Marianne Morris

Marianne Morris Poems


you (walking up the road)
you, you (bird with a hole in its wing)
you you you (thought under pressure)
you you (didn't see what I was) you you you
(now see what I was) you you (a space
opening up between me and myself)
you you (a breath I took through being alone)
you you you (thought reduced to doubling) you
(blatant reformulation of) you you you (and me,
me, reformulating) you (a praxis) you (not
singing exactly) you you (can be forgiven for
everything) you (absolutely everything) you
(draw the lines according to what) you
(forgive, arrive late to the games) you
(a staging of battles) you you (just wanting more)
you you (of a nonspecific bounty) you you
(more and then less of me) you (music rising)
you you (up the stairs my thoughts climb)
you you (impose a structure onto the impossible)
you you (eternal suspension)


Last week it was CONVINCED that the World Trade Center had been detonated by the US government. Fire aflame the face, horse nostrils, am I a host of nothing? So precious wandering. The morning has this intention behind it which is continually interrupted by my hand reaching for Internet, so long to those specific magical arrangements, drowned in exposure, but I am in the dark room, the light is so sparse, I've given up thinking about sex, the flowers are gone now but seeds arranged in their place, organised into symmetries, shake them out into the earth. Birds will be mad at me. But none of those flowers grow, know how to grow. The fact of things not going well is stamped out in a lung full of smoke, which wakes me in the early morning, before I am ready, and is dry, and is haunting. I think I have taught myself prosody, which means I have cut narrative out of myself like a hole, which reopens again and again at the doctor (9 different kinds of doctor 1) witch doctor, 2) plant doctor, 3) needles doctor, 4) other needles doctor, 5) speculum doctor, 6) DRUGS DOCTOR IS MY FAVORITE 7) judgy doctor, 8) intuitive doctor, 9) doctor underground). But each one of them has a story, just tells it either through me or against me, and the answer is going to be that I feel better, even when I don't, even when the wound reopens


"Decide for yourself who you are and what you will create in your life and on the Earth, and then focus on that. Do not be drawn by the energies of anything that is not in alignment with what you wish to create."

The voice is here. I can feel its presence, its expansion in me, like a yes that buds from the root up through the trunk, blowing it out into a gentle barrel, and flying up into the shoulders and neck. I dream of poking ink into my flesh, stamping myself sweet. Requiring a city in order to find silence, to find the blindness that is acceptance, to find the letting go that is forgiveness, to turn my face into the sunny place propelled forward, to go always nearer to the source of the light. Because we know this is our last chance to live on Earth, and because we will not have another chance to go back again, in this life we cannot be distracted from our path. We do not want to go back with more questions pertaining to life on this Earth. We must learn them before we leave, loving every possible second upon this beautiful Earth, because we will not come back. We will move on elsewhere. It is like a heart breaking feeling suddenly, I see it all so clearly and I want this moment to stay. This feeling of certainty that the only thing that matters in this life is that you enjoy your time here and keep thirsting and seeking and do not resist the lessons, rush towards them and learn them all, so that you can die to yourself, die into light.

Please do not hate things, because in hating them, you hate. Please only love things, because in loving them, you love, or if you cannot love them be neutral about them, and remain in the truth of who you are, in the billowing, soft, strong energy of who you are.

The only way to destroy what we do not prefer is to step out both of it and the opposition to it. You hate the unfair thing, the evil thing, the hateful thing. But in hating it, you hate. It makes you hate. Step out of it.


There is more than one way to burn a witch. It's 1497. It's 2016. It's Europe. It's North America. It's oil. It's gas. It's something about how numb you have to be in order to care more about money, control, aggregation of power, power, profit, corporate expansion, tipping the balance, exploitation, rape, than the Earth that gave you life. How numb you have to be in order to only be able to escape tribal law through aggregation of the aforementioned, can only dream in paper green, can only rape your way to the top, can only exploit your way up, can only be a man, can only be a man, can only lie your way to the top, can only be a man, can only be a man, and the feminisms are a new war, can only be a man. Only a woman would. Only a man would. Only a woman would. Only a man would. A woman always. A woman never. A man always. A man never. Stop up your mouth. Swear to me you will never say never or always again. The new Earth is here. It is beautiful.


In a house is the silence of what is a home.
We either keep a man out
or in, debate his sanity, might know
to stay away from one instinctively if
the colors have dark aureoles or if the color
of one is always smudged out
by the color of another, an ex for ex
ample, all wounds are ample,
knocking on the corners
of my head. At each edge I find
a little puddle of Lethe
to drop my crocodile toes in,
still expecting to be applauded
for my expert mockery, I guess that's
why I knew instinctively that a man would
not know the answer to my question: how
do you deal with female and female-
identified rage? But instead recommend
I read some other man and the other man
said ‘ridicule is MAN's most powerful weapon'
and I laughed but
underneath it I was really angry.

When I think of real death (as opposed to
just Lethe) it is unreal, which is how I know
there is something in this body that clings to me -
when I download the narrative
and insert it into my being, or when my legs
buckle from crying, or when I float on an
ember of my own making, home in the car
or when the car turns a city into a countryside
or when the wind whips my hair. Or when I see
how wrong I am, when singing whilst cooking,
when the land sprays up a pink tea tree or a
thistle bars the front porch or when a piece
of land has been untouched for a long time
beneath a canopy of fallen netting and dried pine
and the grass is high and dotted with lemon thyme
whose essence fills my nose because I throw
myself into it, crush it under my knees and elbows
and it breaks open and releases its oils -
then my feelings sit down at the feet of
what felt them.

Marianne Morris Comments

Fabrizio Frosini 31 October 2018

Marianne Morris (born 1981) is a Canadian poet. She was born in Toronto in 1981 and raised in London, England. She studied English Literature at Newnham College, Cambridge, and founded the poetry micropress Bad Press.

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Fabrizio Frosini 31 October 2018

In 2008 she was the recipient of the Harper-Wood Studentship for English Poetry and Literature from St. John's College, Cambridge, and she completed her PhD in Performance Writing at Dartington College of Arts in Devon, which merged into University College Falmouth in 2010. (Wikipedia)

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