Heart Enough


I can only give you my heart.

My soul’s already been taken

By those times I’ve been mistaken

About what it is to love. It’s not something I can start

Over again. I gave too much

Of myself, my time, and my all,

Only to realise, all I have to offer is too small,

Not enough to be the only one you reach out and touch.

And so, I retreat.

You might think my life’s empty,

And that, I will not deny: but how else can I be,

When I am not enough? I am only me. And I am yet to meet

Anyone who thought otherwise.

I am just me. Just this heart.

So, I can only give you my heart,

Because it is a broken, shattered thing,

And you look like you need the challenge of a puzzle

That you won’t ever get to solve.


Poetry In The News


Hello 🙂 here’s your poetry in the news for today:

Richard Wilbur, who twice won Pulitzer Prize for his poetry, dies at 96

Poetry, music night explores themes of immigration, queerness

Accomplished poet Zang Di shares his famous works

Review: ‘Who Reads Poetry,’ edited by Fred Sasaki and Don Share

Indigenous poet Ellen van Neerven abused by year 12 English students

Meet Omar Offendum, the rapper who blends hip-hop with Arabic poetry

The World Turns


Your head — spins

And your words — turn,

And all the things you never want to believe

Are those that will one day be hardest to scorn.

There is more to this world,

Than that narrow-minded,




Incorrigible view.

And when the world turns against

All the hatred that’s choking it,

What will hate-filled people like you do?

Poem of the week: A Poison Tree, William Blake


I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I watered it in fears,
Night and morning with my tears;
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright.
And my foe beheld it shine.
And he knew that it was mine,

And into my garden stole
When the night had veiled the pole;
In the morning glad I see
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

A Poison Tree



A mannequin strikes all kinds of poses,
Wears colours and clothes it cannot choose.
Has no need for perfume or even roses.
Has no opinions and nothing to lose.
Removing all options sounds akin to heaven,
Not lurching in decisions and getting things wrong,
If all is decided then think of the freedom
That comes with singing someone else’s song.
But what can come of being void of emotion?
What kind of life is lived when standing still?
If your only purpose is their ministrations,
What good are you when you no longer fulfill?


Favourite Poets: Wilfred Owen – Insensibility

Happy are men who yet before they are killed
Can let their veins run cold.
Whom no compassion fleers
Or makes their feet
Sore on the alleys cobbled with their brothers.
The front line withers.
But they are troops who fade, not flowers,
For poets’ tearful fooling:
Men, gaps for filling:
Losses, who might have fought
Longer; but no one bothers.
And some cease feeling
Even themselves or for themselves.
Dullness best solves
The tease and doubt of shelling,
And Chance’s strange arithmetic
Comes simpler than the reckoning of their shilling.
They keep no check on armies’ decimation.
Happy are these who lose imagination:
They have enough to carry with ammunition.
Their spirit drags no pack.
Their old wounds, save with cold, can not more ache.
Having seen all things red,
Their eyes are rid
Of the hurt of the colour of blood for ever.
And terror’s first constriction over,
Their hearts remain small-drawn.
Their senses in some scorching cautery of battle
Now long since ironed,
Can laugh among the dying, unconcerned.
Happy the soldier home, with not a notion
How somewhere, every dawn, some men attack,
And many sighs are drained.
Happy the lad whose mind was never trained:
His days are worth forgetting more than not.
He sings along the march
Which we march taciturn, because of dusk,
The long, forlorn, relentless trend
From larger day to huger night.
We wise, who with a thought besmirch
Blood over all our soul,
How should we see our task
But through his blunt and lashless eyes?
Alive, he is not vital overmuch;
Dying, not mortal overmuch;
Nor sad, nor proud,
Nor curious at all.
He cannot tell
Old men’s placidity from his.
But cursed are dullards whom no cannon stuns,
That they should be as stones.
Wretched are they, and mean
With paucity that never was simplicity.
By choice they made themselves immune
To pity and whatever moans in man
Before the last sea and the hapless stars;
Whatever mourns when many leave these shores;
Whatever shares
The eternal reciprocity of tears.

Imagine the only comfort you can offer yourself in this situation is to become so numb to what is happening around you that nothing touches you. Imagine being able to be that numb with everything that is happening; I don’t think any of us who haven’t been directly touched by war can imagine. This is a beautiful, haunting piece of poetry.