Although my beliefs have never been religiously expansive, the psychological notion of nominative determinism has always intrigued me. With a name like Emma Barratt, I felt as though I was corporately destined from birth, and thus poetry has always been a creative subversion of that path and an interest of mine since I read John Keats in my English Literature class. I commonly find inspiration from taxi drivers, and treat them as primary audiences for my poetry – I feel as though sometimes I tell them more about me than I like to tell myself. The only time I’ve ever holistically honest is when I write.
By Emma Barratt
Most of the while everything surrounding the press of our knees became strictly irrelevant,
perhaps even nonexistent…
mere mote vibrating around your frequency.
acute hum of innocent knowledge.
Earlier that day I had been thinking of longing.
Longing to be,
longing to hold you in my gangly arms
which clutched another drink whilst a story fell from your swollen and bright lips.
there it was beside me
following the slowing slur of his own anatomy.
Sat there still tranced I took another sip that held the power to unbind my tongue,
acceptance was ours
and I knew if I had said something it would have only been maybe.
So I kept it to myself
and directed my eyes towards the protruding moon
hidden behind those trees planted in every suburbia,
always masking the natural beauty of this universe
like yourself in essence.
I was resting,
as was he.
Inquiry and fatigue,
for I love it when he is tired.
A bundle of bones and desire
equipped with a strange brattish ease.
I rose to visit the kitchen and asked dad to dance with me –
It was only you who possessed the willingness that mattered after all.
Beneath me the ground had opened and soon I was lying on the tiled floor,
looking for you from here.
My eyes are closing,
find me before yours do too.