Contributor: Ben Riddle

- -
There are holes inside of me
in which I always assumed
someone would fit
so I tore more
hoping
it would call you to me
a little faster.


- - -
Founding member of the Said Poets Society and recipient of the Fred Simpson Prize for Poetry in 2014, Ben Riddle is a graduate of the University of Western Australia and is really just another twenty-something unsure of where he’s going in life.

Contributor: Ben Riddle

- -
The spirit of generosity
came as a surprise
to my beloved
brother;

Distant as he had become
from the words
that made us
into angels;

Grounded
as he had been made;
stripped of his wings,
restrained by pain;

Forgotten by everyone he’d loved;
save for God and I.


- - -
A fourth year student of Political Science and English at the University of Western Australia, Ben is a founding member of the Said Poets Society.

Contributor: Ben Riddle

- -
Heartbroken,
he turns away
to face the mountains
where cold holds sway;

Lie like an artist –
raise your voice,
be who you are
make your own choice.

Just don’t change the world
and don’t make a name,
forget all your children
they’re all dead and lame;

Escape into art; run into the light
an empyrean emporium
hidden from sight.


- - -
A fourth year student of Political Science and English at the University of Western Australia, Ben is a founding member of the Said Poets Society.

Contributor: Ben Riddle

- -
Dark grey rain whips
my flooded reflection,
flaying my appearance
for my presumption.

How dare I stand
alone before the storm,
while the wind flays
and the river runs?

My smile braves
the monotonous shades;
the stream the colour
of uncried tears.

All it took for me to stand
was deciding to.


- - -
A fourth year student of Political Science and English at the University of Western Australia, Ben is a founding member of the Said Poets Society.

Contributor: Ben Riddle

- -
O fey child of Olympus,
son of Ares, not of Zeus,
what have you become?

Sipping coffee in a coffeeshop,
spitting stories of wars you didn’t fight;
of lives you sought to heal.

My traitor son,
you have forgotten
the way of the warrior;

For what reason now
will people remember
your name?

You are no longer my son,
and I have never been more proud.


- - -
A fourth year student of English and Politics at the University of Western Australia, Ben Riddle is a founding member of the Said Poets Society.

Contributor: Ben Riddle

- -
For Antonio Martin

Somewhere in America
a mother grieves for a son
gunned down in cold blood.
he was just a boy and
they killed him.

She's crying by the television
as old, white men lie about her boy;
she sobs as they demonise him
condemn him
try to justify
his murder.

He has presents wrapped and waiting
underneath her Christmas tree;
he was so excited to see
what she had made him.
He'll never know
what the future
had in store.

After a little while she stops;
and listens to the silence.
It's all she can hear
anymore.


- - -
A twenty year old aspiring poet and athlete from Perth, Western Australia; Ben Riddle studies Political Science and English and Cultural Studies at the University of Western Australia. You can find more of his work at riddlesocialcommentary.tumblr.com

Contributor: Ben Riddle

- -
In solidarity with the people of Ferguson.

Crying is the innate human response
to suffering so immense
that the individual
lacks an ability
to articulate
to escape
to cope
with that suffering.

Instead, the mind and body unite
shaking and trembling
with all their might
in an effort to
draw attention
to the issue at hand
even if no one is listening.

Crying is an innate human response
to suffering so systematic
so overwhelming
that there is no option
but to cry out
to place roses in the streets
to raise hands in peaceful protest
to wash away what was and start again.

It’s time to make a change.


- - -
A twenty year old aspiring poet and athlete from Perth, Western Australia, Ben Riddle studies Political Science and English and Cultural Studies at the University of Western Australia. You can find more of his work at riddlesocialcommentary.tumblr.com

Contributor: Ben Riddle

- -
I brought her tea one night
when she had told me
that the trees were whispering
secrets about her;

that they knew the name
of her jaded lovers
their kinks
and the colour of their eyes.

I boiled the water at home;
taking it in a flask
along with two tea cups
and waited
after knocking three times
so she could clean her room
twice more.

