Anastasya Shepherd

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Tag: poetry

  • The Shadow of Death

    “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
    I will fear no evil” (Psalm 23, ESV of the Christian Bible)

    Death always rides on the back of the living,
    unnoticed and unobtrusive,
    but ever-present.
    Sometimes we become aware of it
    through a shiver down the spine
    and sudden tightness in the chest
    that catches our breath
    and holds it.
    But then we breathe in –
    a deep breath of relief –
    and forget;
    those who don’t
    become insane
    or insufferable.
    We forget until the moment
    it’s time to turn our back to the world,
    take our final bow
    and let our death face it.

    Huastec statue from the Tampico region (México), artist unknown;
    displayed in Louvre Museum, Paris, France

    —

    by

    ashepherd
    in

  • Transformation

    When the heavens are reflected in the depths –
    throw a rock, watch the transformation.
    Isn’t it more fun than mere reflection?

    —

    by

    ashepherd
    in

  • Work of Art

    “Art is never finished, only abandoned.”
    Leonardo da Vinci

    You are a work of art, you are my voice
    combined with yours, a self-creating song.
    I will abandon you, but not by choice.
    You’ll sing the song yourself before too long.

    —

    by

    ashepherd
    in

  • SWALK

    I don’t believe in fate
    and yet my fate is sealed.
    Before I knew myself
    you sealed it with a kiss.
    I fought my self and yours,
    but open wounds re-healed
    until the flames of pain
    extinguished with a hiss.

    Alas, secure fate
    went quickly off the rail:
    you sealed it with a kiss
    and dropped it in the mail.

    —

    by

    ashepherd
    in

  • Border

    Colours are brighter on the edge and smells are sharper.
    Borders are important.
    There is no summer at the equator or winter at the North Pole –
    a Winter Wonderland is impossible there, for there would be no wonder in it.
    Love is equally impossible in hell and in paradise, for without choice there is only acquiescence.
    I know of nothing more poignant than fall leaves in the snow,
    they make you wonder and draw your breath in sudden joy.
    Life is what happens on the border with death.

    —

    by

    ashepherd
    in

  • Roots

    I come from a city
    with people born on a blacklist.
    I come from a country
    which has since ceased to exist.
    I come from a culture
    where nothing is what it seems,
    full of loud delusions and stifling truths,
    where language conceals.

    I grew on an ice flow that was cracking and breaking in spring.
    I had to grow my roots wide.
    So far that they reached different shores.
    So strong that they gripped, and mauled, and changed the shoreline.
    So solid that I became a bridge.

    Now, bridges are never safe.
    Never as safe as the solid land –
    or at least they don’t seem to be.
    They sway in the wind,
    they rely on a few points of contact,
    they have to strive just to stay in place.

    You could transport a bridge to a safer place,
    sell it like the proverbial Brooklyn Bridge
    and make some cash on the way,
    or move it for real –
    to a safe harbour, out of the wind.

    But even a broken bridge across the gap
    has more purpose than a bridge on solid land,
    it remains rooted in both shores,
    forever a possibility.

    —

    by

    ashepherd
    in

  • Rain

    A weeping willow nigh,
    slowly tears pour
    in its misshapen sky,
    drops distort it more.

    —

    by

    ashepherd
    in

  • Travel etiquette

    Standing squashed on the train,
    through persistent migraine
    going down the drain
    with the dregs,

    look around and up,
    squeeze your gaze in the gap
    ‘twixt the arms and the crap
    in the bags.

    Think of people inside
    this elaborate hide
    made to coddle and hide
    their fears:

    some are dressed to impress,
    some are dressed to possess,
    some are dressed to undress,
    it appears.

    As they hang off handrails,
    in the hamster-wheel race,
    do your best to embrace
    their sorrow.

    Don’t be sad, don’t be mad.
    Smile and nod, look ahead.
    They or you could be dead
    by tomorrow.

    —

    by

    ashepherd
    in

  • London Night

    Drown in the London night.
    In the dark you see the light,
    river beckons, cold and bright.
    Drown in the London night.

    —

    by

    ashepherd
    in
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