Interconnected: Sharing artwork across borders
This is the second art gallery we've put together that is filled with creations submitted by you! Imagine wearing a black glitter dress and balancing a glass of red wine between your fingers, while strolling through an art gallery filled with photography and poems written on each wall. Put on your beret and enjoy the artworks xx
Photography by Kinga Kuter - St Dunstan x Talia
An empty butterfly home:
I watched my friends date boys
Who were ripping open their chests
And force feeding butterflies
Down their throats.
I saw milkweed pour from mouths that were
Covered up with smiles.
I've seen friends sink to the bottom
Of the lakes
We once swam in,
Stomachs full of stones
Screams held captive in their throats.
But I never seem able to help them.
I can only watch from the shore
As the people I love
Disappear.
~ R.C.
Photography by Lara Grønbugt
Metanoia (About love and such things)
When you're feelin' yourself
but it doesn't make up
for all the empty places
where men touched
but never stayed long
enough to call home
And it doesn't suffice
as remedy for ghosting.
Howling wild woman
time to recognise
your broken ribs
and holy mended heart
is yours for taking
and not theirs to take
advantage of.
-
Wild at heart
speaking
soft syllables
Hummingbird
in human form.
Draped
in light + sorrow,
a wondrous sight
beautiful anger
pure desire.
-Frida Mehtälä
Wallflower
Sometimes I’m left speechless as I wonder what words are worthy of other people
What people don’t tell you about love
They don’t tell you love wears your spirit,
Keeping you up in the dark of coarse hours.
We are warned of pain,
but not the silence which feeds the worry of the beaten heart,
Thoughts disrupted by a hammering anxiety
To read his mind
To feel his rhythm.
Curious,
And yet not,
Because it terrifies you like nothing else
to be warmed or shunned
To hear the sound song
ring empty and false
And so,
Red-eyed and dull skinned I rise from my lonely sheets
With only desire for your soft words of possibility
Untitled
The silky warmth of words don't satisfy me anymore
Nor does the sound of poetry
which used to fill my dull days with warmth,
Or the silky notes of music
That now ring false and faded
Against the expectation
of the raspy softness in your words,
Cutting through this sterile world of undesirable perfection