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Anna Milan



the poet

Currently based in Hertfordshire, England, Anna Milan has had her poetry featured in various publications – Butcher’s Dog, Under the Radar, Eye Flash Poetry, Black Bough Poetry and Ink Sweat & Tears among these.

the poems

The wind is not
yet awake

00:00 / 00:47

                        Patience, eyas. The wind is not yet awake.

                        Wait for its breath to rise and turn

                        till you can scoop the air

                        under pointed wing.

                        Your eyes are not windows, but walls.

                        Enamelled with anger,

                        watchful, siege-ready; mistrust

                        kept safe behind ashlar and buttress.

                        Although the frosts snap at your feather buds

                        the spathes will grow curved and strong.

                        When the barbs lock firm to collar the wind

                        then, eyas, we’ll be ready to begin.

Eyas: a young hawk; especially (in falconry) an unfledged

nestling taken from the nest for training

money & sex

00:00 / 00:46

            I’m doing it for me she says    & though in a way that’s true

            she speaks the softened vowels of her great grandma

            who heaved out the bastard child of the earl of bath

            & wrecked her voice in the process

            so forever & ever after it had an echo

            of the master’s tenor    like the bass notes

            below the hymn’s melody

            in the estate chapel on the big hill

            & when she’s in those killer heels    doing it for her    I can’t help

            but wonder how many male choirs are in the harmonics

            singing yes yes that’s my girl

            you don’t answer to god or man

            do you    what a chance to write yourself

            your own sweet song girl

House guests

00:00 / 01:01

My mother drew cedillas in lipstick on the mirrors, scrubbed the skirting boards

clean, and left stands of autumn grasses growing right up against the patio doors.

Afterwards, my sister came to throw wet leaves at the ceiling and do handstands in the kitchen.

The first man I loved told me a lady never bares her feet until she is alone in her room. He always turned off the light with his thumb before he shut the door.

The next one, a man with grey curls and eyes saddened by the sea, hammered nails into a newly decorated wall to put up a shelf, and heaped sand onto it in restless piles.

Others roam about outside, waiting to come in.

Someone once said to me, In the end, aren’t we all just guests in someone else’s house? I think it’s true, but these days, I am more careful about letting people touch the walls.

Publishing credits

The wind is not yet awake: Atrium

money & sex: Butcher’s Dog (Issue 16)

House guests: Under The Radar (Issue 25)


S h a r e

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