Anita Craig


The deep scent of my lover
coals are red, darkening, deepening
Forest breath to catch my cheeks
Galloping hooves to thunder
fog swirls around a lantern
Dampness. I long for the burning flame
Sadness, tentacles stuck in the tide
White, translucent

Feel the auburn of autumn again
Pine needles covering earth. Brown. Dusty. Dead.
Squirrel into the hole in the tree
bragging from the branches
Rain. Scent of new birth.
Boasting beady breath out to the blue sky and beyond
Green shoots. Tight buds.
Spring. It moves through the wind.
New blood to pass through my veins.

Anita Craig

Safer to stand on the edge,
look down and feel giddy

I’m afraid, of heights,
of falling over

Toes gripping the cold rock
in fear and dread

On the edge of
wild panic

I send my body over
falling through the air

Breathing stops
Not knowing what –

Feet first, I hit water
move down, deeper

Dark water
Dark thoughts

I need air,
to surface

A blue sky, the sun
My lips crack into a broad grin.

Anita Craig

your mind into the contracted space
you find yourself

you find yourself
in space
your mind contracted
into the stretch

space yourself
in your contracted mind
find the stretch
into you

mind yourself
find your stretch
in the space
you contracted into

find stretch in your mind
the space
you contracted
into yourself

You find yourself
Stretch into the space
in your mind.

Anita Craig

the maze of her pre-life
creepy crawlies inside the flour
they are all there in my mind

by writing i try to figure out and explain to myself
slide in surreptitiously from the side
the currents aren’t always warm

an urgency to be written on the page
the line that i fly by is fragile
its intricate trail on the sand

it flowers with surprising prettiness all year long

Anita Craig


Throwing. Forwards, sideways, backwards.
I’m not a very good thrower.
I hold. I’m good at holding.
Yet, I found myself throwing down words, one after the other;
for almost three months without stopping.
I threw out a book. I threw out what I thought was a book.
Now, I see something different.
I see a young woman, throwing away her childhood,
entering a new phase of life. This life, now, opens onto the page.

It opens with a new chapter: on writing.
I see this woman, throwing herself at this pursuit.
Confused, dazed; as, in this chapter, the pages are blank.
It is she who must fill them. She takes a deep breath,
a pause, for she knows what she must do. It is not an easy task.
But throw, she must.
With all her heart, passion, and commitment – she must throw herself at the page.
To land, and become the work of art she already knows exists.
The beautiful tapestry, the maze of her pre-life.
Joined now, at this moment, with her current life.

It’s a story she needs to weave, to understand,
and then it will be known to the world.
For better, or worse. It will be thrown.
Then, she can let go. Drop the ball.
Say to herself, “Now I have learnt what it means to throw.”

It’s not the act itself that poses the threat. It’s the moment of letting go,
risking losing, of being empty.
At the same time, being empty is what she seeks.
Underneath the writing, lies the emptiness.
The words are down. They are out.
Only after she has been throwing down the words,
will she know what it is to be released.
There, she rests her head, her body. There, the dreams can settle at night.

Another net is cast. A fish is caught.
And the throwing of words will be fresh as morning dew – ready to be released once more.