Stages of a Poisoning.


You sunk in


Beneath me, into deepest

Recesses of my internal organs.


You crept in

Like noxious gas

My lungs burst with words unsung


You accumulated in my blood

Until I bled metal.

I could not move, I could not see

Through the darkness you shrouded me in.



When I dream, I dream of dying.

I dream of the sea at the bottom of the porcelain bowl

Swallowing me



I went to the ocean

And looked out at the sharpened rocks.

They reminded me of your fingers

In my hair.


I can no longer bleed it out, you see.

They found you in my marrow.


My mother named me island

Because she saw that one day

I would be alone,

Waves beating my shores

And I, ever yielding.



The doctors said my blood smelled of almonds

And burned in the light.

They crafted wheel chairs from my bone marrow,

Hard as steel and twice as cold.


They harvested me like HeLa cells

And put my corpse on display.

I am the elephant girl,

Perhaps someday, someone will purchase my bones

As a conversation piece.


Remember me as a summer bird,

I sang once,

Then winter came.


Watch me edit this poem on youtube, and don’t forget to like and subscribe!

-Kelsey Jay


Slam Monday: “Cover Letter to our Reptilian Overlords” by Matt Loeb

While your dominance may be heavy handed at times, I appreciate your efforts to conceal it through the manipulation of the mainstream media. This is, I believe, where  I come in.

As a graduate of film studies, I can present myself as being media savvy. I have also trained myself to sound well versed in fields ranging from new media to communications marketing and social media engagement.As you can see, I will be a valuable tool for integration into warm blooded society.

Sorry this is on Monday y’all. I had an exam today so I spent yesterday knee deep in brain anatomy (metaphorically, of course, but how cool would literally be?)

I think a lot of people see slam poetry as being angry ranting about ex-boyfriends or ex-girlfriends or society. I felt that, this being national poetry month, it was important to share another side of this diverse form of expression. I also wanted to share poetry from Canada (True North represent!) Give the rest of the poem a listen, you will not be disappointed.

Poet’s Twitter:

Poet’s Website:


-Kelsey J.

gaming poem

Article: Versus Mode: What can poetry do for video games?

Nonetheless, Stone interjects, one of Coin Opera’s founding convictions is that video games are now familiar and accepted, that their trappings and terminologies can be drawn upon by writers as confidently as the once-arcane language of cinema. “As a medium, gaming has been around long enough now to have its own culture, and language and world and internal logic that’s accepted but is really hard to explain to people who are outside it. It’s a rich metaphorical landscape for poems – once you have an established set of worlds, and established tropes, it becomes fodder for talking about the human condition, finding ways to express yourself or start conversations.”

Poetry and video games. I had never, EVER thought of them in the same sentence (except maybe “I should stop playing this video game so I can write some poetry”), but the editors of Coin Opera clearly think differently. In the creation of Coin Opera, editors Kirsten Irving and Jon Stone seek to create a space where video games can be treated like mythology and cinema, and allow groups marginalised in gaming culture to express themselves. I enjoyed this interview immensely. The link is here:

Article: Jill Bialosky on Poetry and Motherhood

Poetry offers an intimacy with the reader that is particular to the art form. When I read a poem that moves or seduces me it feels as if the speaker is whispering in my ear, or tugging at my heart. Someone once said that poetry expresses the unsayable and that has been a guiding force in my own engagement with the art. My definition of a good poem is one that allows the reader to enter into the experience of the poem and be affected by it.

Claire Fallon of the Huffington Post interviewed Jill Bialosky about her poem “The Mothers”, included in the article. A lovely interview discussing poetry and what it means to write a poem that touches many people. Article link:

-Kelsey J.

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Poetry Month: Why Poetry? My Poetry Journey

Originally posted on Kelsey J. Mills :

poetry month kitty

Sorry for the crickets guys. I’ve been swamped with school, and I was going to try to do this as a vlog before posting a text version, but my laptop decided to thoroughly f*** itself so I don’t know when that’s coming.

computer WHY YOU NO WORK

It doesn’t take an English PhD to figure out that poetry is nowhere near as popular as fiction. Pretty much everyone’s read a book or a comic or seen a movie outside of school, but I’ve rarely met anyone who can name a book of poetry off the top of their head. Most people studied poetry in school, hated it, and stopped. This, in my humble opinion, is a damn shame. Poetry is a medium that transcends time and space and the human condition in a way superior to fiction.

My mission this month is to get at least one new person to give…

View original 667 more words

My Favourite Poems: Do Not Gentle Into That Good Night by Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Happy poetry month!




Rain batters calm shores,

Great waves take boulders to sea.

You are the sharp wind,

Blowing through my blood like ice.

Sharpened siblinghood cuts through.

Lightning flashes bright,

The air alights and thunder rolls.

I am the tree hit.

They did not ask why you struck,

Only why I grew too tall.

Safe in the dark cave

She waits for the storm to pass.

I sit in the cold,

Scorn seeps through my wounded pride.

Remember, I reflect you.