bianca-bowers-passagePASSAGE (PaperFields Press, 2015)
Available in Print & Ebook

Take a poetic sojourn on the bridge between dream and reality.

In her second book of poetry, Bianca Bowers shifts between consciousness and sleep, reality and dreams, as she seeks to find passage in a restless landscape.

“My feet were fused with a 7-lane highway. My spine, dismantled; a map of bones with no instruction.”

Passage is a surreal and real exploration of the transient spaces that have the power to destabilise our relationships, identity, and sense of belonging.

“My ghost beckons me into the misty pines and I follow, like Autumn.”

Barnes & Noble 



I imagine that I’m a girl again

I imagine that I’m a girl again;

I imagine that I’m Emily…

I wander the moors,

and surrender my winter skin

to the bleak sky.

I distil isolation,

and discover a crocus of creativity.

I stumble across a primrose path,

and lose my virginity.

When I find my voice,

it muzzles the larks’ chorus.

I rival the wind

atop the thundering crag

and pry Heathcliff from my heart.

My roots shrivel below the heath,

but harebells bloom from my fingertips.


My feet were fused with a 7-lane highway.

My spine, dismantled;

a map of bones with no instruction.

My hands waged war with left and right.


The pith of my existence, banished

to the crepuscule.


I made futile attempts;

split the heavens with questions,

turned idols into gods,

placed the moon on my windowsill,

and surrendered the sun to strangers.


But, the owl light hooted still.


Without wings or feet

I resolved to sojourn in twilight’s palm

eavesdropping, ritualistically

on the susurration of duality



I deciphered its tongue.


My heart wings flapped,

like a flock of ravens

probing the benign sky for adventure,

when the highway mouth

met the lip of the sky

and the dawn emerged

from the crepuscule.


I am trapped;

a parasol of honey

in a sky full of ants.

I have drowned the sun,

ignited the rain,

fished stars from the sewers,

tasted bittersweet


I want

to tuck the moon into my pocket,

before it empties the sky.

To lay a snow-trap

for the climactic storm

that will end the endless summer,

before it burns the clouds alive.

Lotus in the Sahara

I grow melancholy

when my heart travels

away from love,

when it hides behind clocks

and plummets into wasteland.

I grow restless

when the moon hatches

from its shell,

when hunger strikes

like midnight.

I grow distant

without the love

of earthlings,

when dream trees bloom

from my torso,

but never reach the sky.

I grow melancholy

when I grow and grow,

but never bloom:

a lotus in the Sahara.


For Ezra and Allen



I have dreamed inside your belly

since my first moving image.

You were the playground to my inner child,

the stars in my telescope…

I have yearned for you like a twin,

separated at birth,

and yet,

our reunion seems unlikely.



I have sojourned inside your belly

long enough to suspend my Hollywood belief.

Traveled the arc of marriage and divorce,

until my catharsis was complete,

and I emerged from the pupa of Jefferson

into the mosquito hawk of Ginsberg –

unable to deny the philosophical monster

you were becoming.



I have aged inside your belly,

thinking that dogma couldn’t grow

from your democratic roots

and seen it burgeon into the strength of an oak.

You have encased that hallowed scroll in the dungeon

of absolute power

and disfigured its face beyond recognition.



I have howled inside your belly.

Even your mouthpiece has lost its freedom;

only one voice can be heard above the din of Tinseltown

theatrics –

the voice of fear mongering.

You have knowingly peddled pills to your children

and they have patriotically swallowed the blues;

resigned themselves to the matrix

of merchants and modifiers.



I have shriveled inside your belly.

I wrote about you once,

with the romanticism of Shakespeare.

Now, I must exile those youthful manuscripts

– like Pound

and trust the doubt of Thomas

until your next reincarnation.