Anastasya Shepherd

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Tag: poetry

  • Judgement

    Our ability to laugh is what separates us from animals. Our ability to laugh at ourselves is what separates us from gods.

    —

    by

    ashepherd
    in

  • Pushed to the side

    Derelict boats always make me pause. There is too great a contrast between an inescapably stationary object and its purpose – that of fast movement – encoded into its very shape.

    —

    by

    ashepherd
    in

  • Nature

    The idea of “natural” being equivalent to “good” was invented in the early 18th century by Romantics, people who made a career out of being unable to think straight.

    —

    by

    ashepherd
    in

  • Light and shadow

    Birds live in the light,
    clear and bright;
    freedom of flight.

    Fish live in the depths,
    swathed and complex;
    joy of orgasm.

    We live in-between,
    under the skin;
    over the chasm.

    —

    by

    ashepherd
    in

  • Windows

    I see the world through windows.
    My preconceptions form perceptions,
    creating a coherent picture,
    a picture in a frame.
    It irks me.
    The limitation to my field of vision
    is like an itch.
    I want to leave the frame,
    to stick my head beyond it into space,
    to see the world just outside it
    exciting, new – it has to be, I know;
    I also know it is not an option –
    the frame is in my head.

    —

    by

    ashepherd
    in

  • Chasing the rainbow

    It really helps if the range of your curiosity exceeds the diameter of your tunnel vision.

    —

    by

    ashepherd
    in

  • A tree

    I could never make up anything as complex as a tree. Fortunately, I don’t have to – there are plenty of trees around. Unfortunately, I took half a lifetime to figure it out.

    —

    by

    ashepherd
    in

  • A sketch

    A weary man
    walking through the essential strangeness of the universe.
    Shut off,
    too tired to feel anything but the weight of his bag,
    and – unbelievably – bored.

    —

    by

    ashepherd
    in

  • Love and fog

    I would like to make you a present of fog.
    This fog, surrounding us now.
    It makes our world small, hiding everything further than arm’s length,
    yet things disappear in it so softly and smoothly –
    there is no possible way to define the border,
    there is no horizon,
    there is no end.
    It is vague and cosy – a down-soft infinity.
    Join me.

    I would like to make you a present of this light,
    a sudden splash of colour in the fog,
    defining the piercing beauty of a tree-branch,
    its intricate form alone in a sea of shapelessness –
    the sudden joy of discovery.
    Gasp with me.

    I would like to make you a present of my world,
    of all that I learned over the years,
    patiently collecting shapes and colours,
    thoughts and feelings,
    moulding them together,
    creating something unique and precious.
    Look at me.

    But you can only have your gift returned so many times
    before you finally realise that this person REALLY doesn’t want a silver toast rack.
    And that a silver toast rack is all that you have to give.
    The fog condenses into tears on my cheeks
    and evaporates in the bright sunlight.

    —

    by

    ashepherd
    in
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