stdClass Object
(
[ID] => 13988
[post_author] => 4
[post_date] => 2015-06-17 10:48:31
[post_date_gmt] => 2015-06-17 10:48:31
[post_content] => Bad blood:
mottled like abstract art where my mouth
shut closed like a seashell;
I wear it bottled, sour perfume to my ear
to hear the hellish ocean call,
high notes of choral madness.
Brimstone-heavy in my pockets,
I’ll dig the tip of
the iceberg. This is some kind
of excavation; I’ll confess it all
to an armchair and an analytical stare.
Mine gold
from saltwater, tear and tear.
[post_title] => Harvest
[post_excerpt] =>
[post_status] => publish
[comment_status] => closed
[ping_status] => closed
[post_password] =>
[post_name] => harvest
[to_ping] =>
[pinged] =>
[post_modified] => 2017-08-18 16:33:09
[post_modified_gmt] => 2017-08-18 16:33:09
[post_content_filtered] =>
[post_parent] => 0
[guid] => http://poems.poetrysociety.org.uk/?post_type=poems&p=13988
[menu_order] => 0
[post_type] => poems
[post_mime_type] =>
[comment_count] => 0
[filter] => raw
[meta_data] => stdClass Object
(
[wpcf-published-in] =>
[wpcf-date-published] => 2015
[wpcf-summary-description] => This poem was a winner in the Freud and the Unconscious Challenge on Young Poets Network (YPN) in 2015.
[wpcf-rights-information] =>
[wpcf-poem-award] => Winner, Freud and the Unconscious Challenge 2015
[wpcf_pr_belongs] =>
)
[poet_data] => stdClass Object
(
[ID] => 13771
[forename] => Zainab
[surname] => Ismail
[title] => Zainab Ismail
[slug] => zainab-ismail
[content] => Zainab Ismail is a winner of the Young Poets Network 'Freud and the unconscious' poetry challenge, and a commended poet in the Melting Ice challenge 2017 on Young Poets Network.
)
)
stdClass Object
(
[ID] => 13771
[forename] => Zainab
[surname] => Ismail
[title] => Zainab Ismail
[slug] => zainab-ismail
[content] => Zainab Ismail is a winner of the Young Poets Network 'Freud and the unconscious' poetry challenge, and a commended poet in the Melting Ice challenge 2017 on Young Poets Network.
)
Bad blood:
mottled like abstract art where my mouth
shut closed like a seashell;
I wear it bottled, sour perfume to my ear
to hear the hellish ocean call,
high notes of choral madness.
Brimstone-heavy in my pockets,
I’ll dig the tip of
the iceberg. This is some kind
of excavation; I’ll confess it all
to an armchair and an analytical stare.
Mine gold
from saltwater, tear and tear.