A look into the raw poetry and prose we bury where no other eyes can see it

Curated by Sharon Arulnesan, with contributions from Hajir Butt, Julian Sharma & Zanoah Plummer

Hidden deep beyond grocery lists and reminders for tomorrow, one can find digital scrawlings, often hurriedly typed out during spurts of passion, that manifest just after the clock strikes 12. Whether it be turning to your device during times of heartbreak, loss or uncertainty, the Notes app acts as a personal, locked away journal for our unfeigned and most vulnerable emotions — a time when no one’s looking and we’re left alone with our thoughts. 

The positives of poetry-writing have been written about in great lengths. Psychology Today says poetry is a catalyst for recognizing one’s emotions and serves as an opportunity to grow and heal from past events. Sometimes, Notes app poetry can be bursting with clever syntax and metaphors. Or, it can be scathingly honest, acting as a hidden tirade against someone who has wronged you. 

In the Notes app, there are no creative bounds. It doesn’t matter if your poems are littered with grammatical errors and typos that emerge as you hastily type out your thoughts on a smartphone keyboard. These poems are uniquely for your eyes only — an invitation to be as raw and intimate as possible.

When we’re tucked deep into our covers and the only sound that can be heard is the crickets chirping outside, the Notes app begs the question: What are we thinking when the lights go off?

Everyone, all at once 

By Hajir Butt

My cousin was the first person to put her head on my shoulder

now I find it is the purest form of affection

I use phrases that my friend

who I haven’t seen in years used to say

The words feel foreign and familiar at the same time 

I drink tea the way my mother does

a bite of jam and toast and a sip of chai right after

I am told I look like my sister, my grandmother,

my mother too, 

when she was young and wore braids in her hair

I laugh like my aunts 

a sharp cackle, gleeful crows in a room

I sing songs out of tune like my father

when he would break out into song whenever he felt like it 

And I buy the same flowers that my sister used to get from the market

It makes it feel like she isn’t miles away

We carry the people we love 

in little places of ourselves.

In our hearts, laughs, smiles, cries, 

movements, expressions, and tones

they leave a mark on us, ones we don’t wash away

kept in our memory, tucked away

like old love letters in a pocket

Ode to the cowboy in the passenger seat 

By JULIAN SHARMA

You sunkissed collar bone,

boots on the dashboard,

loose thread shoulder patch

you. golden hands flicking

through stations on the radio,

90s rock to top 100 to jazz

to—hey, there’s a red light.

stop before it’s too late, remember?

love him before he’s gone

forever, remember? tug 

a straw hat over your eyes,

conceal yourself in shadows,

or hide in infinite wheat fields,

but keep those eyes covered

since you’ll never feel free again.

bronzed sweeping shoulders,

thundering down hills atop

sleek horseback. your fingers 

gripping mane slipping through

the cracks in your facade. 

sunset awash in the slope

of wrists on steering wheels,

sunset settling on sleep drunk

smiles, sunset in your crooked

front teeth. faded denim

overtop stretched out button-ups,

the cloudless sky against 

battered blue sleeves. throw 

arms to wind, bare your neck,

forehead to burning leather.

drink it in: scuffed heels

against gas station floors,

signs pointing 500km away,

cracked tiles in shitty

motel rooms. life stretches

endlessly ahead, worlds

left behind in rearview mirrors.

the only thing that matters

is your laugh, kissing

the bridge of my nose. 

this, forever.

Spinneret 

by Zanoah plummer

Leaving lace around corners, silk-weaver of its own flesh.

Gossamer ties make the most lavish of a pest.

Striking fear into mourners, always stalking for what’s next.

Making home out of forgotten objects.

Venom drips from fangs unemptied.

Backed against a wall.

Destiny never calls.

Little limbs charred for the vein.

Born to be a basket-weaver of pain.

Beady-eyed, caught at another’s behest. 

Any larger and it’d be the threat.

Pining for release.

Anticipating a narrow escape.

It’s faced with its final fate.

Leaving marks upon dust worn thin.

Always caught in a corner it was never meant to be in.

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