IN MEDIAS RES

In Medias Res

If I were yet to live another life
I would follow the glint of gold dust

under my crust. Like the Magi, led

to the crib to adore the child
persistent in pursuit

skirting the cruel king.

I would cobble a path from resilient letters
learn to walk to feed my craving

for change; with a pen as baton

to colour the air, creating a space

for children yet to be born.

If I were let to live another life
I would write poems for cats to hear;
for trees to wear.
Little lines to slip under shoes

sweet poems to drop in morning coffee
I’d knit a blanket with warm words
and gather steadfast stars in the vowels
naming them friendship, simplicity, courage
lines that children understand.

Because I wish to live in a world

without we and they

because I love fizzy people

as I love spindrift swirling in words.

But I have no other lives
and I will not live a second time.
I thank the poets who lent their breath
to the archetypes of our being.

Thank you for giving voice to the world.
Forgive me that I wasted time. Nevermore!
I am moving closer to the lode
now that I know. Now that I know.

The Moon to her Lover on Earth

I have sorrows to shroud a galaxy

But I give my light to all your nights.

I have sorrows to shroud a galaxy

The silver drops that spark, these are my fears

The path among the stars I carved for you

Come to me, melt my ancient glaciers

For what is it, a life not lived?

Where passion dies before it learns to bloom

A life not lived in full is early death.

I gaze at you but do not speak

Words are elusive – what can one say

To a lover far and distant as the sea?

I choose to give my light to all your nights.

Invocation

Mother, mother, you said you forgot
that Santa once wrote me a letter – years ago –
a letter you found, hovering aloft
from an invisible thread, you said
dangling there. You made a show of it
and I wanted to know every detail.
I could hardly imagine naughty letters
disobeying Newton's second law.
I recognized your handwriting and told you so,
but you denied it, of course
as amazed as I was.

The night before,
I’d written Santa, asking for peace
I wrote of soldiers sent to war,
their last goodbyes to their kids,
revealing their naked souls,
the fierce terror, caught in cigarette ends,
the smells, the void, the prayers.
I asked him to tell God, please –
maybe He hadn't noticed yet –
for Him it must be a short-term fix.

Santa was concerned about me biting my nails
and that "I should pray for peace," I quote –
he'd missed the whole point, I’m sure,
sent me instead a doll to adore,
no word about visiting God
no promises of future encounters.
This confused me a lot –
hands were empty and cold.

Mother, mother, now you are gone –

Peace only comes in sleep;

it’s getting worse.
I’ve learned that war is a pattern

inside the human mind, whorled.

You read my letter to control…

to control what mother?

You cannot control the savage cruelty of the world.
That you did not know, back then, mother –
I think it absurd;
even your child knew that.

Oh mother, it is so sad.

Angela Segredaki holds an undergraduate degree in Creative Writing from Oxford University. In 2022, she won first prize in the 100 years Maria Callas competition in Buenos Aires. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Blue Unicorn, The Oxford Collection, New Lyre Magazine, The Chained Muse, Manina and elsewhere.