When she let me in
I poured two cups of tea
put them on the table
and then hugged her
held her

for a very long time;
until the tea was cold
the wind was quiet
and she didn’t need me anymore.


- - -
A nineteen year old aspiring poet and athlete from Perth, Western Australia, Ben Riddle studies Political Science and English and Cultural Studies at the University of Western Australia. You can find more of his work at riddlesocialcommentary.tumblr.com

Contributor: Ben Riddle

- -
tears run down my face,
blazing twin trails to a sad
kind of freedom;

each drop falling away,
leaving everything behind
to pursue dreams of escape.

I wish I could do the same;
to run until I could run no more,
then finally be still.

my eyes linger
on the splashed, shattered
tears, and I know

that one day I will be the same,
but not yet.


- - -
A nineteen year old aspiring poet and athlete from Perth, Western Australia, Ben Riddle studies Political Science and English and Cultural Studies at the University of Western Australia. You can find more of his work at riddlesocialcommentary.tumblr.com

Contributor: Ben Riddle

- -
The lights went out at midnight;
shrouding the city in a darkness
long forgotten in suburbia.

The black tarred streets blurred
together in the moonlight;
industrial photocopies matching

The silent streetlights stilled
by an unexpected surge
of uncontrolled power.

Dogs howl at the moon;
as the tamed become untamed
and all the world remembers

That power is fleeting, and
the night was meant to be still.


- - -
A nineteen year old aspiring poet and athlete from Perth, Western Australia, Ben Riddle studies Political Science and English and Cultural Studies at the University of Western Australia. You can find more of his work at riddlesocialcommentary.tumblr.com

Contributor: Ben Riddle

- -
how easily the lies come;
flowing from my mouth like a river
to overcome all obstacles,
to sweep away the dry truth
with poetic fiction.

the words mix together
like raindrops and sewer water,
until I forget what came first
or why that mattered,
if it does at all.

I forget all things except
the rush of power,
the roar of waves;
losing myself
in my own creations;

I don’t know what’s real any more.


- - -
Aspiring writer, athlete and dreamer out of Perth, Western Australia.

Contributor: Ben Riddle

- -
Her eyes apologised in the moonlight,
her smile alluding to sins committed
as we had learned to love one another.

She was clothed now, in an old shirt of mine;
and she wore it better than I ever had,
confident as I was always meant to be.

Beneath the sleeze, I saw a tattoo,
an image of a dreamcatcher,
like one from my own childhood.

It made me smile, and wonder whether
the dreams that my own had caught
would look anything like my life now,

or whether the dreamcatcher on her arm
would do anything to help me keep her.


- - -
An aspiring writer from Perth, Western Australia, I write to better understand love, truth and relationships, often to the backdrop of nature.

Contributor: Ben Riddle

- -
The reflections of a broken mirror
perceive more than the eyes
of strangers; or our own memories.

Each shard bears witness
to some facet of the truth
that assembles our identity;

Each reflection a new angle,
a different truth or revelation
to the one we strive to picture.

Perhaps our fear of breaking,
and our belief in bad luck;
Reflects our fear of truth:

Perhaps what we fear most
is seeing who we really are.


- - -
An aspiring poet from Perth, Western Australia; Ben Riddle is a nineteen year old student of Political Science and English and Cultural Studies at the University of Western Australia.

Contributor: Ben Riddle

- -
A glimmer of sunlight catches
On a sliver of moisture nestled
Within the inner crown of a rose;

The reflection as radiant as the dawn
Of a rekindled hope, stolen from ash
And breathed into new life.

Reborn like the phoenix, the light
And replanted rose glow as if
To celebrate the joys of existing;

Stolen from the gods by Prometheus
In the form of poetic inspiration,
Natural altruism and hope.

Redefining the sublime, I’m left to ponder;
Perhaps there is a little Prometheus in all of us?


- - -
A nineteen year old aspiring Australian writer, studying English and Politics at the University of Western Australia.