found the answers,
Everything she saw in her earlier,
Vanished,
And she saw her smiling in the mirror,
And saw her whispering to herself,
"Nothing changes if nothing changes."
 135° 
Salmabanu Hatim
coyly in a soft voice,
Almost a whisper,
He leaned close to her to listen.
She smiled broadly excited,
He likes me!
Little did she know that he had hearing problem.
2/1/2025
 128° 
Igor Vykhovanets
To perish, to vanish
In fear and false treason.
The sheeps bear the savage,
Their minds plagued with poison.

Through the brain — a vile flood,
A foul stench left to linger.
The herd writhes in the mud,
Dragged down by its wringers.


In Russian:

Всемирный Загон

"Уничтожиться, канув
В этот омут безликий,
Прямо в одурь диванов,
В полосатые тики!.."
Иннокентий Анненский, "Тоска вокзала", 1910 г.


Уничтожиться, канув
В ложь и страх под фашизмом.
ТВАРЕЙ терпят бараны:
СМРАДы ставят им клизмы

Прямо в мозг — остаётся
Лишь вонючая жижа.
Стадо мучится, гнётся:
Весь Загон гаже, ниже.
 117° 
Zelda
⚠️ Trigger Warning ⚠️

I’m not suicidal,
I fear death.

I think about dying—
it's always a vivid, beautiful, sunny day.

I just want to bleed, cuts under the skin.
I just want to starve, protruding bones.
I just want to disappear, non-existent.

I’m trying to get my affairs in order,
to tend to my responsibilities,
to care for my loved ones
just in case.

I’m not suicidal,
at least, I don’t think I am.

I fear death.
Jan 1 2025
*Trigger warning ⚠️*
 116° 
Eleanor Robinson
I wish these feelings would go away
Drown in the ocean
Or be blown away by wind
But I know they'll stay
Keep me locked in slow motion
'Till the day I am skinned
 111° 
Xio
The sun disappears into the horizon, the light brighter than ever, a sparkle lights up in my eye, as I watch the sun say its last goodbye.
 83° 
David P Carroll
Monsters spawned by
Monsters in the evil
Sea of wilful ignorance.
Syria is going to blow badly
And it'll be terrible for
Everyone. 🇸🇾
 81° 
Hamzah
So,
Thank you,
For existing.
 80° 
JA Perkins
Genuine like a child
Candid like an open book
Exotic like The Wild
Reassuring like a second look
My baby
 75° 
Hebert Logerie
A new day
Comes every day
With a morning, a noon
An afternoon and an evening
It's day and it's night
Across the countryside.

The first day of the year
Is as special as the last
Man creates days of feast
To distinguish himself from the beast
That says that all days are the same
Like the wind that dances and sows.

There is a beginning
To smile and laugh
And an end of time
To cry and die
The animals are right
A new season does not matter.

A new year, a new day
A new week, a new month
A new night, a new noon
A new sun, a new moon.

Copyright © January 2021, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
I planted a lot of seeds
In this here
Outkast orchard
Watered them
Too
Hopefully
The fruit will be
Eaten by you
 72° 
Lidia
Set aside your fight ,
Forget about your might,
Can you see the fading light ?
Nothing now appears bright.
Yes,     you are right !
Everything's out of sight.
So, Please keep quiet ;
Kindly go to bed, Good night.
 71° 
Kurt Philip Behm
Oh to be
remembered
Not to be
forgot
Excuses lost
in borrowed time
Reasons
— dearly bought

(Dreamsleep: January, 2025)
You- you,
Gotta open UP,
you're eyes.
Thiz iz zo,
Disturbin g.
Don't tie your self worth to another person, it gets bad fast.
~
January 2025
HP Poet: Rob Rutledge
Age: 35
Country: UK


Question 1: A warm welcome to the HP Spotlight, Robert. Please tell us about your background?

Rob Rutledge: "Hi, thank you for having me. I’m Robert Rutledge. I’m 35, the youngest of three boys (sorry mum), born in the south of England to Irish parents who emigrated to the UK just before I was born in the late 80’s. At nine years old we moved to Manchester in the north of England where I would find a love for music, literature and general mischief before moving back down south in my 20’s. Where I have been creating mischief ever since."


Question 2: How long have you been writing poetry, and for how long have you been a member of Hello Poetry?

Rob Rutledge: "I started writing poetry in secondary (high) school, I was really lucky to have some excellent English and Drama teachers who made it an easy subject to love. But like everything it was a journey, one very much entwined with my love for music and lyrics. At some point or another I realised I enjoyed playing with words, annoying everyone around me with puns and questionable jokes. Poetry became a natural extension of that while also providing an invaluable creative outlet. At home we had a framed poster of IF by Rudyard Kipling which seemed to mean something new every time I read it and really helped my appreciation of the written word. I often found the same joy in coming up with a riff on guitar as writing a stanza that I thought sounded epic and quickly realised there was a lot of crossover with rhythm, themes and metaphors between poetry and music.

