succulentI’m a stranger in my life


ambling inopportune

breaking the cheer of online victories

more treasured in absence

more valued for my silences

in-between words I bite back.


Composted worlds I’ve suppressed

the landscapes drip fluid

colours realign

the print-out never quite

what I put in.


I’m a stranger to my life.

The path peters out in moss-hung dead ends

Reed in a cluster by a pool

caked to mud.

Weeds have overgrown my roots

also my tongue.

14 thoughts on “Passenger”

  1. Marina Sofia – l love that sense of alienation from one’s own life that comes through here (at least to me). And the imagery – brilliant! 🙂

  2. This conveys a sense of the transitory nature of things–reflecting really how little impact we have in our world. And yet, we do. I can’t help but hope that at least one person who reads will find some kind of hope or whatever in a poem or post. Beautiful.

    1. Thank you, Victoria – that’s a lovely interpretation of the poem – I love it how a poem takes on a life of its own as it resonates with something in the readers’ own experiences or thoughts.

      1. I know your reply here is to Victoria, MarinaSofia, but it really struck a chord for me, as I think the best of writing does this, in novels too, but perhaps because poetry is such a disciplined and precise writing, the weight of complexity is held within a poem, and each phrase, and the meaning(s) within it, can carry a multiplicity of meanings and responses. Once the writer puts their writing ‘out there’ there may end up surprised by the meaning unfolded by an attentive reader.

        I’m particuarly drawn to novels written with what I call ‘poetic sensibilities’ which doesn’t, to me, mean writing which is flowery or lyric, it means that the words and phrases are as carefully chosen as they are in poetry, and may contain a wealth of subtext, allusions, and, primarily, make the reader WAKE UP and really notice what is being written about, because the book is making them pay attention, rather than just rolling along with cliche.

  3. don’t let them overgrow your tongue… just saying… love the images and some of those feelings ring familiar in one or another way… and my daughters treasure my absence as well sometimes…

    1. That’s why there are so many children without their parents in children’s literature, I guess! Yes, this was one of those ‘early morning waking up and dredging my subconscious’ kind of writing – but it’s funny how prescient that subconscious sometimes is…

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