January 2024 (Final) Poetry Compilation
The Sunstroke Monthly Poetry Compilation is a collection of poetry submitted by Sunstroke staff members. Take a seat, light a candle, grab a cup of tea and dive into the intricate words of our community in our final poetry compilation, as well as our final Sunstroke Magazine webzine post.
Thank you for your support over the past six years. We are overjoyed to have such an incredible collection of essays, photography, poetry, artwork and physical mags under our belt. We have an archive we will cherish for the rest of our lives, and we hope you do too.
– Sunstroke Editorial Team
Blue Cloth Whitened
By Birdy Francis
Fur-ridden sheets cradle my neck
Drenched mousy brown hair tucked behind my ears
The scent of Fructis and Polly Pockets hang in the air
I feel the same that I once was
Only I’ve lost a few
Buzzing of power lines still underscore a contemporary ballad
Lucky Charms soggy with intention and hand written notes
Rounding and winding roads, 20 feet long, now five
Stillness of the corner orchid beckons to bloom again
I am beginning to let her
A tea kettle screams in silence in a fading echo
A hymn, a twangy acoustic static underscores a juvenile CD player
One not heard until it reverberates through a lifetime, a generation
Now it rings clear, as clear as an ice cream Wednesday, to never be forgotten
Nothing remains but my senses
Matter no less make-believe than radio sketches on wet grass
And footsteps on chappel ceilings
And when I have nothing
I clutch a white cloth, once blue
Then, I have everything
peach-lipped in the swimming hole
By Turi Sioson
song-lust and simplicity.
peace’s breath,
soft for dance, offering
liquid time:
summoning girlhood
in the spaces betweena softening ribcage.
Untitled
By Yaa Mensah-King
So full, so fine
and yet still wanting.
Running and panting with
sweat marking territory.
There's still time - you hear
words like 'phase' and 'passing'
and talk about cartoon cats
but the world is yours
so go on stomping!
Tick. Tick-tick. Tick. Tick. Tick-tock. Tick.
The familiar, frenetic clock -
there's plenty of time.
The books whisper warning
but you are stabbed
and you can't stop bleeding.
As you leave that library
terrified of that hidden, hideous wound,
the clock says there's time enough
for Everything
just not for wanting.
Absorb
By Elida Silvey
Does amnesia
absorb the thought
take it in
like sickly cough syrup
lengthening until
hair-strands hit
pillow?
Or, does it
loom and bob
like bright yellow buoy
stratching at the horizon
where, with
slight of hand it
loses itself
at sea
gobbled-up whole
by the big empty, moorish
sun
on its way down
and out of (from)
sight.