I. BIRTH OF A WOMAN

Oh so you were looking for a baby mama

Blue mountains from my aunt’s bungalow, her womb swollen from having had “only a daughter”

The dog still weeps on the dusty path—dust red like my grandma’s glasses

The Caribbean swallowed Kingston but cannot digest it because we are all still screaming there

Just W O M E N just W O M E N

i was a(u)n pulled trigger on your gun

you were too indifferent to shoot and too obsessed to simply let me run

so we hang on, half-there, half-gone

The lead up to turning 30 definitely felt like a momentous occasion, but then things were… the same. I didn’t wake up and feel as though I had magically changed overnight into this ultra-sophisticated put-together adult woman. I still felt as though I had no idea what I was really doing. But I think the most mature thing about turning 30 was accepting that that’s okay, learning that we are all on different paths, and understanding that everyone’s milestone birthday is going to look completely different.

I spend hours waving goodbye.

It hurts, doesn't it?

The goodbye that breaks my fingers and my heart.

I wave 'bye' to every last person I've ever dated...

The stars gaze back, but there's no way for me to greet them.

Saira Anwar is an educator, poet, author, content creator, and spoken word artist. She published her first poetry collection The Death of a Beautiful Dream in January 2014, which was featured on Amazon’s Top 20 Bestsellers list.

We were honoured to speak with Saira in anticipation of the launch of her second poetry collection, Rising From Despair: A Journey to Hope, the long-awaited sequel to her first collection and 10 years in the making.

Neglect.

A word so cold,

that it pierces my soul,

 —and takes hold.

Tears bleed down my cheeks

    —Oh how I wish it were not so!

Roses are red,

Violets are blue.  I have lived my life,

    And so have you.

But I need,

       Something more.  (I need)

Something to love

       —With all of my heart.

All these lines.

All these words.

All these thoughts, scribbled across paper for a girl I do not see.

(Not know.)

Scribbled in ink, staining the paper.

                                    Staining my soul.

                                    …But she is—

                                    …she is beautiful…

I stand before you now. . .

We are two poets. . .

Will you let me be?

Will you accept my world as it is?

I've only just wished for a second chance. . .

The word feels strange on my tongue. Like I might just taste it and spit it out because it tasted wrong.

I might as well bite my tongue and taste blood than say that word out loud, because the word girlfriend has never been reserved for someone like me.

Don´t you remember what you wrote in that message on that cold rainy morning in May?

Because I remember crying while I hid under the covers, thinking the world had surely ended.

mmm, her

nails digging

into my back

but no one’s

here

the sun

won’t peak

That is the question you probably ask yourself every time I see those three dots disappear.

When did this become so fucking one-sided?

When will I stop making the effort?

When will I call the time of death?

You turned 5, and I have still partially forgotten the moment you came into the world. 5 years too late to meet the precious woman you were named after. You see, you were given your time to greet the world on the same day that we lost her. Your great grandmother. I can only think she was watching over us that day.

we met late in july

by a break in the sky

now our love is penniless art

thunder, thunder

over and under

recite the tale of my heart

"Hello best friend!"

Scribbled on the first line,

your name,

carried in my heart,

and written on every page.

I have gotten used to invisible hands.

They held my gaze, whispered to me.

Like a phantom lover, they mesmerized me.

It has only been a short time since they touched me,

And yet I am certain I can feel them now.

I do not want to—I do.

Following the successful launch of her second published poetry book, Wings Unfurled, we were overjoyed to speak with poet and author Libby Jenner about her poetry inspiration, writing process, and how poetry has been a powerful tool to help her with mental health and to heal traumas.

Do you know what it was/is to be in love? It was that spot in the woods by the park that is always filled with sunlight. The spot with the fairy garden that I took them to before they asked me to date them, like really date them. It was warmth and soup broth, it was a bath in some ways but not others. It is straining my eyes because I’m trying to peer into a wolf’s den or peering out of a cave and not straining my eyes because it’s night already. It is feeling like I was slapped in the face, and then wishing I had actually been slapped in the face because physical wounds are tangible. It is sobbing so hard I shake in my parked car the day after, before work, alone.