Notes App Poetry – a day and a night in notes


CW: depictions of depression, mentions of blood, references to death/dead body


friday 19/6/24


i. 10:15am

To do:

  • laundry
  • call mum, try not to cry
  • vacuum lounge and hallway
  • buy a $7.40 dirty chai that tastes like bong water, nearly cry
  • hand in workshopping piece, shed a tear
  • reply to hinge guy, act nonchalant
  • eat, nap, listen to music, cry a little more
  • shower, wash hair, cry but tears are washed away
  • take iron supplements, shave legs
  • finish reading book, cry again, mourn, sob, grieve


ii. 11:32am


An encouraging but pessimistic and self-deprecating poem that would make keats writhe in his early grave

Je Suis La Belle Dame Sans Merci


O how can fail thee, maid-at-arms?

Alone, drink cheap ale, loitering

I pray thee woe and sorrows turn dust,

till magpies sing.


O how can fail thee, maid-at-arms?

The day is fresh, and accolades won,

lush and full and teeming wealth

of friendship and sweet harvest sun.



your addiction crippling to your phone.

And at no hand of man hath thee

made sweet moan.

Just gritty teeth and frustrated groan,

and to all your life you bemoan


Je suis la belle dame sans merci

Merci beaucoup.

I actually don’t speak french…do you?

But drink up, say it with me  – merci, salut!


iii. 2:16pm


A poem that sounds really pretty and smart but doesn’t mean anything profound at all and does not follow any poetic rhythm style even though it should

- I call it ‘sonnet I’m no longer 18’


shall I compare thee to a Melbourne winter’s day?/ thou art more volatile and ill-tempered/ rough winds do shake the snarling leaves of autumn/ and from the trees onto vomit stained streets/ so they fall

Like I or Brunswick lease short of rent many a date…..



  • pay rent - due mon 21/6


and often my complexion dimmed for fear and cold and pale

fair from fair/ and bank card declined/by chance or so long men breathe and eyes see

in summer laid/ beaches and shade


so long

through the streets

I’ll wade


iv. 6:47 pm


  • hummus
  • vegan pesto
  • vibrator, fur rug, chandelier
  • oat milk, barista soy
  • some sort of magic salt that repels unwanted visitors
  • choccy, champagne, caviar, cigarettes
  • overnight pads, tampons, free healthcare
  • good psychologist, cheaper rent (either or pls)
  • mixers for tonight! cheap vodka (what is cheap vodka?)
  • copious amounts of vegan nuggets, mustard too
  • cheap wine that doesn’t taste like smoke
  • tissues


v. 10:54pm


Another poem I wrote in line about everything and nothing called ‘sad girl loved wrong’ - an appropriation of Plath’s 'mad girl’s love song’


I shut my eyes; I hold you dead;

Your lids don't lift, not born again.

(I think this you is made up in my head.)


I bite my lip till blood runs red,

Dripping the love given with a price;

I shut my eyes; I hold you dead.


Your once warm touch is cold as lead.

There’s a different you I can’t regain.

(I think this you is made up in my head.)


I dreamed you’d tuck me into bed,

Not rush away far and far and far

I shut my eyes; I hold you dead.


I remember him each day I tread,

And I can’t hold it in this searing pain

(I think this you is made up in my head.)


I won't forget the cruel words you said,

Promises of a ghost I can’t restrain,

I shut my eyes; I hold you dead

(I think this you is made up in my head.)



  • Contact dad


vi. 12:08am


play off to the races?




play liability?




vii. 2:16am


I’m going outside, I don’t feel so good…


Okay, I’m gonna stay here. But we’ll talk later.

You're gonna be okay.



viii. 2:18am


Career plan

  1. Film writer and director (naive dream)
  2. Barista (free coffee)
  3. Fran Fine in The Nanny (rich husband, free accommodation, maybe free coffee)
  4. Join a convent (also free accommodation, no husband, lots of lesbian sex)


x. 2:40am


Hey can we leave now?




Yep, I’ll call the uber


Astara is a 20 year old 2nd year BA student studying Screen and Cultural studies and Creative Writing. 

Farrago's magazine cover - Edition One 2024


It’s 2012 and you have just opened Tumblr. A photo pops up of MGMT in skinny jeans, teashade sunglasses and mismatching blazers that are reminiscent of carpets and ‘60s curtains. Alexa Chung and Alex Turner have just broken up. His love letter has been leaked and Tumblr is raving about it—”my mouth hasn’t shut up about you since you kissed it.” Poetry at its peak: romance is alive.

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