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Literature Text
I died on a cold
day, numbed fingers flexing,
grasping at the last traces of embers
withering in the grate.
I died holding your hand,
the hand I accidentally fractured
when I pushed you too
harshly near an edge
and you flailed to find
a more elegant way
to fall and then
I heard the scaphoid crack –
but I didn't. I heard the cry
first and the pain came later
but you held my
hand anyway.
I died with my arms
held over my head,
pinned down to the sheets by your solid
mass, fingers entwined
with yours until I
could no longer tell which bones
were my own. I baked
in the aftermath of the dying
heat and felt the blood
pulsing
back into my fingers
before forgetting again
as you sighed into my neck.
I died on a cold
day, but I never felt
so
warm.
day, numbed fingers flexing,
grasping at the last traces of embers
withering in the grate.
I died holding your hand,
the hand I accidentally fractured
when I pushed you too
harshly near an edge
and you flailed to find
a more elegant way
to fall and then
I heard the scaphoid crack –
but I didn't. I heard the cry
first and the pain came later
but you held my
hand anyway.
I died with my arms
held over my head,
pinned down to the sheets by your solid
mass, fingers entwined
with yours until I
could no longer tell which bones
were my own. I baked
in the aftermath of the dying
heat and felt the blood
pulsing
back into my fingers
before forgetting again
as you sighed into my neck.
I died on a cold
day, but I never felt
so
warm.
Literature
but i hold my hands out, ad infinitum
polysemous kneels and jaded,
i curl ambiguity against
the collapsing walls of
ambigram.
letters folded into wings
and gone again.
(maybe they're fluttering,
gliding, soaring, drifting (away))
i cannot fly and
nor can you.
and my voice is clawed
into the branch where i was born
and i am not st. vincent;
i cannot birth in reverse.
no matter how much
i try to carve the words
out from my jawed
insides
out.
but this love and sadness
is baroque, climactic
and dramatic.
i look for you
in the attic of my mouth
and the basement of my hands--
i hear you in the corner
of this dystopian (uni)verse
and know better than to reach
for you now,
the room
Literature
Mabon
there are dead leaves
sprouting from her amber spine,
reaching with child-fingers
to devour the sun.
her skin is freezing,
seeping winter through
november pores.
seeking warmth,
the whiskey tongues
of godless boys
wish to decipher
the atlas of her thighs.
counting the sleepy fireflies
alight in her lungs- there is
wanderlust churning & warming
her frostbitten heartstrings.
swinging pendulum hips,
"I am the tease of autumn flames.
I breathe in mint sunsets,
& gasoline dreams."
Literature
intricately ordinary
I am the wayward child,
subliminal and defeathered—
almost perfect.
What's that in your heart?
Myths and the things that really matter
like wallflower clippings,
unfiltered and restless.
Don't forget to let me go;
the keepers of my heart
are undedicated,
sleeping behind the wheel.
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You can see the original version here: silverinkblot.deviantart.com/a… I'm interested in how the two compare, which is why I'm uploading a new version instead of revising the old one.
So apparently I'm writing erotic poetry again. Oh dear. I'm not sure I like where this is going
Do I need a mature tag on these?
rizzerie pointed out to me that the term "died" could have another potential meaning - la petite mort is a French term for "little death" and a metaphor for orgasm. It worked perfectly with the mnemonic I took inspiration from in the first place; "Some Lovers Try Positions That They Can't Handle," a device to help memorize the bones of the hand.
I dunno, I think things came together wonderfully
TWR Critique: comments.deviantart.com/1/2600…
Questions:
1. How do the two poems compare?
2. Does the mnemonic idea come through, or should I push it further?
3. Are the line breaks too choppy/fragmented?
4. Is the transition between the first half and the second half too abrupt? I feel like I might need a bridge of some sort there.
EDIT Now a DLD dailylitdeviations.deviantart.… Many thanks to LadyofGaerdon and thetaoofchaos
A thoughtful, original idea. The wordplay, double meanings and contrasting imagery are all great fun, but the real heart of the poem is the emotion expressed through these devices.
So apparently I'm writing erotic poetry again. Oh dear. I'm not sure I like where this is going
Do I need a mature tag on these?rizzerie pointed out to me that the term "died" could have another potential meaning - la petite mort is a French term for "little death" and a metaphor for orgasm. It worked perfectly with the mnemonic I took inspiration from in the first place; "Some Lovers Try Positions That They Can't Handle," a device to help memorize the bones of the hand.
I dunno, I think things came together wonderfully
TWR Critique: comments.deviantart.com/1/2600…
Questions:
1. How do the two poems compare?
2. Does the mnemonic idea come through, or should I push it further?
3. Are the line breaks too choppy/fragmented?
4. Is the transition between the first half and the second half too abrupt? I feel like I might need a bridge of some sort there.
EDIT Now a DLD dailylitdeviations.deviantart.… Many thanks to LadyofGaerdon and thetaoofchaos
A thoughtful, original idea. The wordplay, double meanings and contrasting imagery are all great fun, but the real heart of the poem is the emotion expressed through these devices.
© 2011 - 2024 SilverInkblot
Comments55
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I almost hate to comment on older work, because I realize that people would often rather receive feedback on their current projects. I stumbled across this piece while randomly wandering about on an uncharted trail of links, and I couldn't just pass by. This poem is lovely and clever. The imagery is solid and very effective, and the turn at the end of the poem is surprising and perfectly executed.
"fingers entwined
with yours until I
could no longer tell which bones
were my own."
My personal favorite image, for reasons arbitrary and unexamined.
The threads of imagery run consistently and skillfully throughout the stanzas. I can't find any nitpicks worth mentioning. This is solid.
"fingers entwined
with yours until I
could no longer tell which bones
were my own."
My personal favorite image, for reasons arbitrary and unexamined.
The threads of imagery run consistently and skillfully throughout the stanzas. I can't find any nitpicks worth mentioning. This is solid.