April Poetry Compilation

The Sunstroke Monthly Poetry Compilation is a collection of poetry submitted by Sunstroke readers and staff members. Take a seat, light a candle, grab a cup of tea, and dive into the intricate words of our community.

Submit to future compilations here!

NO ONE STAYS UNDER THE DARK FOREVER
By Ralka Skjerseth

Even though you won’t last forever in this universe,
your works will.
And even though your tombstone will become obsolete,
your legacy won’t.
We’re always on our way to become something greater,
maybe not transcendent, maybe not omniscient,
but [somewhere greater] is always waiting
for you to arrive there.
And that’s why
the weight of darkness is something you should befriend
and the pain of existing is something you can pass through.
Because when you look around,
even meaningless works could become legendary,
and in the end all the pains are temporary.

Mint
By Durga Arjun

I’ve grown accustomed to you not finding the temperature right.
One leg under the covers, one leg out.
Then both legs under, then neither, then burying yourself entirely
in the blanket’s soft embrace.

Lately, you’ve found comfort in counting my ribs. Running your fingers over them
like prayer beads––a mantra.
And I let you because secretly I love how you make me feel.
I’m soft like clay and you let me sculpt myself.

But old clay becomes tired, and brittle. And so you tell me to kneel instead of stand
and I listen. I don’t want to break
something so beautiful.
You decide that you want to try your hand at sculpting.

You’ve lost interest in my ribs––they’re beyond salvation, you say.
Instead you’ve taken up caressing the tops of my thighs back as I
stare, stoic in the mirror.
The ceramic shards of my spine are no match for you.

I try to ask you for some leeway but you’ve
drowned my vocal cords in Listerine and Crest and scar tissue.
My mouth begins to rot and I am nauseated
by the smell of mint.

Soon enough I’ll look as long and lean as the skinny vase
that mom keeps her dried flowers in, you tell me.
But mom knocked that vase over this morning and
I think the coffee table looks better without it.

the five stages of grief
By Zoe Cunniffe

i.
the quiver at the corners of my lips. the tight-laced
boots. shock at the sound of my laughter, that
skyrocket scream. the stiff swing in my step, a blink
to blur these bloodshot eyes. lipstick smeared on
the rim of a glass, thinking,
maybe they don’t see it when i’m here,

at the stoplight,

feet scuffing sidewalk.

maybe there’s still a glimmer in my eyes.
maybe i love it like i always did: the tender touch of
autumn air, how the branches brush the sky,
sun-cracks leaking through the clouds.
counting, always counting,
waiting to spill fiction into someone’s
waiting palms.

ii.

it flickers upright when i’m sleeping,
and i wake with a growl in my stomach,
      the kind of hunger that can’t be tamed.
         it’s the pound, pound, pound,
wind chafing my winter lungs, hoarse hollers
      into the same sky i used to duck my head from.
underwater and spitting up salt, teeth gnashing,
     fingers pricking the surface but never crushing
this current.

iii.

so it spins, flailing back and forth. there must be
something— some reason, some dusty promise.
now i pray to the corner of the bathroom ceiling,
     sick apologies, tile-marks in my knees.
let this aching end— these hot-glue-gun teardrops,
      this scarlet syrup, how i claw at the walls,
hands folded, forgetting my lack of beliefs.
i run a thumbnail along the night sky
          until a layer of grime catches beneath it.
rinse it clean, so clean, crane my neck out the window
and search for it—
this freshness, this resolution.

iv.

fire-ripples and the ring of voices.
it could be my name,
humming lazy on your lips,
but it’s hard to say— what a fog of noise, the latency
       of face-to-face communication.
i reach a hand towards the flame—
this block of ice, fingers rose-wilted, frosted pink.
    pins and needles and accidental anesthesia.
on the car ride home,
i can barely touch the gas—
i’ve got my face in the steering wheel and no breath left
in my chest.

can’t wake up brimming in a blaze i buried.
can’t fall asleep in my childhood home.
can’t walk to school again,
yellow lines blurring underfoot.
can’t spend my nights on stepstool stages,
lips pressed to a microphone,

the room flooded with warmth.

can’t pretend anymore—
that the flowers bloom for me in springtime,
that they crane their necks on purpose,
that they see. here i am,

former future dust,

and yet i walk, and i carry this ache

in my palms.

sometimes it sinks against the creases
and for a second i see it again—
       bloodthirsty sunlight, a tangerine fizzle,
the sting of carbonation.
    that hair-raising hope— it’s still here,
         still here, still burning in the back of my mouth.

