The Hunger
- Holly G
- Apr 29
- 3 min read
Updated: May 16
Last night I attended a Poetry Open Mic Night hosted by the wonderful Femmesocial Press. This is the first time I have attended any of their events (or any writing-related event since university). It was so affirming and inspiring to be surrounded by such incredible, creative people. The headliners were Harper Walton (@harperwalton_) and Clara Ada Mantegazza (@claramntgz), both incredibly talented writers, to say the least. The readers who chose to share ranged from those who have already self-published a handful of collections, to a few that had never taken their writing outside of their Notes apps. There was a magnetic energy there last night, and I was so grateful that I had happened to be invited there.
I have a hard time defining anything I write as poetry, a word that seems more appropriate for writers infinitely more talented and intentional than I am. The disordered regurgitation that most accurately describes my writing process doesn't match the idea of a poet I have in my head: someone who carefully and discriminately picks their words and places them in stanzas like a puzzle they already know the solution to. However, I've warmed up to the idea of describing some of my pieces as poetic writing of a kind. The reality is that poetry is more forgiving than we realize.
To my surprise, I volunteered to share some of my writing. Trying not to trip as I walked up to the stage, sweating profusely under the dizzying stage lights, I felt called back to a false memory of my old college campus. I felt like I remembered reciting something to my peers, but it had to have been a dream or my imagination since I had never felt confident enough in my writing to share any of it outside of class.
One of the pieces I shared was "I'm a Writer Who Doesn't Write", which is a piece I published here on this blog almost a year ago. The piece came from a fit of rage and frustration at my writer's block (I hate that term, I might write a whole piece about how much I hate it). It was so severe, that I couldn't write a journal entry, not even a paragraph. I wasn't even hoping for a piece of actual writing. Ironically, it turned into a more or less cohesive piece. A few in the room even seemed to relate to it.
I read a second piece to share some variety. This piece below, "The Hunger", came out of me like a patient sweating out a fever dream. The words appeared as if they were being bled from my veins. It was one of those rare experiences where you truly feel as though your entire body has become the act of writing. Over the course of a 5 hour flight, I had written something I felt was whole. When you try to write often, and you have been struggling to write for some time, you welcome those rare, spontaneous moments of inspiration and serendipity with open arms. If I get to experience it again I would be lucky.
I have some critiques on the piece now, after some time. It's not a style of writing I turn towards often. However, the piece will always feel engaging to me because of the way in which it was generated.
Overall, sharing my work with The Femmesocial Press was a liberating experience, and I definitely intend to remain in their sphere.
Please see "The Hunger" below.
The Hunger
There is an insurmountable craving that builds
Continuously, as waves of hunger crash against the shore.
The creatures that hide beneath the depths turn restlessly,
And prey sleep in peace, soon to be disturbed.
Eyes illuminate the darkness,
Cutting through doubt and distress like blades-
They pierce unsuspecting flesh
Caught! Teeth break the surface, relief floods.
Being full is a lie, but hunger is real.
Imagine being satiated- if only for a moment.
For the act of creation is simply
Consuming and being consumed.
So feed for now, until the stomach bursts.
Fall ill with bittersweet blood on the tongue.
The sea stills, still craves, still feeds, still falls.
Don't deny the hunger, lest it swallow you whole.
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