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.
"I'll call you before my flight"
That was the Friday before he left for New Zealand. My days paced by, a leisurely Saturday stroll. Never before visited, and it was entirely for work. My homeland, and I couldn’t even take him to my favourite little corners. By Sunday, I couldn’t show him my people, let him breathe my air. But at least he’d call, and at least we’d talk about meetings and management, and the small moments in-between where he’d sneak off for a puff or I’d sit down for a coffee. Eventually, it didn’t matter anyway. He’d find himself swallowed by a ticking schedule, each day closed off from the next.
By Tiara Meenehan Burneabout a month ago in Poets
The Shape That Stayed. Top Story - September 2026.
On a walk in the wilderness a long, translucent and scaly encasement is found in the thick brush. As you happen upon its dazzling design you falter and step back, carefully observing for movement that never comes. Eye caps that remain intact but purposeless. The diamond shape that extends into a cylindrical tube that stretches then tapers at the end. Open and detached it is cavernous but sits flat and holds no weight. Fear turns to fascination as you pick up a twig, snapped from some storm-battered branch, and gently lift the skin. Crouching for a closer look, flipping what remains to reveal the glistening jeweled exterior. Perfect in its imitation of what was and what was left behind. With the sleeve of your hoodie or sweater you lift the empty skin jacket and note the lifeless eye caps, gently holding them to the sunlight as it reaches down between the trees to reveal The window to nothing. And the mouth you imagined fierce moments before is now a gap of no consequence. The long hollow tube that once held prey is now a footprint of appetite and survival. Yes—muscle, hunger now struggles to hold itself as you let it lie on the dirt and the grass. You trace gently the opening, carefully, with a measure of respect, as your finger caresses the dry paper-like surface, following its winding length till you come to the tail. As you gaze and ponder, your hands straighten the casing into an imitation of life. But it falls flat. So you ease just a finger, one solitary digit into the opening, filling and giving weight to what remains. It is fuller now. No more alive. You gently retract your finger from the shed skin and it collapses just as easily as it had done before. In that moment you also notice the absence. No hiss. No slither. Do you make the sound just to give the silence something to hold or accept the absence? Imitation is not resurrection.
By Paul Stewartabout a month ago in Poets
