To be held is where hope lies, Where are you going, girl?, & Lines of overwhelming promise by Lucy Morgan
To be held is where hope lies
To be held.
It’s never how I want it to be
like right now, marooned on my bed
with Tarot cards sprawled round me
like capsized boats, cradling
small-sized hopes I wish came
to sight a little sooner.
To be held.
It’s like a mirage ahead
I can’t imagine ever losing.
The Blue Mountain’s sun is like this,
how it breathes blue visions that beg
me to linger longer underneath
its ancient miracle; I want
its rays to stay & follow me
but they disappear, dreamily
& unapologetically.
To be held
in someone’s arms
but not just anyone’s arms,
they’ve got to be the arms I want
round me — aching to be there;
sinking down like carbon
into the deepest sea;
where my hip curves,
tethering me lightly
like the dust we’re
both made of.
To be held.
Actually, most lovers can’t
do it well. But a poet can,
with lines; especially when this
destiny of mine keeps filling time
like a wine glass in reckless
surrender;
That’s when I pen lines in my mind,
romancing what holding means:
To be held — to feel like I’m tied to
something. But not just anything,
is everything.
Where are you going, girl?
Where you going, girl?
Unflinching on motorbike,
unsteady in a typhoon
—To the beach at 3am!
With an unlovable boy
who luckily, rides well;
cos’ you’re both drunk
on Midori & lemonade.
Where you going, girl?
Unseen on a night bus,
undoing lovers in dreams
coated with sleeping pills;
—Headed towards ruins,
warred over by a King
for his true love.
Where you going, girl?
Unarmed on some guys’ truck,
unknown place & phone dead
without a fuck in the world;
feeling alive & powerful
because no one knows
where the hell you are,
again.
Where you going, girl?
Unending map lines,
untold whereabouts,
like a traveling ghost;
floating free & unpinned,
unstoppable movement &
unraveling anywhere
but the place that’s
home.
Lines of overwhelming promise
my palm lines
vine together like tapestry
plotted out for me to pave craftily
on this strange planet of mine.
my heart lines
promise mystical signs;
just below first finger’s edge
I see Jupiter’s future stretch
into heartache & pursuits
that continuously
break.
my head lines
run like a child’s mind;
messy & wild with millions
of marks mapped for a myriad
of configurations & directions
on what to do with the life
I’ve been given.
my fate lines
are the strangest to wear;
running up my middle finger
scarring out Saturn
& what will happen,
with imprints of karma
revealing as I go.
my palm lines
give away everything &
nothing; showing every
curve & disorderly cross
that’s mine yet to make,
& yet to understand.
—But if my fortune signs
were margins I could make
my palm would empty. &
my lines would be newly
scarred with every mistake,
marred as it happens.
Executive Producers
Sue White
Daniel Henson
Sarah Hunt
