Poetry For The Heartbroken

The Lie


She brought me back a lemon from Naples,

So I put it in the freezer

Without quite knowing why.


When the freezer broke,

The lemon grew mould

And I couldn’t bring myself to tell her.


Next time we met she looked at me

With her citrus eyes,

And I saw in them

The soft coastline of Sorrento,

And all the apricots of Capri.


So I told her I’d made lemonade

And watched her smile at me.


On the Floor with Her


Being in room 1840 on the main floor of the Tate Britain

Is quite similar to being in her bedroom, on the floor with her.


We sit on her carpet together, I pretend to write poetry and

She hums while she paints (there is jazz playing, and it suits her).


I imagine her swaying to the music with Ophelia and the Lady of Shalott and I laugh.


“Why are you laughing?” she asks me without removing her brush from the page.


I can’t think of what to say, so I say nothing, and she doesn’t ask again.













The Tickets are Half Price Now



I will use my eyes as a projector and look at you long enough

To screen a feature film of my thoughts into your mind,

I will make you my cinema.


And the critics will compare it to the silver screen days

And Truffaut will cry out in applause from his grave

And as the lights come back on and the credit roll plays


You will turn in your seat,

Fix me with your gaze,


And whisper,



Poems: Anna Vincent, Illustrations: Eve Archer