I joined Hello Poetry in 2012 and have seen many ups and downs with the site but I also found an incredibly welcoming community, and I can say with all honestly if it wasn’t for the kindness and feedback of users here I doubt I would still be writing today."



Question 3: What inspires you? (In other words, how does poetry happen for you).

Rob Rutledge: "Inspiration can come from anyone and anywhere but more often then not I find a single line or two may come to mind. Most of my work will contain a nod or a reference to a line that I’ve either borrowed or downright plagiarised from a book, a song, a rhyme and I use that as starting point. Iain M Banks is one of my favourite authors so when I’m struggling for inspiration I will pick up one of his many excellent books and will find a beautiful phrase or image that I can use as a starting point."


Question 4: What does poetry mean to you?

Rob Rutledge: "Poetry to me is an opportunity to create, to convey a piece of myself and share it with the world. To have made something of meaning even if it only means anything to me. A painting on the wall of the cave, a contribution to the world and something that says I was alive. Its the art of putting emotion into words and if I can impart that feeling to even one person the way other poetry has made me feel then it’s even more worthwhile."


Question 5: Who are your favorite poets?

Rob Rutledge: "I tend to love poems rather than poets the notable exception would be William Butler Yeats. There is something about the romantic idealistic nostalgia of his writings that has always spoken to me. The juxtaposition of his Anglo-Irish heritage hits close to home and I think is reflected in his wistful writings. T.S Eliot, William Blake and H.P Lovecraft (only his poetry, not a very nice chap) deserve honourable mentions as well, Eliot references feature heavily in Iain M Banks’ work and helped bridge my interests between literature and poetry."


Question 6: What other interests do you have?

Rob Rutledge: "Other than Poetry, Music is my jam both playing and going to gigs / raves, I love everything from classical to jungle and everything in-between. I also enjoy computer games and sci-fi in particular. I used to play a lot of Rugby."


Carlo C. Gomez: “Thank you so much Robert, we really appreciate you giving us the opportunity to get to know the person behind the poet! It is our pleasure to include you in this Spotlight series!”

Rob Rutledge: "Thank you for the opportunity."




Thank you everyone here at HP for taking the time to read this. We hope you enjoyed coming to know Robert a little bit better. I most certainly did. It is our wish that these spotlights are helping everyone to further discover and appreciate their fellow poets. – Carlo C. Gomez

We will post Spotlight #24 in February!

~
 54° 
Roger
I kissed her gently on the cheek;
No Snow White story for me..
 54° 
Indigo Maroon
To the one I used to love, used to need:
You never
text
me.
It's like you
moved
on
the second I was
gone.
As for me, I've been
S T U C K
in the memories.
I can't not
think
of
you.
But I think I
may
be
moving
on.
Wrote this years ago haha not current just deep
 53° 
nivek
time rocks on
oblivious.
 49° 
Austin B
Here in my arms
The world stops spinning,
Here in my arms.
Small breaths, tiny nose
Here in my arms
Thinking of who you will be
Here in my arms,
My small cradled everything,
Here in my arms.
Owen
 48° 
Boris
This grey day
I have not even my shadow
for company
 47° 
Nellie 55
A beautiful picture, a beautiful soul. I think I can kiss her, then reach out to create some goals. I appreciate you being so consistent. My favorite words she said.
I adore her text, I enjoy the selfies. I appreciate her being so kind to me😍
 47° 
onlylovepoetry
begin the
first day
new year
with
thumb and forefinger,
tracing in no organized
specific pattern upon
her arm’s smooth skin,
just a sliding meandering

she grabs the intruders
for a squeezing acknowledgment,
unnecessary, for the sensation
sensual is shared equally,
soft, of course, but so far beyond,
there are elements that lie beneath
that requires mining deep within
yourself, contrasting currents that
soothe the heart and yet, electrify,
simultaneous, a concerto for
piano and violin

this delightful touching is the stuff
of poetry, a wish, a commandment,
for long after after the first day of
the unknowns of the measuring stick,
a ruler with 365 ticks to check the
day’s of time concludes, the touch
will be
implanted on thumb & forefinger’s
cellular memory, and be carried on,
reusable, recycled, even biodegradable!

but then heart hears a lyric,
she is living proof
and now!
happily concluded,
is a poem that is gifted
a title, entitled, certified,
and recorded for

*every ordinary moment
when memory is required,
and the thumb and the forefinger
can be diverted to write this all down
for the day when a memory fades,
and the skin is eroded!
1~1~25
 46° 
Jack Groundhog
Berlin, Berlin,
contradiction city.
Grey concrete hulks stacked around
old buildings rising pretty.
A never ending construction zone
that tries to top the past
while dancing ’round her history
whose pallor shadows cast.
 38° 
Yonah Jeong
i discovered
lightless
no color
brittle
angular
diamonds......
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