The World Is Quiet Here – Rosie Bogumil


THE WORLD IS QUIET HERE


Silence sulks.


But thoughts are loud,
louder than my voice will ever be, 
somehow still too quiet to be heard.  


Monsters thrive in these blank spaces: 
nestling amongst the noise
and moving in for the summer.


THE TOOLKIT AND FIRST AID KIT


It seems that the more I draw,
the more I sketch the sensations 
that arise from riding this emotional rollercoaster,
the more I realise that hands and faces,
cannot heal me anymore than my attempts 
to disfigure the same hands and faces.
Self-destruction presents itself in these sketches,
and also in starvation, compensation, self-deprecation.
It is not a simple case of eat, or smile, or stop – 
these have never been felt centrally at my core.
These are not things that can simply be enacted,
but rather must be relearned, as a new skill,
new additions to the toolkit beside my first aid kit. 
Sketches are plasters that cannot heal my wounds,
but only cover them, protect them,
and just momentarily. 
Until the next time I pick up a pencil,
or a blade, or step onto the scales,
and fall into the abyss sideways of the rollercoaster.


FEBRUARY SECOND, TWENTY SEVENTEEN 


Stars and headlights light my path to retribution,
goals in the distance by which I must steer by,
instead of sticks to beat myself up with. 
These mechanical wings have only served to ground me,
when what I need is a runway of open-air adventure
to keep me centred.
It lingers in the distance, that city of no stars,
the coat hanger stretching across the smoggy sky,
instead of my familiar constellations:
the cross, two pans, and Orion the archer. 
I tap in time to the beat in my head, 
but am left quivering beneath harsh gazes.
I carry as baggage 
memories which threaten to throttle me;
cracks in the concrete 
into which I stumble, fall,
and am lost.
There’s this cacophony in my head, 
a plethora of voices,
one afraid
one sad 
one hungry 
and one borderline.
This is my excess baggage:
a cranial suitcase that cannot be paid out,
a constant weight that slumps my shoulders against life.
In their rumpled mustard envelope
crouch the people I’ve left behind. 
Close to my chest to keep them warm –
I’d not want anyone to get frostbite.
A handwoven dream catcher dangles out the edge, 
but this is one nightmare it cannot keep away.
For this is excess baggage that cannot be paid out. 
It follows me,
drags on its broken wheels,
lingers in the potholed paths I traipse, 
and sets its sights on me to follow.
This excess baggage is the sticks; 
this excess baggage blinds the stars.

About the contributor

Rosie Bogumil is a West Australian bred, New South Wales based writer of poetry and short fiction. She has been awarded first place prizes for poetry in the Randolph Stow Young Writers Awards, based in her hometown of Geraldton. When she's not writing stories or performing poetry, Rosie can normally be found studying for her double degree in English literature and Anatomy at the University of New South Wales.

Related Articles

Poetry by Sandra Fees

Sandra Fees poetry explores the connections of the self with the immediate and distant environment

Yet another poem about coming home to croaking frogs

Dana St. Mary is a poet and father and husband living in Portland, Oregon

Mary Wight- New Poetry

SIGHTSEEING Bellies sweet with prawns and Guinness, they dawdled back along the strand needing nothing more. A sea trout, eyes gone, body gleaming still, lay as if waiting for a...

More Like This

Kitty Coles -Poetry

Kitty Coles lives in Surrey and works for a charity supporting disabled people. Her poems have been nominated for the Forward Prize and Best of the Net. She was joint winner of the Indigo Dreams Pamphlet Prize 2016 and her debut pamphlet Seal Wife, which was published in 2017, is available to purchase on Amazon or via Indigo Dreams

Procrastination and other poems. Poet Akshaya Pawaskar

Procrastination  I can do it anytime, or never at all  Myriad the mind's vacillation and  Undying languor or apprehension  How the bills pile...

A Venetian Pizzeria at 8 pm

Chloe Marer enjoys gardening, baking, and playing Dungeons and Dragons.

Poetry from a Hobo

WHALE BONE LAMP Annabelle Obscura wears a widow’s bun Knotted ‘round a hook of whale bone That her young Captain had Carved with the...

Poetry – John Short

AQUARIUM I dreamed of an aquarium fixed into my back a miniature box with tetras and an angel fish, its glass sunk deep instead of memories, I had to ask each...