Jennifer Martin
Isolation
Illustrations by Bea Olivier: @webeadrawing
The space beneath the stairs housed several objects.
The alcove had shelves on which
lay forgotten noughties board games
- Harry Potter Scene It? Pictionary MANIA
The Simpsons Monopoly - a Gustav Klimt print, and several ornamental decorations,
including
a wire cockerel, a brass sculpture of a man and his gun dog,
and some cross appropriation:
a Russian doll geisha.
In front stood an old writing desk
(the sort that looks like a plain chest of drawers
but folds out)
a chair and a girl sitting in it. On the desk in front of her lay a notebook,
one blank page and one scribbled on. In her right hand
a lifeless pen,
in her left,
her cheek.
Her eyes wandered out of the tall window to her right.
It was a clear spring day, one that made the world look technicolour
- the green was greener, the blue was bluer.
The Willow by the pond was doing
a slow sad dance
-the sort Willows did on windy days-
and birds were being blown off course.
A pretty day, not a comfortable one.
The girl’s eyes weren't focussing on what lay beyond the glass however,
but what lay on it.
The window was divided into 12 sections,
these were separated into 6 by a bulky piece of white plastic where,
the girl assumed,
hinges should have been so that it might open. This window did not,
nor would not open,
and this bulging piece of plastic
seemed to lie to her very face.
Suggesting fresh air, teasing it, tempting with it, but never offering it.
Still, this wasn't where the girl's eyes were fixed. Rather, they were glued to the
upper half of the window,
centred on the middle rectangle in the first row of three,
which held a small fragile body.
As small and as cylindrical as a Tic Tac,
a fly's gravity-defying body was attached to the clear panel.
Its wings pressed together pointing towards the ceiling, its filament legs sprawled in any
direction
you like,
a small black green smudge beneath it.
‘Dead... and for how long?’ she thought.
‘Who chased the fly under the stairs?’ she thought. ‘Ruthless.’
‘Unless it died of age’ she continued, lost. ‘Stopped right in its tracks, like pressing pause on a
DVD.’
She shifted the weight of her head from one hand
to the other-
dropping her pen.
‘Trying to get outside,’ she thought.
‘Waiting to get outside,’ she thought.
‘To see it's fly-friends and fly-family,’ she thought.
‘Just like me,’ she thought.
The sun shone brighter then,
and the trees danced more violently then,
and the birds in the sky swam more proudly then,
and the girl,
she picked up her pen.
During the lockdown back in March, I found myself with the time to really focus on my writing. I was furloughed and twiddling my thumbs, so I started writing everyday. I had moved back to my family home in Cornwall where I am often hit by a huge sense of nostalgia and reflection.
Isolation was written to explain the feeling of breath and time I had felt at the beginning of the pandemic. How I felt I was drowning in it. I was sure others felt this way too. Young people across the country must have felt like their whole lives had been paused, just as they were about to take off. I suppose this is why I was so gripped by the image of a fly.
FEET
Illustrations by Bea Olivier: @webeadrawing
This is a rewritten one, I’ve lost the book it came from.
I lose a lot of things -
Change, filters, tampons and keys.
I don’t, and can’t, lose memories.
I remember the whistling at night,
I remember the grip tight,
I remember not remembering anything at all -
I remember you tried to call.
Tried to call and justify -
To get ahead of the curb, to prevent my cries,
They might be too loud,
someone might hear - Someone might believe.
I’ll stamp and I’ll scream and throw all the tantrums I want -
And I won't do it just for me, but her and them in the corner.
I’m fed up of losing limbs,
The shaming, blaming, the just plain degrading,
It’s plucking each strand of hair from my head,
Each eyelash, each eyebrow,
All my fingernails are bleeding beds,
My toothless gums are sore and red -
I’m a picture for post watershed.
The more people in pain in this way,
The more of me shrivels and dries and fades to grey.
Rigor Mortis is setting in and,
I’m calling to stop this egotistical suffering,
I’m calling to stop the cavaliers of sexual entitlement,
I’m calling for the return of my things -
Five times I’ve been carelessly hurt, that’s five toes,
Fed to the dogs, buried in the earth.
A whole foot wasted and thrown away.
I’m plural rather than single, and,
We, them, him, her and me, would like FEET rather than foot
Please.
I wrote FEET in my second year of university, after an experience I had had at a party. Myself and my friends were all talking about the #MeToo movement and I was shocked to find that 6 out my 7 friends had experienced something similar. Outraged, I started writing. I wanted FEET to speak to anyone regardless of their gender or sexuality who has experienced sexual trauma. It’s supposed to say we’re not alone.
Written by Jennifer Martin
Jennifer is an English and Drama Graduate (2019), who has been published in various American poetry journals. Her work focuses on the social-political climate using metaphors for the body and nature to tackle generational dialectics. Bringing the party back to poetry is her long-term goal.