Nicola Cayless.
Looking for light in words.

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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.

Gregory Sherl
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

❝ Poetry is the way I fuck you when you’re gone.

— Nicola Cayless, Literary Sexts

(Source: hellanne)

Dear Peter Jackson; Regards, Eowyn.

Dear Peter Jackson,

Arwen asked me to say fuck you.

Between being a symbol for the woman
who single-handedly saved Middle Earth as we know it,
and allowed the most famous Man who ever lived to accomplish his God-given duty,
and tucking in her children after dinner,
she asked me to tell that you’re a misogynistic fuckwit.

Apparently she’s mad?

It’s something, she says, about the way she rides in on a white horse, gleaming,
and all you can notice is that she’s not wearing a bra. Something
about the way she speaks, the sighs that drip off the ends of words
like rain drops, the gasps that lilt between each word.
The way you asked her to speak in Elvish half the time,
because she’s so beautiful and untouchable, and feminine.
The way that after she saves Frodo from the Ringwraiths,
she falls to the ground, and weeps, and is never strong again.
The way she begs Aragorn to stay, and when he doesn’t, falls apart.
The way she waits, waits, waits for the end of the story.
The way she gives up her life for a boy. 

I’m sorry; these are her words. Not mine.
I know you were just adapting the books.
I know you were just taking a character who was in two chapters of sixty two
I know you were just trying to understand someone who has one line of dialogue,
I know you were just breathing life to an image, a symbol, an idea, not a woman,
not a person, blame Tolkien, not you. That’s okay. She’s angry, hysterical,
hormonal, nonsensical. We’re all on your side.


I mean, what do I have to complain about?
I’m Eowyn: a shieldmaiden, a daughter of Kings,
a child of Rohan. I grew up with a sword in my hand
and steel in my eyes. I ride into battle, I slay orcs, I destroy the fell beast.
I kill the Witch-king of Angmar.
The one that elves of old predicted could not be killed;
the one that destroyed men, children, cities.  
I scream, death, death, death,
and change the world.

I go home. I fall in love.
I marry a prince. I settle down.
I have his children. Disappear.

That’s what a princess is supposed to do.


Because all great stories end with a ring around my finger,
and a finger on my lips.  The women fade into the background,
and we’re left to remember the men on the battlefield,
not the women who changed it.

The frontline isn’t always where the war takes place, you know.
Sometimes it’s in the way their eyes trail me up and down,
the way you take my body in before my words,
the way you remember the boy I fancied for a week
and not the girl I was for a lifetime. The war is in the way
you put me on a screen, the way I’m an obstacle for the men
and not a truth for the people, the war is in the fight
we have to be remembered for our words, for our souls,
not our tits.

Because I know, Peter Jackson, I know:

I am no Man.

And you never let me forget that. 

Arwen and I say fuck you.

Anonymous :  any advice for aspiring poets who are trying to find their own voices?

Read. Read poetry, read novels, read magazines, read the newspaper. And write. Write snippets of thoughts in notebooks, napkins, on the backs of receipts. Write what comes into your head. It doesn’t matter if it sounds exactly like the voice of the poet you were last reading; that’s good, actually. By taking what you’ve learnt from their work and putting it into your own poetry, you can see what does and doesn’t work. Write about things you’re passionate about. Write about things you couldn’t give less of a shit about. Just write, read, and above all, put it out there: it’s scary, but so rewarding. x

I keep telling myself, I want to write a book, I want to put together a collection, but then I just get lost in the amount of words I would need and give up. I’d want it to be wholly new pieces, but at the rate I am writing these days, it’s not going to happen, and I really really want to.

I made a degree plan because I’m a nerd.
(To follow, honours in English & a Masters of Publication)