February 1, 2015


Witty Fay is a translator by trade and a humanist by nature. She has been writing herself into her poems for some time into the virtual world at www.iexile.com, www.allpoetry.com, www.scriggler.com, www.destinypoets.co.uk, www.writerscafe.org www.poetrysoup.com and www.versewrights.com . Also, she proudly had her first bilingual volume of poetry, Nefelibata  (Brian Brixon Books, 2014), published and she is aiming at unraveling prose. 
 Warm eyes

The night we built a sea into ourselves
You gave me a story to grow on.
Of how life was lifting its veils
Like ripe fruit into the warm palms of dust.
You never claimed it as your own
For the place of a tale teller
Is under the naked sun.
Still, time found its way
Of branching your life into mine
And keep us mirror gazing under the moon cake
Like a field of nesting birds
That lays down its burden to stretch and arch.
For all the gifts we bear and bestow,
Every word that falls of our mouths is a coin lost
And other origamied houses and clothes
Adorn our waking arms.
I have no spell over your years
And no name you hold dear.
And as I trade my heart for inky wash,
My feet will never stir the design
Of a single pine needle
And I shall wear your green, yellow and brown 

Of new life

What lies at the end of my fingertips?
You’d think it is the contour of my subordinate existence,
The one that repugns my inkiness and flight,
Those invisible threads that put down my roots in the soil
And that mundane attire you have come to embrace
Yet, despise dearly when you wrap me into it.
There is an unopened life where my circle of safety ends
And you’d rather watch it grow from a safe distance
For your hands clayed me into a pedestal of light
That is far from the soot that clothes my skin
And paints this wicked heart into brokenness.

~Witty Fay

Total Pageviews