Emma Robertson

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As pretentious and typical as it sounds, I like to think that poetry found me as opposed to the opposite – as an outlet of creativity that I uncovered on a whim as I attempted to find ways to express myself creatively. With every poem that I write, I find I have more to share; and although I am still a novice in this means of expression (or perhaps with expression in general – I’ll blame that one on teenage angst), I find that it gives me great excitement and comfort.
I also have a blog, Clean Diva, on which I share other creations of mine – whether it be art, politics or poetry related. You can find it by going to: www.cleandiva.me
You can find me on Instagram @emmajanerobertson

Edition February 2020

Come Back - by Emma Robertson (Photo by Takahiro Taguchi).jpgPhoto credit: Takahiro Taguchi

Come Back

By Emma Robertson

I can’t yet tell you it’s okay

dry eyes, flooding brain

You can’t yet tell me what you’re going through

so you look to me, and I stare blankly back at you

I try to understand what’s going on

but all I say in confidence is that it won’t last long

You ask me not to change

I yearn too hard for your old ways

so I start to dance because it makes you laugh

and for a moment, it’s like the old days

I want to feed you all my energy

but you’re only hungry for my consistency

and not my numbing tricks.

Only then I start to realise,

‘Perhaps this isn’t something I can fix’

Now my eyes are growing wetter

because I suppose you’re right:

Feeling less won’t make you feel any better.


Edition XX

Warm Memory i. - by Emma Robertson (photo by Hieu Le)Photo credit: Hieu Le

Warm Memory i.

By Emma Robertson

soft hair chokes my ears
rosy lobes drowning in sweaty locks
gentle stares crescendo to glowing hugs
tourist fingers on my homeland head
tangle the shorter strands, north of my neck

my tailbone tingles
my fingers fizz
cradled by the mattress, my cheek rests on another’s jeans
quiet friction on dark-wash denim

a background silence
a silence not empty, but not substantial enough to be noticed
simply absorbed by the plants
and the sandy shoes in the corner

a foreground noise
a noise composed of vibrations that echo between the three lovers
reflected on each other’s eyes
and read by our lips

the old spaghetti-scented air, with every breath
delivers a spaghetti-scented love note
an inhale, an exhale
a sensual exchange of pasta-perfumed happiness

sore bones,
joint cramps
cushioned by two foreign pairs of trousered legs
against my own

the simplest form of contentment
reciprocated and relished
in the shape of an equilateral triangle

the friends exist in a triple harmony
platonic affection
kisses without contact
the moment lasts


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