Emily Elizabeth Buckley

Writer and Creative

Recent Poetry

  • Oscar

    i. Our love dared not speak its name, flowing in hushed whispers like a river through the forest of our hearts; stolen glances over notebooks, newspapers, and sins. We danced around each other in this spinning world, hiding in the twenty-six s           p          a          c          e          s between my you and my first. We waited… Read more

  • Mittelschmerz

    ‘pain associated with ovulation’ Part of me died on the doctor’s table burnt away, scalpel cut, I can feel it in the metal dish. Flesh twitching beneath the surgeon’s knife, abnormal lesions destroyed. I wonder how she can do it, cut someone else’s body, but still blame their period, instead of seeing the chronic illness.… Read more

  • Dysmenorrhea

    ‘painful, disabling cramps in the lower abdomen’ Few people feel where their ovaries are. I guess people know the rough placement, they could point and pick them out on a chart. They vaguely know how the misplacement of growing tissue, and of bleeding cysts make the ovaries flood with hormones and make stabbing pain and… Read more

  • Driving on the M6 on a clear night with a dying phone

    There is a point on the M6 between junctions 33 and 32 where the 12-mile stretch opens into the ink-black night and you’re driving through constellations of LED headlights. The stars out of your window become the beacons that over-caffeinated drivers navigate by, like argonauts sailing by moonlight. Fleetwood Mac flows through the car as… Read more

  • Miasma

    ‘an unpleasant or unhealthy smell or vapour’‘an oppressive or unpleasant atmosphere which surrounds or emanates fromsomething’ I wish I smoked cigarettes,I’d go outside daily,watch fag smoke float into the air,strum on my ukulele. Gentle music makes a backdropto the film’s projectiona new world of beautiful lightof fag smoke’s creation. Dragons fly through fire ashen smoke.When… Read more

  • She Stood on the Doorstep

    Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. She stands on the doorstep, her hand raised in a fist, poised to knock. There is a worrisome edge to her, lip caught between her teeth, her eyes glazed over; she is terrified. Gathering her short blonde hair into her other hand, she bobs up and down on the balls… Read more

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