Tag Archives: Amy Ekins poems

Amy Ekins’ Nonplaced

Amy Ekins 
Amy Ekins is a poet based in Newcastle upon Tyne. Her debut chapbook was published with erbacce-press in 2013 and she is a 2013 Northern Writers Awards New Poets’ Bursary winner. She has contributed to Catechism: Poets for Pussy Riot and Fit to Work: Poets against ATOS. When not writing, she’s a project manager for an academic publishing company and a Kindle addict.
“North East poet Amy Ekins’ debut is an inventory of absence. In this sequence of short poems Ekins imbues the most benign of objects and places – a fish tank, microwave, back yard – with an unseen other, or rather with their lack. The ambition of these poems is to ‘kick out […] the root’ of a lost love ‘like a wobbling tooth’, to make the object of the poems ‘decades past’. In recognising what is ‘not here’ Ekins propels us to see what is. This inventive first chapbook introduces a talented young poet, who is at once playful and understated, and who is most definitely ‘here’.”

– Amy Key 
“These poems have the obsessive quality of Jack Nicholson’s eyes. Intent on logging every detail, each page is a melancholic remembrance, or eulogy, a reminder that we can never really erase anybody. Ekins’ stored snippets are ghost pain, post-amputation, and we’re not ready to move on, or give in. And maybe we won’t be, like, ever.”
– Amy Mackelden

You are not here.
This does not surprise me.
Microwave meals are the conserve
of the lonely, the partial,
whereas you are whole, a sphere of heat in and of yourself.
Kitchen drawer
You are not here.
Nonetheless, the spoons are aware of you,
as I talk of you to them when scooping cream
onto scones – no jam, that would be obscene –
just cream, and thoughts of you.
You are not here.
I look, though, wondering of your #location.
Perhaps you are hidden
among the celebrity pages –
a pale smudge in the shadow of a dress.
You are not here.
I hear licks of lyrics from bands
you used to tell me about, and t-shirts billow
on the washing line, names of those
you didn’t take me to see.
You are not here.
Stubs of trips worn to slips
that fall as I look for change.
Passport photo kept behind my own,
creased with kisses passed.
You are not here.
I wear your pyjamas, and roll pillows
into body parts beside me. I press feather-you against me,
allergies flaring – the sheets are alight
and I am alone.
from Nonplaced (erbacce-press, 2013).
Order Nonplaced here and here.
Visit Amy’s  website.
Visit Amy’s Tumblr site.