• Ellen Dorrington

4 poems as an experiment

Me and my writing friend Vicky did a free poetry course that wasn't very good but at least I wrote some poems. Here's some extracts of me trying to develop a creative practice.


Human history


in skin and dust.

Am I dissolving

us with salt water

waves (in me)

that crash


The gifts you give

will return.

How sad it is to

hold our hands

open for our

own gifts, a


world of us,

reading the letters

and cards we sent

from happy ghosts.

Now we become

the keepers of

them all.


I’m a city girl,

birthed under

bright lights

and the mechanical


of wanting more.

In my streets we

push forward (sometimes


headlights cutting us

amber beams on

glittering Cat’s Eyes. I

hopscotch over light -

in a city of stone and

glass we are all

made from this glimmer.

The riot police

lined our streets


stared them down,

and all the while new


drove past

in solidarity (red) to

the blood in the streets.

I have salt tears on

buses. Cancer on buses.

Friends on buses (and holding

onto their pinkies,


on buses). I have

love on buses,

(into front seats,

bubble gum and dust)


I have my childhood in

paper tickets,

holding onto thin air


steering into nothingness.

I knew

this will end soon.

All writing is


that it did.


The DJ is crying.

It’s a salt and smoke

room, purple light -

space, space, boundless,

open -

I have the

love of my friends

tonight. It feels

bigger than

we are.

I don’t know what they

remember. I want to know

what they hung on


I was so happy I cried.

I couldn’t heal

from all I had seen - I had

another. I grew


and dizzier.

The DJ is crying.

That’s a poem,

I thought. All of

this is a poem.


Can they see the trace of

it on me?

How I tilted

my head

to the sky and waited

for it to run down

on me

My love

returned and not

dead my love

alive and warm

in my palm.

I want the days



on my skin.

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