Nicola Cayless.
Looking for light in words.

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❝ I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images, and cling:
The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing.

— "Preludes", T.S. Eliot, Prufrock & Other Observations (1917)


Don’t forget to use coupon code “WELCOME” at the checkout for 20% off until June 23rd! Digital copies are only $2.99!

You are wonderful and alive and stunning.

(A sneaky little snippet from a poem I am working on for my (yet untitled) collection!) x
I might be running a little bit of a cute promotional competition for the title/subtitle of my book. Prizes would include letters and poems and potentially a free copy. Would you guys be interested in partaking in that?

I have this little notebook and I have five little scrawled lines of maybe one day little poems and it’s strange, because I have this very little heart and the words are too big for me to wear, like a baggy old cardigan that’s warm and smells wonderful but is far too big for little old me.

Collection update: I have first drafts of about twenty poems. This is an exhilarating process. x

I am working on a collection. I’m not sure yet what it will be called but I’m doing this. I’m going to publish a book of my works. I won’t be publishing many poems here in the interim as a result, but I will still be present and updating you all.

song lyrics for the dead

Once I saw a beard-scraggled old man
who tripped on others’ shoelaces, and
signed the cross at street lamps.
I heard him singing a wordless hymn:
the rage of love, the rage of love,
and you are awake and blinding.

Once I was the universe inside of her;
I set her hips aflame. Now you are mine,
demon-child, warborn child, you tear me
apart. And I hear her singing quietly,
the rage of love, the rage of love,
and you are awake and blinding.

Once I was the tomorrow of today,
and you held me close by nightfall.
You trimmed strings with your teeth,
you snapped bones with your eyes, and sung;
the rage of love, the rage of love,
and you are awake and blinding.

❝ He ido marcando con cruces de fuego
El atlas blanco de tu cuerpo.
Mi boca era una araña que cruzaba escondiéndose.
En ti, detrás de ti, temerosa, sedienta.

— From “XIII: He Ido Marcando” by Pablo Neruda

to soothe eliot and auden and pound; the worst is nearly over

And if, like Yeats,
I loom: a scepter
in the South of France
to warn you of the moon—

Then breathe,
unfriends, breathe.
We are excised:
but poetry is
mysticism unraveled.

I am simply Ghost,
haunting by the wings.

You have the stage.

Let the sunrise