And

I

Words as power,
I would be an elder god
And you my frame,
A floral border within
Which I bring order.

Actions speak louder –
You would be an elder tree
And the wind and the leaves
And I a flower
Beside a tower.

II

And in the month of June
Under a city of shops;

And over a rippling moon
We wandered the lots;

And too much too soon
Sundered eyes would watch;

And to divergent tune
Sundered mouths would talk;

And over the rippling moon
Sundered feet would walk.

III

And your eyes are dry thunderclouds
And your hair August cornfield shrouds;
And your whisper a thousand mouths
And your steps a thousand crowds;
And your arms sun-brushed bridges
And your fingers the crumbled edges;
And your smile slivered slow time
And your faintest laugh a wind chime.
And your song is sung in every clime,
And your stilling heart still the heart to mine.

By Joshua Teo

-

It Begins with a Dance

The moves are fluid
Some swaying, some rapid
All enjoyable

Nothing’s nicer than the soft
Finger strolling along my back
Or your soothing words
Which tickle my ear as you whisper.
If you please me,
If you shower me with attention,
You will be rewarded.

By Laura Simmons

 -

Little one

Little one, did you ever think? That
skinned knees, dropped milk, could turn to something else?
Something darker, scarier, lonelier?
The playground, now a dark corner on that
rough street, the one we used to hurry past.
Tantrums to threats and crayons to knives, slice
a gaping wound between two lives.

Little one, I remember the day
You arrived. Wrapped in a lilac blanket,
Warm, soft, all mine. I look through your drawers, I
pretend it’s the Calpol that used to stop
your cough. And darling, remember, the days
When a chubby, pink hand would cling to mine.
Stamping in puddles, a kiss at bedtime.

Little one, isn’t it cold outside?
Aren’t the streets too dark? Aren’t the people bad?
And your coat is on the hanger, and your
phone is missing, sold. And your family
Are in the warmth, away from the cold. Come
In and join us all now, just for the night
Wrapped in that lilac blanket, warm, soft, tight

By Caitlin Stanway-Williams

-

Morning

There are bruises on her skin
where he pressed too hard
with his teeth.

Bare by the bed,
she sprays her perfume
head to toe.

Back turned on the bed
he reads the newspaper.

On the mirror
she draws a lipstick heart
and leaves.

By Georgie Tindale

 

Each week The Student Review publishes a collection of poems about a particular topic or theme. For this week’s theme, or to submit a poem, go here.