june

weekly poem | life is long / and then short

But First Dear Reader, A Note To You:

How are all of you doing? It’s hard to believe that we’re already six months into 2024. This week, I have a prose-poem for you. For June. Without realising it, I’ve been writing a poem for each month. Here is my May poem and my April one.

I suppose these poems are my way of documenting time; capturing my own life against the seasons. Keeping track of the things that change and the things that don’t.

As I’m writing this, the sky outside has cleared after a spell of rain. The clarity is almost luminous. Let’s begin.

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June

Mid-June. Fractals. Of cold sun and rain. Insect wings. Glistening in the long grass. I walk. Under a blanched sky. Bone-grey. Taut. 5PM. And suddenly.  Clear light. Streaming. In these streets. Ripe with rain. It becomes true. How little I know. And of what I know. How often I forget. And yet. All my life. I have known. These slabs of light. Pouring out. From that high place. Where the birds trill. And the leaves spiral. Their hearts to the sky. Catching. The sun. Like a fine mesh. I walk. Outside. Where everything has been garbled. And put back together. The damp stones. The spiderwebs. The small puddles. That carry half my face. Between loose edges. The softening. After the blistering. Rain. The opening. Wet petals. Trees. Light. Opening. And suddenly. I understand. How life is long. And then short. For a while. I am. Alive. In the way of June. In the way of dirt. I too am porous. This I know. And then forget. But for now. The evening light. Is calling. Beckoning. Me? Or perhaps she is calling. Out. To something older. That is merely passing. Through me.

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With this poem, I wanted the rhythm to resemble sharp bursts of light. The way light scatters suddenly, bringing a granular detail wherever it falls. I also wanted to do something different with the form. In some sections, I envisioned the punctuation as allowing for multiple meanings in the same breath. For instance, is the poem saying: ‘For a while, I am alive,’ or is it saying: ‘I am alive, in the way of June?’ It could be either! Or both! You decide. My intention was only to open up different layers of meaning all at once. (An opening.) To lay June bare. To create different poems for different readers. Or perhaps a different poem for each time you read this piece. When it comes to contemporary writing, the author may be dead. But the text; the text is alive.

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Before You Go …

I love writing and bringing these pieces to you. A Poem A Week is a reader supported publication, entirely written and researched by me. If you’d like to support my newsletter, you could consider sharing this piece, dropping a comment or subscribing. If you’re feeling generous, pledging a paid subscription or making a one-time donation on Kofi would make my day! Whichever way you decide to support A Poem A Week, I appreciate you greatly.

And as always, here’s what I’ve been loving on Substack this week:

‘Polite Hunger’ by

Zi Corley

Polite Hunger

And ‘Goodbye Daughters’ by

Tara Connor

Goodbye, Daughters

I’ll be back with new writing next week. Until then, take care.

Love,

Anagha

“Another world is not only possible, she is on her way. On a quiet day, I can hear her breathing.”

―Arundhati Roy