EL And the Shadow

SHADOW

She lies over me

shielding, warming

more than me and less than no one.

I am in awe of the shadow girl

worshipful

her edges cut flesh and her

hand can tear truth 

her eyes, darker than mine, flash bold

and bright and there is no fear

Not small fears of snakes or large fears of hurricanes

her head rests near mine

her open eyes let mine close

her claws rest on  my skin and I

sleep while she snarls and smiles at the world.

EL

She lies beneath me

softer, lighter, more golden than me

her skin is fragile, soul pulsing

more than me and less than no one

Able to speak to them, to keep her claws

sheathed 

Able to sing into the faces of enemies and

battlegrounds

Her skin is smooth - no marks, no scars. it cools me.

her eyes lighter, brighten as they listen

wrap around faces and hearts

Her fears would shake mountains but her

bravery moves the stars

her head rests near mine

her closed eyes calm me and I can smile

while she battles our dreams

Notes from an Anarchist 2016

A poetry anthology of everyday subversion, anger, misanthropy and nihilism... with little tiny scraps of humour and hope.

These poems are part of an illustration project on Patreon. Click through to take a look and then share, sponsor and enjoy!

Notes from an Anarchist #1

Notes from an Anarchist #2

Notes from an Anarchist #3

 Sarah Eddowes is a Sydney based artist whose work straddles animation and painting. During her Bachelor’s degree, Sarah undertook a 6 month exchange program in Paris at the École Nationale Supérieure des Arts Décoratifs where she was properly introduced to animation and stop motion puppetry. From there she went on to complete a Masters of Animation at the University of Technology, Sydney. Sarah now divides her time between the painting studio as part of a Masters of fine arts, freelancing as an animator and teaching animation at the Australian Film Television and Radio School.

Notes from an Anarchist #4

I run.

From my sheets to sink

From cubicle to kitchen

To classroom to desk

From work to my children

From the oven to the bath

It is not the measured run of an athlete

It is not the graceful leap of a dancer

Not even the purposeful run of the hunted deer

It is the scattered, high-strung run

Of a rabbit

At best a fox – on a good fucking day

It is the run of someone who knows that if she stops

The reality of her stupidity

Her sheer meaningless exhaustive motion

Will paralyse her

Or give her time to raise her gun

And we god damn can’t have that.

There would be blood.

And the blood would run.

Notes from an Anarchist #5

 I will not vote

It feels as though democracy has been stretched so thin

my angry X in a box might puncture it.

It has been dieted, airbrushed and photoshopped

Unrecognisable even to Cleisthenes

If it was once about a delightful platter of gourmet idealism

And good intentions

It is now an airline meal

Dehydrated, rehydrated, deregulated  

Each the same as the offering on the next tray

Each the same haircut on a different 44 year old white skinned man.

Perhaps I shall make from my voting slip

a small folded plane

to fly from the window

into the sizzling sausages of the tirelessly optimistic.

Perhaps I shall just fold it into a small paper purse

Large enough for all I have

And small enough for bus money

Notes from an Anarchist #6

 Love

Is negotiating with a terrorist

Deciding if you can give your blood

But keep your skin

Knowing there are others who love you more

And love you better

But staying on the phone anyway

Listening to demands your soul cannot keep

But your mouth agrees to

Finding the place where your dignity is,

and inching so close to its edge, your toes curl

Notes from an Anarchist #7

It is strangely forgettable,

this largest of truths

dangerously, fucking forgettable.

this one that slithers out of reach.

And scares us with its wide eyes in the darkness.

this truth

That we must first empty out

And tear up and scrub raw

And leave blank.

That we must be drought-stricken

And ribs-showing.

Nail-bitingly poor

And hungry as cats

so unusually forgettable,

 this truth

this largest, this world swallowing truth.

That the wave must go out,

suck back, flay the sand

and expose the naked ribs of the reef

Before it floods and rolls

And fills and feeds and flows

Before it pieces together genius

And builds grace

It is so much easier to forget and despair

Or worse,

Forget and live easily.

 Notes from an Anarchist #8

 A critique:

She has called herself an anarchist

Not what she is.

Misnomers and appropriations.

The words are words we have heard before

In a different order, granted,

But the same words.

White privilege

Feminist rage

Simplification of complications

Frankly, I just don’t get it

Why is she so angry?

Why is she so happy?

Covering for a lack of talent with verbosity

Covering for a lack of confidence with excess

Clawing for controversiality and failing

Following in larger footsteps than she can fill

Profanity is not art. Its just not fucking art!

Couldn’t even finish – I have better things to do with my time.

Far better things to do- this is my raison d’etre after all.

To discourage the subpar artist,

to curtail the average, curb the flow of standard,

To end the anarchy.

Notes from an Anarchist #9

 There are places

On this planet

That reveal my life to be

An unadulterated pile of pretension

Places where the heat

Boils off any notion of style and beauty

And the dust settles

In the flawed logic of

“doing something important with my life.”

Notes from an Anarchist #10

 If there is a more dangerous phrase than “what next?”

     it has been lost to time.

The myriad dreams are suddenly fulfilled, done.

Sitting proudly on the mantelpiece of self,

Shiny and suddenly small.

If that was what I wanted- it is not what I expected.

If that was what I dreamed – it is less grand than I imagined.

What next?

This is the edge of emptiness and if there is no next or now, I will fall.

And probably quite gladly fall. I could be a very fine hellion. I have it in me.

I fight it with nexts. And if there are no nexts – why fight it?

Notes from an Anarchist #11  

 How the fuck

Can one be sure

Of which side of the lines

One is skating

Particularly if the skates keep sliding

 - it is thin fucking ice

 - frozen newsreels and afterschool activities

 - frozen rooibos and left wing poetry

Will the therapist smile and smile and nod

Sagely – Yes, she was about her own agenda

Your mother

Making you do these strange and terrible things

Will the people rear back?  - You were dragged up!

Our sympathies are with you. Dragged from warzone to

Costume parade. Dragged screaming and swinging.

How can one know? Sanity is not a mirror.

Am I mother of pearl or motherfucker?

Mother of the Year or Mother Complex

The lines of strange and marvellous

are so thin and slippery

and my fucking skates are too tight.

Notes from an Anarchist #14

At times I am

Unsympathetic

Of other people’s terror

That life

Is finding them uninteresting

And beginning

To turn away.

Notes from an Anarchist #15

art makes me want

to tear off my clothes

all of them

ripping them away

shredding them

I don’t. Because the women

with grey pixie cuts and black

edged frames and

pink explosions

            of lipstick

-       they don’t.

and they seem to be here a lot

they know. they know art.

in fact, now I can’t remember why

I wear clothes

I want to touch the paintings

           With my tongue

I want to taste the colour.

when the fat man

           on the high chair

is texting his mother

           I stroke the paintings.

bad art is the best

it smells like hope.

I settle. For peeling off my

hubris

and stacking it quietly in

           in the corner

nudity can be

metaphorical in a pinch

its adaptable like that.

if they notice - if they catch me.

I’ll say its art.