The Anger Remix

Discontent. Envy. Anger. I'm a delightful volcano of emotion.

Hey friend,

Welcome to my new mini-series, The Remix, where I’m pulling poems from across Part-Time Poets and The Snuggle into collections of themes. I’ve realised that a lot of my poetry has circled around core themes the last few years, which was a surprise to me. The first one was The Ecclesiastes Remix. This one is about anger, and its friends envy and discontent.

What Discontent Says, is ironically, already a remix. What Children Say by Kate Baer is one of my favourite poems of all time. I read The Rare Jewel of Christian Contentment by a Puritan guy called Jeremiah Burroughs. His chapter on Excuses of a Discontent Heart made me laugh because it sounded a lot like What Children Say. So I hope you enjoy the Baer feat. Burroughs remix.

Photo by Simran Sood on Unsplash

Feed the Troll

Drip drip drip, I feed my

algorithm full of my deceit.

Drip, drip, drip, I feed my

algorithm: envy on repeat.

I shoot my vein

until it bursts green,

sweep my mane

of algae-hued hair

to hide my shame:

green-glittered eyes.

I shift the blame

to the little squares.

Drip drip drip, I feed my

algorithm full of my deceit.

Drip, drip, drip, I feed my

algorithm: envy on repeat.

First published on The Sunday Morning Snuggle, Collection No. 11 (Feed the Troll)

What Discontent Says

I can’t bear this, I won’t bear this,

I’d never murmur in a million years.

I’m not grumbling but I don’t have

what she has. I wouldn’t grumble if

I could see God’s plan. They are

unreasonable. I never looked

for this. I never thought it would

happen to me. You don’t know

how I feel. I will never move up

off this floor. You couldn’t be

content if this happened to you.

Well, it’s worse than your problem.

I’d be content if it was any other

problem. God has left me. I am no

help to anyone now. I worked hard

and it’s gone. Don’t be angry.

Don’t give me advice. Don’t start

singing. Don’t leave me all alone.

Actually, I’m not alone. He was

always here. He’s more beautiful

than I thought. He didn’t deserve

his suffering. He’s so kind to me.

I didn’t realise I hurt him so. All

I deserve is death. I can’t believe

his mercy. Maybe I can bear it.

First published on The Sunday Morning Snuggle, Collection No. 3 (What Discontent Says)

Nice Girls Don’t Get Angry

Anger stabs me above my eye, but I don’t

listen because nice girls don’t get angry.

Anger aches and shakes my jaw, but I don’t

listen because nice girls don’t get angry.

Anger severs the connection between my brain

and my words. I can’t talk, but I don’t listen

because nice girls don’t get angry.

Anger seeps into my neck, shoulders, tense,

tightening, curling, screaming. But I don’t listen

because nice girls don’t get angry.

Anger tries again, searing a highway

down my chest. But I don’t listen,

because nice girls don’t get angry.

Anger descends to my stomach, a roiling,

boiling, nauseous toiling, but I don’t listen

because nice girls don’t get angry.

I’m fine. I’m just ignoring my friend who tells

me this is not okay. I can’t open the door,

so I bar it with my body, sob while she kicks

and screams, “Don’t do this!” on the other side

because all I want is for you to think I’m nice.

Published in Part Time Poets book: In Which I Try to Save the World

A Prayer for the Overstimulated and Touched Out

LORD, I want to answer all queries

with a scream. The children and I

                                                         are one sweaty contort: touching,

                                                         tapping, whining, screaming.

The phone rings, it pings,

the woman talking lies things

                                                     like, “I don’t know why he can’t

                                                     see his kids,” the dinner burns,

My neighbour bangs the windows,

the doors, she yells for me.

                                                    The children grab at me.

                                                     All my learning is for nothing

I am the last dangling thread of a tooth

I am a sole worn away at the toe.

                                                      Why try to be patient when

                                                      my anger, hidden for so long

under, no worries and yes,

I can and I’ve got this

                               threatens

                                      to

                                           engulf

                                                      me 


I growl, I jump out of my skin.

Don’t touch me, you can’t come in.

                                                       I can’t take it anymore,

                                                       I roar.

Who is sufficient for this?

Who can carry this?

                                                    I hate this, LORD.

                                                     I don’t want to be the angry one,

                   the overwhelmed one,

                                                    the overstimulated one.

                           I thought I was calm.

                                          I’m sorry for disregarding my limits.

                               I’m sorry I disregard rest.

                          Give me your peace. Help me

                           to tend what you’ve given, gently

                          and patiently, to go to bed early,

                            and when I’ve failed, again,

                           to apologise quickly and truly.

                    O LORD, you sustain stars and nebulae,

                  atoms and atmospheres. Sustain me, I pray.

Published on Part Time Poets, Issue 22

In a World Where You Can Be Anything, Be Weak

Feel frailty throbbing

through your fingers,

touch your translucent

skin, wink at the wrinkles

whispering around your smile.

Lie down your limp limbs,

cry into your cup of tea,

treat yourself gently,

like someone you love.

Say, this is hard, say,

I am tired, say, thank you

to a meal, warm cookies,

soft, folded hand-me-downs,

and someone else’s strong hands

buckling babies into car seats.

Mercy can’t seep into your skin

if there’s no cracks in the armour.

Published in Part Time Poets book - In Which I Try to Save the World

How to Feel Small

Stand in the ocean, watch

sunlight ripple and reflect

silver off the waves, wonder

how far the ripples stretch.

Realise you can’t comprehend

the size of the Indian Ocean,

the sun in the sky, or a God

without beginning or end.

Cuddle your three-year-old

to you in the waves, feel him

kick with joy, smush his face

into your neck, his heart

beating against yours.

Realise you don’t deserve

your children, you did not

make or earn them. They

are a free gift of mercy from

a God without beginning or end.

First published on The Sunday Morning Snuggle, Collection No. 5 (A Cloud Prescription)

If these resonated with you, please consider sharing with a friend 💛

Thank you for reading, friends. The next and final one is the The Fear Remix.