To My Time Traveller
By Alex Payne

Rise from the chair and transcend the norms,
Born a black and white film star
In a world of colours and unusual forms.

Lost to it all falls from the saturation,
A self made idol graced by their self infatuation…

For who could resist to kiss lips that love their own,
And speak to a world where the fame was bought in talent alone?
Giving back a role model of lines rote memorized in schools
From crystalline spinning reels
and face that would be loved by a thousand fawning fools.

So I’ll leave a negative framed by the door
And develop a Polaroid portrait of a man who knew which lines I’d said before.
Whilst playing a film star from a moving picture,
About a cowboy,
A time traveller,
And love lost in time’s own confusing mixture.

IF DEATH COULD BE MY COMPEER
By Adebiyi Kehinde Emmanuel

If death could be my compeer,
Demise will never be my fret,
Curbing the power of grave to speaks no more,
Full with gleeful utterance,
I will have a story to tell,
With the hope of calling you(death) mine,
Because fate has brought us together,
To wine and dine for our unbroken tie,
I will own you no debt,
For a son of the gods is never meant for sacrifice,
Basking in affluence,
I will anoint you (death) to be my confidant,
For allowing me into your world,
Choosing me to be your favorite,
Then I know, If death could be my compeer,
Smile will always be my companion.

Anxiety Crippling
By Aarti Mukhedkar

A yellowing yellow away
At my weak
Weak neck.
Prickling needles on my bed
And a painful knocking at the door.

Ah
My best friend is here,
I hate her.
She makes me feel like
An inkless pen,
A penless ink.

Knock knock knockity knock,
Let the fuckery besiege you.
Knock knock knockity knock,
Close your eyes and forget who.

Everything works like you want it to
The lights are off
And the off is light
Take your clothes and burn them all.
Leave but a mask to cover it all.

Your eyes are blue
And serenity new,
I hate my best friend!
Bid me adieu.

The ash from fabric
Feels good in my nose
I want to curl up and die-
Oh fuck! I got to go,
Goodbye.

Golden Boy
By Brooke Hannel

A sweet smile waits for her by the door
He pulls her in as if they’ve met before

He laughs at his own jokes
Puzzled that she just doesn’t get it

He leads her to his room (What a quick exit)
Kisses her before she can say no

Doesn’t hear her when she wants to go home
But they tell her that she's lucky

To have been in the arms of the golden boy
That everyone calls “lovely”

In time
By Christopher Mardiroussian

Explore the unknown
linkages hydrating those pupils
curating a snapshot of
cracks within crevices
venturing into these
webs between
spawn and spunk
assembling voids
where
we turned
a blind-eye
to.

Being Human
By Jasmine Elise Jones

What does it mean to be human?
To be 99% empty space
But still fall for the illusion
That we are something
What does it mean
When my heart stops
For just a moment
As I see the sun falling
Behind the city
What happens when
I see him in a crowd
Fifteen years from now
But he doesn’t see me
Or even worse
He doesn’t recognize me
How do I recover
From something like that
How do I ever move on
Like my therapist says
What does moving on mean?
I think humans
Are far too nostalgic
For that phrase to be useful
We have too many regrets
Too many memories
That we repeat over and over
In our heads
When we can’t sleep
And it’s 3am
What does it mean to be human
And have everyone want
To get inside your head
Because you’re simply
Too interesting to ignore
What does it mean
When you want someone so badly
But also not at all?
Only a human could feel
Something as complex
Something as shattering
As a love lost
Or regret

cultureSunstroke MagazineApril 15, 2021poetry compilation, creative writing, artworkComment