Poetry: Selections from Kirsty Niven

Most Days I Want to Die

After Gabrielle Calvocoressi

Not all days, yet most days I do.

Most days the darkness envelopes

like a constricting cocoon; barbed,

crumbs in the bed, choking comfort.

The dried Valentine flowers stare,

still in their vase, rusted to crimson

dried blood buds with bowed heads.

Held together miraculously by hairspray.

A wondrous gift, but their heartstring

tug isn’t enough to pull me out.

Roses rather than Sylvia’s tulips,

not so over-excitable or dangerous.

I didn’t expect any flowers at all,

a peacefulness dazing in love – 

echoing in despair’s ungrateful chamber.

The water evaporated a month ago

and the baby’s breath bloomed in

a late and sincere display, delicate

yet snapping me out of stagnancy.

They’ve outlived their way to April – 

maybe I can too if I just don’t move,

ignore the pulsating urge to prune

and pry the veins from my thin wrists.

Today I think that I might want to live.

The Morning After The Ball

Brain pops in the echo chamber,

red wine crusted on my lips.

Cinderella in his dressing gown

afraid to be witnessed here.

Borrowed boat slippers break the quiet

of an HMO on an early morning.

Teetering between bliss and rock bottom

as I sneak to the bathroom.

I follow the breadcrumbs back to bed

afraid to lose even one absent-minded stroke

before the clock strikes noon

and it’s his version of pumpkin time.

Burrowing into his room’s thorny nest,

my naked cuckoo body conspicuous.

Every inch flayed and displayed

but nothing new to these four walls.

Sultry salvation simmers for a while until

a grim mask dons his face, beer fear personified.

He’s kissed more than his share of princesses

and I’m the first to remain a fat frog.

Transformations only in my mind,

it’ll be as if this never happened.

Pinot Noir

A burgundy bloody crust

crumbling to dust flakes

the leftover scabs of soul

ringed

aorta orbit

clinging to the cold glass

undisturbed by boiling soap

a stain prophesying

wine rather than tea leaves

we will not die.

Kirsty Niven lives and writes in Dundee, Scotland with her partner and feline quartet. She is an internationally published poet, and her debut chapbook Broken Picture was recently published by Alien Buddha Press. Her writing has appeared in anthologies such as POETRY FOR UKRAINE, All Becomes Art – Part 1 and The Scottish Book Trust’s Scotland’s Stories. She has also had poetry published in several journals and magazines, including Lothlorien Poetry Journal, WA International andSylvia Magazine.