Saturday, November 28, 2020

The official student newspaper of Methodist Ladies' College

Lottery Balls and other collected poems

The following poems were written by Year 11 student Harriet Waymark

Lottery Balls

Tens of thousands of
crook-ed eyes and
crack-ed skin watch on
as today’s soldiers
march on
into a battle that no seer
no fate-watcher
none who encapsulate themselves
with red wine and ghost-minds
could have possibly foreseen.

With every roadside fragment
that screams beneath black rubber
boots and tires,
entitlements and responsibilities –
I crush fires, stifle sweet songs
and shake a jar of fireflies
until every light winks out.

With every crunch I hear them,
Or rather I hear their beat –
for defiance stole their windpipes
long before they could talk.

And so in the numbers roll –
spiraling to a knife-point halt
like lottery balls,
except no bets are placed
when the price of winning
is too great.

How much is my life worth?

Is it worth a trip outside,
or is my air,
is yours,
is your mothers and your fathers
just another lottery ball?

If I win this game
will you even remember
my name?

Miss Miraculous

Miss Miraculous stands and breathes
with wisps of amber gold
a linen, crunched like fallen leaves
wept eyes but lipstick bold

She’s called a queen by those she knows
a queen of harps and lawns
a beacon from her halo glows
to hide her crown of thorns

Together – bodied sea do bow
sink low into thine depths
in cobalt blue her panthers prowl
jaw caught on fragile breaths

With great false wings she takes away
dreams greater than permits
as moonlight dies, and hearts turn grey
her soul-seam cracks and splits


To do, or to not?
I am a second
I am a nothing
but I am your life
and thus I am your death.

I’m the brick-wall wind
that knocks eggs from their nests
I’m the feather that topples
a castle of cards
I’m a shard of glass
from shattered bottles
that rest in the crook
of your grin
I, win,
I, reap,
and I sleep
on a mattress of wood.

My pillows are ochre
with silk made of pills
and neat patchwork blankets
of crisp dollar bills

I watch as you weep
watch in hand – are you deft?
your tears waste
the minimal time you have left.


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