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, 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


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,


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



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



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.


Find more from Lucy on Instagram, We’ve also got bonus poems from her on Patreon.


Executive Producers

Sue White

Daniel Henson

Sarah Hunt

Your Results Are In by Ashley Kalagian Blunt

Your Results Are In by Ashley Kalagian Blunt

November Editorial

November Editorial