surreal poetry
Surrealist poetry embodies the essence of poetry itself, drawing upon shocking imagery and lyrical incongruities to comment on the inner-workings of the mind.
Time is Linear. Top Story - November 2025.
Time is all-forgiving so I’ve named myself after her. I’ve built an endless soul inside of a shell and slapped my fingerprints on every inch, hoping somehow they’ll find it when we’re gone. I don’t know how to tell you that I would cut open every organ in my doll of a body just to prove the absolute fervor that flows through cells combining pink, and I don’t know if it’s too late to say it. Time would stay, so I will, too. She can’t feel conflicted because there’s only one destination, one task, one rhythm to stay awake. I thought if I created a world, it would keep its eyes open, or at least tell me when it starts to get sleepy. It’s okay to take a nap, but I don’t know what I’d do if the gears stopped turning altogether. I don’t know why the confusion is the most arduous of all these mixed up destinations, but I’ll go downtown to change my name tomorrow. That should bring me a little closer, I think. I’ve built something so exquisitely strange with all these smudges and cells and bruises of seconds, that I’m not sure I could take it apart. I’m not sure I could leave it here to be found in ruins, or ensure the glass jars of my ever-hearts will not go rotten the second I’m gone, or you, or our children. It’s not the building, nor the signatures nor the nails nor the shelves, it’s our bodies that make this collective soul breathe in time. Without us, time does not exist beautifully; or, at least it won’t while I’m still waiting for the fire to be put out.
By Olivia Dodge12 months ago in Poets
Echoes of the Honest Ink
There are places in life where words do more than describe—they guide, comfort, and connect people who may have never met. In the small town of Pineshore, such magic lived inside a quiet group of poets who gathered every week in the old library. They called themselves The Circle of Honest Ink, not because they were famous or perfect, but because every poem they shared came from a place of truth. The group began with only three poets: Harun, Elias, and Mateo. They sat at a long wooden table every Sunday, carrying notebooks filled with thoughts no one else ever heard. Harun wrote about hope in the simplest things—like the way sunlight rested on leaves. Elias filled pages with questions about life, wondering why people rushed past beauty without seeing it. Mateo, soft-spoken and thoughtful, captured silence itself as though it, too, had a voice. As weeks passed, more poets joined them. None of them were professionals. None came seeking applause. They came carrying stories, memories, and emotions that needed a home. Some had been afraid to speak in front of others, but something about that library—its soft lighting, its smell of paper and time—made every heart feel safe. Each meeting began with a silent minute. Not to force peace, but to notice it. The poets believed silence was where honest words were born. Then, one by one, they read their poems. Sometimes the library echoed with laughter. Other times, someone’s voice trembled, and everyone listened without judgment. They believed poetry did not need to be perfect to be powerful. One evening, a shy boy named Aayan entered the library holding nothing but a blank notebook. He sat far from the table, too nervous to speak. Harun noticed immediately and welcomed him with a warm smile. He said, “Poetry begins before the words. You’re already a poet because you came here with curiosity.” Those simple words opened something inside Aayan. For weeks, Aayan attended, filling his notebook little by little. He shared nothing until one night when Elias gently asked, “Do you have something you want to read?” Aayan hesitated, then slowly stood up. His voice was quiet but steady as he read a poem titled The Window I Never Opened. It spoke of fears, dreams, and the courage it took to step into a world that might not understand him. When he finished, the room was silent in the most beautiful way. No one clapped—but their eyes held appreciation deeper than noise. Mateo said softly, “Your poem opened that window for us too.” In that moment, Aayan understood that poetry was not about impressing others, but about expressing oneself honestly. The Circle of Honest Ink continued to grow, but they never changed their purpose. They didn’t chase praise, followers, or competition. They shared poems to heal, learn, and give voice to what hearts carried quietly. Every writer was valued, every voice was needed, and every poem, no matter how simple, was treated like a gift. The community of poets became more than a group—they became a living testament to truth. They showed that honesty makes writing powerful, kindness makes sharing safe, and poetry becomes unforgettable when it comes from a place of sincerity. And so, in that peaceful library, week after week, the sound of pens moving across paper continued like gentle rain. Every word mattered, every heart was welcome, and every poet, no matter how beginner or experienced, found a home within the echoes of honest ink.
By EchoVerse Poet12 months ago in Poets
