Random Young Writers: Tiegan Dakin

The following poem was written by 16-year-old Tiegan Dakin. On writing, she says:

I started writing poetry at ten years old after the death of one of my pets (as many people do). I found that my poetry wasn’t as bad as I thought it might be at the time, and continued to write from there. Some of my poems were published in my school newsletter, and others were later published, five years on, in literary magazines.

Poets often have reasoning as to why they divided stanzas in a certain way. They included alliteration in a certain line or phrase. They alluded to a famous individual in their poems. Maybe it’s because I’m young, or it’s attributed to my attitude toward poetry in general, but that’s not something I think about; at least, I don’t read into things as deeply as a lot of poets do. I do what feels natural. I’m pleased if any lines resemble something that may have resulted from deep thought.

I’m thankful for all the connections I’ve made over the years – consisting of magazine editors, talented poets, other published writers, teachers and friends with common interests – who have provided me with insight and encouragement in order to improve my craft; especially the few who do so on a continuous basis.

Tiegan’s work also appears or is forthcoming in Squawk Back, Gravel Literary Journal, cahoodaloodaling, and Up The Staircase Quarterly, among others. Aside from writing poetry, Tiegan enjoys photography (which has also been published). She reads the works of authors and poets like Mark Leidner and Gena Showalter in her spare time.  Tiegan is a contributing writer for Avenoir Magazine and an Associate Editor for Zoetic Press. Learn more here.


Shearing

wool-1150190

A bull ant
marched alone
amid
alpaca wool
and sawdust.

These ants yesterday
were too weak for my attentions
to rake them.

I didn’t
let Echidnas get down the Great
Dane’s gullet

in the shed,
some days.
I always asked
myself then,
where did the millions

go? Where were the millions
of love
points
and wombats
in the cellar? My alpacas

lovely—
savoured
the feel of wool
falling off.

Like a meteor
shower,
wool mound after mound
collapsed.

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