Mandala

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I took my poems and pinned them to a giant cork board. Butterflies of every hue. Like a conspiracy theorist or a detective hunting a serial killer, I connected the poems with string. My crazy wall. I connected them by how old I was in the memory that spawned the poem, by themes of love and loss, by which of the two poles I steered towards, or away from, if the poem was looking in the past, thoughts of the future or grounding myself in the present. It started out looking like a spiderweb, and I plucked the strings of love and watched the poems thrum and give off chords of joy. Then I strummed the strings of loss and a mournful sound issued forth, making the room waver and dance. The strings of depression hung limply and could not be played, but the beauty of their draping form stood out amongst all the straight lines and angles, and the strings of anxiety were so tight they were shrill in the plucking…almost pulling the poems from the board. As my eyes moved about the board I found myself, simultaneously, smiling and teary-eyed.  As the web flowed about in waves from the welling tears, I had to wipe my eyes clear. To my astonishment, within what was to become my life’s dream catcher, was an outline of myself, arms outstretched to what could only be stars. Dumbfounded at how I didn’t see it sooner, I traced my fingertips about the edge of it. My hand eventually settling on a bare spot, a hole, at the center of this wondrous mandala, right where my outline’s heart should reside. I pondered whether this void represented the parts of me I’ve kept hidden or parts I’ve yet to discover. I vowed to fill this hole. To keep writing. To keep catching butterflies. 

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I Will

I Will by Matthew Eayre at unevenstreetstudios. “…we each have a life, we both get to decide.” This resonates and has rhythmic truth that feels so very familiar. Wonderful!

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I don’t need to apologise
but I will,
because something I said
or did, or did,
made you think I was a
decent fellow,
I hate to kill you,
I’d hate to die,
you seem a decent fellow as well

I have noticed some discrepancies
between the way life is
to me, to me
and the way it looks
when you paint

Are my eyes working poorly?

I’ve seen some nights
and some days
I’ve had my fun
and I’ve shed tears
and blood, and blood

Are my hands too dirty?

I shouldn’t have to explain
but I will, because unlike
those without legitimacy
my reasons have reasons
and I have seen some ugly
and I have been, I have been
I don’t name myself poet
and I don’t claim to be higher
than flying mountains

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder
and nobody can say otherwise
and…

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epitaph.

EPITAPH by Ra’ahe at fallenalone. Stunning visuals and beautifully tragic, this is felt soul deep.

Fallen Alone

and when i die—

strip my skeleton of it’s skin,
and my organs of their bones,
and scatter them on concrete laden roads
for the dying to paw at;

throw my eyes and my lungs and my womb,
but my heart—

keep that which never loved
yet broke
everywhich day it longed
but never did more.

place it within a burning pyre of wisteria wood,
and gather their ashes for splintered sparrows
to carry off to the tongue
of my lover

i never could love after all.

••ra’ahe khayat

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Shinbone-Jimmi Campkin

Shinbone by Jimmi Campkin at Sudden Denouement. I was swept up in this, effortlessly, and I inhabited the briefest of moments that I’d wished would last a lifetime. Really wonderful—truly!

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

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We’d swum upstream, arching through the reeds and the little currents swirling around the sharp rocks just below us, grazing our elbows and knees.  The river meandered under the watch of hills crumpled and confused like an unmade bed.  Nothing moved except the wind and the water; and two undernourished, hopelessly drunk, hopelessly pale little tadpoles in the dark green of a midnight dip.

She’d hotwired the car in a dark corner of the drive-thru.  Under the artificial glare of neon bulbs, we’d seen the young couple fingering each other damp before sucking away their respective juices and hitting the fries.  All she needed was a cigarette lighter and a hairclip and we had a car.  A good car.  A V6 apparently, whatever that means, with two belts of cheap vodka and an automatic transmission.  I didn’t mind.  It meant she could grip my cock and still keep one hand…

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Shipwreck – Allie Nelson

Shipwreck by Allie Nelson at Sudden Denouement. Where I once feared drowning, having had reoccurring nightmares about it, this wonderfully written poem makes me see the beauty in being adrift in the deep.

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

There’s the pull of the tide of Azazel, dragging me down to obsidian depths where lampreys from alien worlds suckle at the teat of Leviathan.  Your arms are the Cambrian ocean, and I am a fabled creature long extinct, many legged like a sea scorpion, scuttling to your lips to latch on with pedipalp that can breathe both in and out of water.  My progeny will leave your bosom and flee to the shore, shipwrecked on pearly sands, and weave webs to capture sparrows and dragonflies and voles.  Feasting on your salty skin, I know the great extinction is fast approaching, be it comet or climate change or ocean acidification, and your shores will dry up and your cliffs of ice at the poles will pummel me as glaciers crash against my chitinous exoskeleton.  This is just a metaphor for how we fight, me the small arachnopod navigating your waves…

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Meet Sudden Denouement Collective Member Nicole Lyons

Meet Sudden Denouement Collective Member Nicole Lyons. Another amazing talent!

