Anastasya Shepherd

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Category: Poetry

  • Silent Night

    Some winter nights
    are like a fairy tale:
    warm amber lights
    create a shiny veil
    of snowflakes
    and puddle, forming lakes
    of glitter underneath.

    Imagine this:
    the cresent of the moon is not too far,
    it’s gingerbread that hangs off shiny star.
    Please take a bite –
    it tastes of sweet and spice.

    The magic night –
    it happens once or twice
    in life or in your head –
    who cares which?
    Get out of your bed –
    it’s time to reach
    for warmest coat.
    Go and invent
    your own tale,
    the one that wasn’t meant
    to be or last,
    that’s written on the sand.
    It’s temporary, fleeting.
    Feel content.

    Accept impermanence, enjoy the ride,
    inhale the warmth and go back inside.

    —

    by

    ashepherd
    in

  • Moon

    The crescent moon
    is trying to climb
    down the branches
    of the naked oak.
    It is stuck.

    —

    by

    ashepherd
    in

  • Ionian sea

    Ionian sea –
    an onion sea.
    Layer by layer
    peel it for me.

    Peel off the flight
    when hearing hurts –
    hawker’s delight
    of pushy adverts.

    Airport flamboyance
    of nameful obscurity,
    petty annoyance
    of queues and security.

    Peel off the sweating,
    crowded streets,
    bugs in the netting,
    beggars and cheats.

    Down to caverns
    of shade in the heat,
    vine-covered taverns –
    treats to retreat;

    to navy-blue air
    for mythical fish;
    down to where
    there’s nothing to wish.

    —

    by

    ashepherd
    in

  • Bubbles

    The bubbles in my glass are rising up and up.
    The breath of invisible fish
    tickles my palate.

    —

    by

    ashepherd
    in

  • Bird

    The bird is tired of flying.
    The bird is tired of trying.
    When it is tired of singing –
    it dies.

    —

    by

    ashepherd
    in

  • Eye to eye

    When I look at an iris
    I don’t see eye to eye with it.
    Not even if I crouch down
    and level with it,
    and stare at it.
    For all its name,
    all it can do is reflect the light.
    Beautiful colours, but pointless and utterly blind.
    Now my irises
    have black holes into the space
    that can suck up the light
    and give that iris
    its name and face.

    —

    by

    ashepherd
    in

  • It’s a brave new world

    The world that is travelled together
    is a new world.
    A new world for the new explorer.

    Before you
    I was fearless.
    I used to teach my friends how to drive
    because I could sit next to them
    and quietly suggest attending to the brake
    when the breaking distance was no longer certain.
    They appreciated that.
    I used to go up to high places
    and dangle my feet over the abyss,
    enjoying the view.
    No more.

    I have to survive to protect you.
    I have to be careful.
    I cannot take stupid risks.

    I never had nightmares before –
    at least not the ones I could remember.
    I have nightmares now.
    I dream that something happened to you,
    that the absurd indifference of the world
    that destroys so many
    caught up with you.
    I wake up with a start,
    drenched in sweat,
    my heart racing.

    I can no longer afford the freedom born of indifference.
    The freedom to tell the world to fuck off and leave its emptiness behind.
    It is no longer empty because you are in it.
    You fill it to the brim
    with fear of death and injury
    and courage to face the possibility of these
    because I have to take you places.
    With anger and tenderness,
    sadness and happiness,
    love and regret.
    With all those feelings that push and pull me
    and limit my choices.

    I can no longer be that person
    who was light and free and empty
    because you fill me to the brim.

    Good riddance.

    —

    by

    ashepherd
    in

  • Philosopher’s Stone

    There is not much point in stealing gold –
    gold is a soft metal, not very good for tools or utensils.
    It is given value by people who can shape it and make it talk.
    I do steal shapes.
    I hoard them in my library,
    I pore over them, hunched, giggling, rubbing my hands together.
    I line them up and recombine them
    and when I hit a lucky combo
    my giggle turns into a laugh.
    That’s when I take the new shape out
    and get you to look at it
    and the light of your eyes
    turns the base metal into gold.

    —

    by

    ashepherd
    in

  • Interfaces and how to face them

    Interface
    is the only place
    to face anything.

    Inside is unfathomable –
    you cannot plumb the depths from inside the sea.
    Outside is unknowable –
    you cannot know what you cannot perceive.

    The only place
    to know and see
    is the interface –
    the waves on the sea:
    the drops of rain, creating the rings;
    the sight and touch, embodying things;
    the warmth and breath, infusing life;
    the pull and press,
    the push and strife.

    At the interface
    there is rough and rub
    which, we have to face,
    is the nub.

    —

    by

    ashepherd
    in
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