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Vikki C.

@vikkicwrites.bsky.social

IN THE BLUEPRINT OF HER IRIS 2nd edition (IceFloe Press 2026) WHERE SANDS RUN FINEST (DarkWinter Press 2024) Bridport Prize 2025 shortlist. Pushcart, Forward Prize, BOTN, Best Spiritual Lit nominee Guest Editor: IceFloe Press linktr.ee/vikki_c._author

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Vikki C.@vikkicwrites.bsky.social · 7d ago

Lovely to come home to this powerful anthology For Those Who Despair, published by Sunday Mornings at the River. Grateful to see my poem 'Mythopeia' alongside many talented poet kin. Thank you to editor Rebecca Rijsdijk for including me in such a topical body of work, beautifully curated too 🤍

For Those Who Despair, an anthology published by Sunday Mornings at the River. A red chrysanthemum is placed beside the top left corner of the book.Mythopoeia Vikki C. Rain is a homesickness. News is an old flood. I dream of animals in pairs. Which I’d choose to be today. Part fable, or God himself? Which species would survive California? True things make a mirage of us. Children blossom in the Mojave. Link wastelands with stray mothers. Become the V of migratory birds streaming neck-long into the haze. Fearless to taste how a future disowns, jilts the mechanics of flight. What taillights bring to the sky. What the sky brings to the story. Before the story their mothers tell them — coming of age. Distance. Machines. And falling. Falling. The hot clay that kisses the body. I’d call you if the lines were open. If our palms could still be read. Say Proverbs. Revelations. Odysseys. Legends, leave me in suspense. Thank gods for non-landings. For how do fragile feet touch the fire — after flying so long in healing configuration?
Vikki C.@vikkicwrites.bsky.social · 7d ago

Lovely to come home to this powerful anthology For Those Who Despair, published by Sunday Mornings at the River. Grateful to see my poem 'Mythopeia' alongside many talented poet kin. Thank you to editor Rebecca Rijsdijk for including me in such a topical body of work, beautifully curated too 🤍

For Those Who Despair, an anthology published by Sunday Mornings at the River. A red chrysanthemum is placed beside the top left corner of the book.Mythopoeia Vikki C. Rain is a homesickness. News is an old flood. I dream of animals in pairs. Which I’d choose to be today. Part fable, or God himself? Which species would survive California? True things make a mirage of us. Children blossom in the Mojave. Link wastelands with stray mothers. Become the V of migratory birds streaming neck-long into the haze. Fearless to taste how a future disowns, jilts the mechanics of flight. What taillights bring to the sky. What the sky brings to the story. Before the story their mothers tell them — coming of age. Distance. Machines. And falling. Falling. The hot clay that kisses the body. I’d call you if the lines were open. If our palms could still be read. Say Proverbs. Revelations. Odysseys. Legends, leave me in suspense. Thank gods for non-landings. For how do fragile feet touch the fire — after flying so long in healing configuration?
Vikki C.@vikkicwrites.bsky.social · last wk.

Thinking about the idea of belonging. How it changes for many across time and geography. From stories of migration and displacement to places of comfort and familiarity. Here is 'Refuge', published recently in Elsewhere: A Journal of Place in their The End of the World issue. 🤍

Refuge To you who emptied my future homes. Stole our grain and girlhoods. Whose choice is life anymore? I found a wounded fox in frozen hawthorn at the border where the land’s lip meets the powder of chance. It had my father’s eyes. The past looking past, marbled and wondering — to be left wedged between slabs of ice, or rescued, swept off into captivity, raised by children from the other side? Dear enemy, I am not sure how different we are, or will be, inside our bent cages. All the good songs seem to come from outside where colours rain animal and flower equally. I listen and soon forget why we fight. Maybe you were plain mischief, and I was sour game. Wish you’d write back, as if loved. As if I were the cause of the feral wound. I’d carry all the injured on my shoulder. Free them into the damp-green pasture. Watch them mend, mate and nurture. And when they’re finally strong, I’ll come home too, as a woman who takes her rivals dancing in the storm. Watches their skin, hair and uniform glissando. I’ll make a real waste of death. I’ll bring their wind-salted bodies in — until I meet my father again. Vikki C.
Vikki C.@vikkicwrites.bsky.social · 2w ago

