{"id":81771,"date":"2017-02-08T12:24:51","date_gmt":"2017-02-08T12:24:51","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/?p=81771"},"modified":"2017-02-08T20:34:32","modified_gmt":"2017-02-08T20:34:32","slug":"anniekatchinska","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/anniekatchinska\/","title":{"rendered":"Kleinsong & other poems"},"content":{"rendered":"

By Annie Katchinska.<\/p>\n

Kleinsong<\/strong><\/p>\n

the realisation of all this hate
\nfor you makes me feel like
\na block of wood presses me
\ndown to a scrawny spitmouth
\ncan’t believe the milk of you
\nas revelations drop like heavy
\ncoins mucky mother makes
\na girl but remember when
\noil was separate from water,
\nI liked, liked it better, felt like
\nthe maker, when I wanted
\nthe good moon came, the
\nbad moon rotted and sank
\nwhen I wanted, reliable
\nsky full of nothing but
\nmilk and never before
\nto contend with this Dis-
\nappointment\/knocking
\ninside me\/good moon’s
\nsmirk bad moon’s glow\/
\na knocking to bite to spoil
\nthis puckering skin of the
\nsky because actually you’re
\na muddied one guiltily bitten
\naren’t, aren’t you in cinema
\norchestra   can’t stop you
\nslide into every persons fill
\nout their faces with cruelty
\nand milk, was I ever your
\ndaughter crammed as you
\nare with toothy wriggling
\nbaby sisters how can I
\nstand it how   can   I   go
\non   without   this to wrap
\nmy teething self around,
\nmust’ve hacked you good\/
\nbad in half and now what
\ncan I holding the pieces
\ntogether what can I kill
\noff a sullied parent what
\ncan I hurt with these
\nsharp gums<\/p>\n

Congruence<\/strong><\/p>\n

It’s like It’s like this Like a girl who won’t Like a girl switching lights on\/off with her elbow Not able to type To wash To pick up those dropped frozen peaches Like this I could say I could search for it At Finchley Rd she’s a crumbly wafer and can’t admit<\/em> Though they all want to hear Though only if useful Though hands smeared with ink are ugly, unsafe She clicks in the cold<\/em> But I don’t know how else<\/p>\n

It’s like Bellowing Bellowing worship songs over the mouldy sink again or writing not going to write
\nin here for a while<\/em> None of this is defence or release With Finchley Road’s bully arrhythmia telling me Myth has some very cruel baggage <\/em>Observing You were just lonely that’s all <\/em>Yanking up the sour facts These petulant nerve endings ready to snap You come across as anxious and it’s a real shame<\/em><\/p>\n

I dream my old leader orchestrating group hugs Group hug everyone<\/em> she says But I have this This osteopetrosis Or arms stuck straight out and any moment limbs could cringe and slip Look at you
\nshe chimes What’s the matter <\/em>Their voices ring in the air and chime They chime the story better
\nthan me And meanwhile the rainbow above us so heavy, swollen and juicy Will it Will it burst<\/p>\n

Can I push the North Circular gently down my throat like a grey ribbon I think that would make this OK, would make Brent Cross bearable Can I smother all this Can I chop up this feeling like a block of butter Can I chop it into cubes and melt the cubes into a stew she would scoop up with a spoon and say I think you have some things to process It’s a shame <\/em>Can I chop this feeling like a bad onion<\/p>\n

It’s like It’s just like To be congruent with you would be like slowly turning warmer saying Look at all these rituals Aren’t we so childlike Nothing in my gut but warmth and a little acidic sloshing<\/em> It’s fine My red fingertips You all come closer Let me be useful Can I contribute I promise you all of it All of it happened Now stay with this feeling What’s it trying to say What does it need Contain us forever<\/p>\n

Saviour<\/strong><\/p>\n

Twenty new bodies
\nwings taped down
\nlabelled power, healer,
\nfeather, noisemaker, beak-
\nsnap and snap
\nand start over,
\nnineteen new bodies,
\nhe made them grubby but clear-eyed,
\nhe fans out their wings
\non cotton,
\nbone pinned down,
\nslips back out for the eggs but dawn’s
\nspilling out soon all squawk
\nand shock \u2013
\nthe rest of them hop
\nfrom foot to foot \u2013 not so
\neasy to catch
\nor love \u2013 they sniff
\nthe air \u2013 the flakes of him
\nleft on bark \u2013
\nthe trees he brushed
\nagainst to get to them \u2013
\nhis elbows
\nso easy to peck
\nand fray \u2013 his lips
\nso good to snatch for a nest,
\nfor a hole but they won’t,
\nhe’ll get there first \u2013
\na boy on the left side
\na girl on the right
\nand three more: the hated
\nmuscular ones,
\nhe dunks them in liquid,
\nwrites brisk brittle comments
\non stomachs and prideful beaks
\nor question marks
\nor a dash
\nand he finds himself pressing them
\nflat on the sheets,
\nonly their eyes pop up
\nand his hand jogs, he labels each one
\nwith What     can     I     make
\nthem     do     all     day<\/em><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

ABOUT THE AUTHOR<\/strong>
\nAnnie Katchinska<\/strong> was born in Moscow in 1990 and grew up in London. After graduating from university she spent two years living and working in Sapporo, Japan, before returning to London in 2013, where she is now working towards a diploma in child counselling. She was a Faber New Poet in 2010.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/p>\n

It’s like It’s like this Like a girl who won’t Like a girl switching lights on\/off with her elbow Not able to type To wash To pick up those dropped frozen peaches Like this I could say I could search for it At Finchley Rd she’s a crumbly wafer and can’t admit Though they all want to hear Though only if useful Though hands smeared with ink are ugly, unsafe She clicks in the cold But I don’t know how else<\/p>\n

New poetry by Annie Katchinska<\/strong>.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":155,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"ngg_post_thumbnail":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[7],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-81771","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/81771","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/155"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=81771"}],"version-history":[{"count":8,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/81771\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":84449,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/81771\/revisions\/84449"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=81771"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=81771"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=81771"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}