Petra Whiteley's poetry has appeared in Osprey, Seven Circle Press (and also in their printed anthology CircleShow vol.1), The Gloom Cupboard, Eviscerator Heaven, Apt, Osprey & Eleutheria, Counterexamplepoetics, Unlikely Stories 2.0, Paraphilia, the Recusant, Fissure, The Plebian Rag (print and online), The Clockwise Cat, Full of Crow and has been featured in Outside Writers Collective etc... articles on political/current issues, essays on history and methods of poetry & literature movements, current poets and lyricists had appeared & will appear in The Glasgow Review, Osprey, Eviscerator Heaven. More of her poetry is forthcoming in Paraphilia and Danse Macabre. First collection of poetry 'The Nomad's Trail' has been published by Ettrick Forest Press in 2008 and her chapbook 'The Moulding of Seers' has been published by the Shadow Press in 2009. She is currently working on a children's book.
(Ship)wrecking of Schism
This is not my town, I dwindle here, just so
a line of dust in a thick night lingers to lull.
There are hunters of tingles, they will
not understand this thing, this tiny thing
that is so out of tune, shyness like a knife.
They will grab it and eat. It is a feast of the itch.
After all. I am the slip of their pale tongues.
I leave a taste behind, that uneven string
of razor cuts, blood ribbons and sea floating hair.
It is not my house, that place of squeezed eyes
and long nails, torn asunder, sudden and pointing.
These houses talk and laugh. It happens behind
the red, red door. White roses fall from the windows,
they are the dirty words - that keep watching me.
Soon they will say something strange to me.
Breathing and unstill.
I drink poison for each of my wrongs.
Here I am, diminishing,
and this water is my only nakedness.
I clutch at it – the nightmare voodoo toy.
A blanket of untied light. It was hacking my knee.
I was a willow tree during its night.
I counted ten swans barking in dead air.
Awaiting the fall, the kill, the skulls.
It wasn't enough. I had to scream it out loud.
The sun cannot be broken!
And I can cut death in half, my womb - a blade
and a sickle of the grass above the heads of hunters.
A Study of Sun
Day is something the horse by the train tracks will soon finish kicking and eating.
Sun will chase the flies in the swing of a long tail and cry explosion out loud.
In the morning it will stir like an egg in butter. It will have forgotten the smell
of the planet like the planet forgets its smell too. It is the stickiness of frying.
This is the first name of my freedom - eating the sun
without the paper god and his bright shining eyes.
The air is cold when I get up, but I rise; swing-walking
forwards: intricate colours are out there, somewhere.
I will kiss them as they press into your morning mouth.
That is the next name of my love - licking the sun
without the seasickness in the landlocked place.
Roses are the fruit of sex. How we devour them and breathe their being in the twilight,
even more so when the sun is soaking its eyes in salt water. The thorns become the hands
of the clock, ticking the beat of the spoons; the bones, the strings of the guitar.
There will be music child, exultant and without the smear of the fathers.
There is the fading name of my being - I am an orb that has no knowledge of orbiting.
I have a sense of ruin snowing all around me; I believe it will not bite me
so my mouth bites random darknesses, believing they have the bread of sun in the middle.
There is no gravity in the core, there is always getting away. With it.
And the black earth is always smouldering. For it.
The air is cold when I fall. I applaud phoenix in the sun.
I strike my matches - it is the sound of my hands clapping.
And clasping. There is no one to hear it. Still, it is a pretty toy
anent my hands are loosing grip and soon they will be served to I.
The last name is my death - I have faith that it will free me from struggling against
As the flesh dissolves, I will finally become.