Lovely afternoon at Tai Kwun, Centre for Heritage & Art, Hong Kong. In the heat of summer, moody shadowplay on walls, gorgeous work and installations by local HK artists, Hockney vibes…and souls who unknowingly become the subject of an artist’s study Full sequence on IG #artistcommunity #HK

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Vikki C.@vikkicwrites.bsky.social · 2w ago

Lovely afternoon at Tai Kwun, Centre for Heritage & Art, Hong Kong. In the heat of summer, moody shadowplay on walls, gorgeous work and installations by local HK artists, Hockney vibes…and souls who unknowingly become the subject of an artist’s study Full sequence on IG #artistcommunity #HK

BildBildBildBild
Vikki C.@vikkicwrites.bsky.social · 2w ago

Honoured to have 3 poems out in The End of the World issue of Elsewhere: A Journal of Place 🤍 You can read 'Our Silent Nature', 'Aubade for Antarctica' and 'Refuge' here. www.elsewhere-journal.com/the-end-of-the-world/2026/7/1/three-poems-2 My thanks to editors Anna Evans and Marcel Krueger.

Cover art by Manish C. Pathak for Elsewhere: A Journal of Place 'The End of the World'.
Vikki C.@vikkicwrites.bsky.social · 2w ago

How do you write where you've never been? Could that liminality between life and death be a place? 'Aubade for Antarctica' is an elegy but also an ode to transformation. Thank you to Elsewhere: A Journal of Place for publishing it in their The End of the World issue 🤍 Link to all 3 poems below.

Aubade for Antartica Finally, you come to rest in the only place. Where to be still is the only way to stay. An unknowable plane of maybe goodness, a fluorescence that reflects its own face. The face you cannot look at too long, else risk losing sight. So you trust that it’s there —the once light-bearer, now the source of a fever dream you have not dreamt. The fever an irony — sub-zero and numb at first, like most dying. A cymbal of timezones clashing in abeyance, unveiling what we need from hereon as glaciers retreat and we inspect what sustained our many selves from afar. There are no others, not you — nor the image of you, so I learn — at last — to slow my heart, enough to preserve what’s left of our post-diluvian wreck. It seems a useful plot to adapt — if we could — to exit with grace where there is no dusk, only a glaring white sentence. Then, the opposite for six months. Enough to miss the blinding. I see what I don’t see. Figures of penguins huddled into those once loved — though they seem one and the same now. An anonymity waiting to enter the realm where the rest slips into sleep. But don’t think of this as dormancy. Just seduction to the next place, I think, where our bodies might touch again. Where the flush of dawn that isn’t here, must be waiting.
Vikki C.@vikkicwrites.bsky.social · 2w ago

How do you write where you've never been? Could that liminality between life and death be a place? 'Aubade for Antarctica' is an elegy but also an ode to transformation. Thank you to Elsewhere: A Journal of Place for publishing it in their The End of the World issue 🤍 Link to all 3 poems below.

Aubade for Antartica Finally, you come to rest in the only place. Where to be still is the only way to stay. An unknowable plane of maybe goodness, a fluorescence that reflects its own face. The face you cannot look at too long, else risk losing sight. So you trust that it’s there —the once light-bearer, now the source of a fever dream you have not dreamt. The fever an irony — sub-zero and numb at first, like most dying. A cymbal of timezones clashing in abeyance, unveiling what we need from hereon as glaciers retreat and we inspect what sustained our many selves from afar. There are no others, not you — nor the image of you, so I learn — at last — to slow my heart, enough to preserve what’s left of our post-diluvian wreck. It seems a useful plot to adapt — if we could — to exit with grace where there is no dusk, only a glaring white sentence. Then, the opposite for six months. Enough to miss the blinding. I see what I don’t see. Figures of penguins huddled into those once loved — though they seem one and the same now. An anonymity waiting to enter the realm where the rest slips into sleep. But don’t think of this as dormancy. Just seduction to the next place, I think, where our bodies might touch again. Where the flush of dawn that isn’t here, must be waiting.
Vikki C.@vikkicwrites.bsky.social · 2w ago

Honoured to have 3 poems out in The End of the World issue of Elsewhere: A Journal of Place 🤍 You can read 'Our Silent Nature', 'Aubade for Antarctica' and 'Refuge' here. www.elsewhere-journal.com/the-end-of-the-world/2026/7/1/three-poems-2 My thanks to editors Anna Evans and Marcel Krueger.

Cover art by Manish C. Pathak for Elsewhere: A Journal of Place 'The End of the World'.