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

The editors of Sudden Denouement Literary Collective know that our strength is our writers. We hope that you enjoy getting to know them through our new Writer Interview Series.

What name do you write under?
Nicole Lyons

In what part of the world do you live?
Beautiful British Columbia, Canada. I live where one must dress for all four seasons in one day.

Tell us about yourself.
I have the heart of an angel and the mouth of a drunken sailor. I am loyal to a fault and I always bet on the underdog. I dislike crowds and most people in general, and if it wasn’t for fear of depriving my daughters, I’d move us to a cabin in the woods near a secluded little lake to live out the rest of my days.

Where do you publish your work?
The Lithium Chronicles

When did you begin your blog and…

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If I cut a word in two… Iulia Halatz

If I cut a word in two by Iulia Halatz at Sudden Denouement. “There is a hole in the world where you stood…” This is breathtakingly beautiful.

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

I wouldn’t have lusted

for your limbs

softened with

iron syllables.

I wouldn’t have lusted

for your shiny dark eyes

like the sea

lit by two moons…

We could wake up

to what we were…

You

breathing the air of

another planet…

basking in an estranged sun…

When winds

herald the evening

the stirs are in the

dunes

and the communal

place of storms.

I

braved a lackless sea

for naught

My kisses tell you

of another small

and drifting planet

where water

falls from the sky

and blows away

the ink of dusky clouds.

The sands tug

at my feet

and quarrel like ghosts

dervishing

blindly in the whirlwinds….

There is a hole

in the world

where you stood

brazenly stealing

the burnishing silver

of two Moons.

Yet you continue

to hurtle constellations at me.

You fumbled for Orion

and you stumbled

as I inhabit

my spell-forged star

to enhance

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The grass

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I have been to the battlefield

And I am forever altered

I’ve witnessed boys trying desperately 

To prove themselves as men

The war-cries of youth long died out

In the early morning stillness 

I’ve stepped among the bodies

Lying in twisted heaps

The landscape a horrific tableau 

The marginalized finally finding comfort

Here, this band of misfits, this motley crew

They knew without doubt

They had each other’s backs

Where life had taught them 

They couldn’t count on anyone 

That they’d never get a fair shake 

That they’d always be sized up

Lumped in with the stereotypes

A two dimensional symbol

Less than human

I was four, going on forty

And even then I sensed the sadness

That seeped from their pores

Along with last night’s alcohol

These purebred warriors

With perpetually tanned skin

And arrow straight, jet black hair

And me, a halfbreed

Fair skin and curly, brown hair

I wanted to be them

But I only inherited their sense of sadness 

And of not truly belonging anywhere

An outlier amongst the marginalized 

If I wasn’t stuck up on this fence 

I’d show you the grass is the same 

On both sides…

Bloodstained

The Bellowing Arbour – Jonathan O’Farrell

The Bellowing Arbour by Jonathan O’Farrell at Sudden Denouement. I feel the coolness of the earthen floor beneath my feet, as I rotate my mind. Great writing!

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

How much power do you need,
to take from us?
Have we not heard already years,
half asleep, just awake, degraded humanity,
to hear?
Enough perhaps,
to hear the obvious,
our arms swirling.
Perhaps a groaning,
in another over-energetic cyclone.
Be neither comforted
nor distracted,
by thoughts of summer,
just elapsed.
For purring black felines
on your lap,
nor even the singing,
of domestic draughts,
through your cat flap
speak the language you need,
to hear.
Your arbour brothers
and their brides have,
in these shortening days,
hastening wet footings.
And as yet their arms be semi-clothed.
As such and sucking they stand vulnerable,
to that one time,
in how so many years,
storm.
Their time early,
too early?
Smote storm stricken betwixt,
the north and east seas.
Cat curled there around my bedding
and my lax hand around a cooling tea.
Dance,
partners of thundering timbre,
into more of…

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Return- Introducing Anthony “Grumpy” Gorman

Welcome the latest member of Sudden Denouement, the phenomenal Grumpy Gorman! Check. Him. Out!

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

willed, sordid
relics of infant’s
torments

to ink-toothed
creep, buds sealed
with cement-

thrusting gilded
spade into fermented
consents,

grace trickles
out blue blooms of
warm wounds.

© Anthony Gorman 2018


Grumpy Gorman is a writer and visual artist with extensive lived trauma.  He’s worked in the field of Mental Health and addictions in crisis management for over 15 years.  Much of his writing helps with processing the absorbed horrors and sorrows experienced vicariously through the recounts of resilient and amazing clients. Additionally, he lives with the daily splendors and burdens of his own bipolar disorder.  With a fervor for micropoetry, poetry his writing strives to back big emotions into small clusters of words. Grumpy is privileged to share with you. You can read more of his writing at Hands in the Garden

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