Feel, write + share.

Contribute to JJR

This is the place for writing that’s a bit different. If it’s written beautifully, interestingly, stingingly, you can stay anonymous and post it

Email yours to – jiltedjadedromantic@gmail.com 


How things have changed since this poem was written.



We met at the gate. You were there with Ann looking poised, looking cool.

No early signs of your propensity to drool.

I couldn’t wait to take you upstairs.

And wondered why no one else had made you theirs.

Sure you were a little skinny, but to me you looked regal.

Not like some dumpy little beagle.

You were majestic.

And here I was, wanting to make you domestic.



You walked into my heart with your leathery paws,

I knew I was fostering you, but there was always that clause…

Everything about you was so bloody cute,

Your origami ears, doggy breath and the way you stood in my boot.


People asked “oh you’re fostering, how could you give him away?”

And I said “oh you know, with just a touch of dismay”

But I knew I was kidding myself. I knew I never would.

That is until your old owners decided to make good.


It turns out your name is not Moses but Ollie.

And that our love affair while true, was really just folly.


So now what, I just give you up?

But we’ve shared a bed!

And all those times your long snout stole my butter, my bread.


I know that they’ll love you,

How could they not?

But for me you’ll leave a crater, not just a soft spot.



Inuit Poetry – So hot right now

Ever read an Eskimo/Inuit poem? This one’s about the hot side of Iceland, and from the 1920s.

I will visit
 unclean women,
probe behind man,
break taboo.
Ai, let the lace of the boot hang loose.

I will visit
 unclean women,
probe behind man,
break taboo.
Ai, smooth the wrinkles
from the rounded cheeks!

For What Binds Us

There are names for what binds us:
strong forces, weak forces.
Look around, you can see them:
the skin that forms in a half-empty cup,
nails rusting into the places they join,
joints dovetailed on their own weight.
The way things stay so solidly
wherever they’ve been set down—
and gravity, scientists say, is weak.

And see how the flesh grows back
across a wound, with a great vehemence,
more strong
than the simple, untested surface before.
There’s a name for it on horses,
when it comes back darker and raised: proud flesh,

as all flesh,
is proud of its wounds, wears them
as honors given out after battle,
small triumphs pinned to the chest—

And when two people have loved each other
see how it is like a
scar between their bodies,
stronger, darker, and proud;
how the black cord makes of them a single fabric
that nothing can tear or mend.


Jane Hirshfield

Words, the ultimate seduction

Mark Grist, from ‘I like a girl who reads’ to his various battles keeps words sexy by wielding them into sound bites of delectably sharp jabs, cunning insults and incisive feminist monologues.

New York, I love you

An ode to the bitter sweet love of the most exciting, intoxicating city in the world. Twisted, jaded, somewhat fucked up, but irreplaceable, and my personal spiritual homeland.

Smooch it like you mean it

Metro St. James, a French cafe in Sydney surprises unsuspecting couples by asking them to kiss for their coffees.

Extract from Dear Sugar advice column, by Cheryl Strayed

Dear Sugar,

I read your column religiously. I’m 22. From what I can tell by your writing, you’re in your early 40s. My question is short and sweet: what would you tell your 20-something self if you could talk to her now?

Seeking Wisdom


Dear Seeking Wisdom,

Stop worrying about whether you’re fat. You’re not fat. Or rather, you’re sometimes a little bit fat, but who gives a shit? There is nothing more boring and fruitless than a woman lamenting the fact that her stomach is round. Feed yourself. Literally. The sort of people worthy of your love will love you more for this, sweet pea.

In the middle of the night in the middle of your twenties when your best woman friend crawls naked into your bed, straddles you, and says, You should run away from me before I devour you, believe her.

You are not a terrible person for wanting to break up with someone you love. You don’t need a reason to leave. Wanting to leave is enough. Leaving doesn’t mean you’re incapable of real love or that you’ll never love anyone else again. It doesn’t mean you’re morally bankrupt or psychologically demented or a nymphomaniac. It means you wish to change the terms of one particular relationship. That’s all. Be brave enough to break your own heart.

When that really sweet but fucked up gay couple invites you over to their cool apartment to do ecstasy with them, say no.

There are some things you can’t understand yet. Your life will be a great and continuous unfolding. It’s good you’ve worked hard to resolve childhood issues while in your twenties, but understand that what you resolve will need to be resolved again. And again. You will come to know things that can only be known with the wisdom of age and the grace of years. Most of those things will have to do with forgiveness.

One evening you will be rolling around on the wooden floor of your apartment with a man who will tell you he doesn’t have a condom. You will smile in this spunky way that you think is hot and tell him to fuck you anyway. This will be a mistake for which you alone will pay.

Don’t lament so much about how your career is going to turn out. You don’t have a career. You have a life. Do the work. Keep the faith. Be true blue. You are a writer because you write. Keep writing and quit your bitching. Your book has a birthday. You don’t know what it is yet.

You cannot convince people to love you. This is an absolute rule. No one will ever give you love because you want him or her to give it. Real love moves freely in both directions. Don’t waste your time on anything else.

Most things will be okay eventually, but not everything will be. Sometimes you’ll put up a good fight and lose. Sometimes you’ll hold on really hard and realize there is no choice but to let go. Acceptance is a small, quiet room.

One hot afternoon during the era in which you’ve gotten yourself ridiculously tangled up with heroin you will be riding the bus and thinking what a worthless piece of crap you are when a little girl will get on the bus holding the strings of two purple balloons. She’ll offer you one of the balloons, but you won’t take it because you believe you no longer have a right to such tiny beautiful things. You’re wrong. You do.

Your assumptions about the lives of others are in direct relation to your naïve pomposity. Many people you believe to be rich are not rich. Many people you think have it easy worked hard for what they got. Many people who seem to be gliding right along have suffered and are suffering. Many people who appear to you to be old and stupidly saddled down with kids and cars and houses were once every bit as hip and pompous as you.

When you meet a man in the doorway of a Mexican restaurant who later kisses you while explaining that this kiss doesn’t “mean anything” because, much as he likes you, he is not interested in having a relationship with you or anyone right now, just laugh and kiss him back. Your daughter will have his sense of humor. Your son will have his eyes.

The useless days will add up to something. The shitty waitressing jobs. The hours writing in your journal. The long meandering walks. The hours reading poetry and story collections and novels and dead people’s diaries and wondering about sex and God and whether you should shave under your arms or not. These things are your becoming.

One Christmas at the very beginning of your twenties when your mother gives you a warm coat that she saved for months to buy, don’t look at her skeptically after she tells you she thought the coat was perfect for you. Don’t hold it up and say it’s longer than you like your coats to be and too puffy and possibly even too warm. Your mother will be dead by spring. That coat will be the last gift she gave you. You will regret the small thing you didn’t say for the rest of your life.

Say thank you.



Missing you keeps me company. 

Missing you keeps me company.



An ode to Josephine Baker

A life worth talking about. Josephine Baker adopted 12 children from all around the world, she stood for racial equality, had an affair with Frida Kahlo, was widely loved in France and the US, danced like a renegade and did things in a way entirely her own. What’s not to love.

Frida Kahlo’s love letters

Nothing compares to your hands, nothing like the green-gold of your eyes. My body is filled with you for days and days. you are the mirror of the night. the violent flash of lightning. the dampness of the earth. The hollow of your armpits is my shelter. my fingers touch your blood. All my joy is to feel life spring from your flower-fountain that mine keeps to fill all the paths of my nerves which are yours.



Read more here: