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Anonymous poems


Illustration by Isabel Mitchelson


You liked the winter.

The rain slating my face and hair,

The ice that dragged my mind down cleared yours.

Where you saw clear skies I saw deceit-

It should be warm,


but instead I need layers.

You were the best coat, zipped tight

Trapped, I realise now, by the burden

Of keeping my mind in summer

When all you needed was the clarity of clear winter skies.

Now another few months of cold rain,

Memories of pain pummelling me

Relentless as the dull grey of winter.



You wrote poetry

I thought it was about me

It was about her



Anger flowing through my arm

To my fingertips

Pulsing past that part of my wrist where

the veins make it blue

Trying to burst out of my nails in violence

that doesn’t belong to me

In a red haze

To make you hurt like you hurt me

in that moment when I crouched on your carpet

Drowning in shock

Pulling my hair

Nails scratching my scalp, blood pumping, anger overflowing

But overflowing isn’t a big enough word

There isn’t a big enough word

My own work is self-labelled as documentary photography, out of a lack of a better title. By carrying a camera daily, I aim to embody the spirit of the Brownie in making the means to photography ready to me at every moment, without obstruction – by doing so, I can take a photograph of anything that captures my eye and interests me enough to preserve. Any of us can do this these days, with a camera readily available in our pockets around the clock – and many of us do so without even thinking about it. Next time you take your phone out to take a photograph, whether it is of your friends or of something that caught your eye, think about how you are participating in the act of documenting your life through photography. Make prints of your favourites, display them on your walls, share them with your friends and family. Follow the tradition of those who came before you and took their own snapshots documenting their lives. Everyone is a documentary photographer today, and this is a good thing.

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