THESE POEMS 

May 03 [Sat], 2008, 4:34
So... I wrote these poems for a class that's over and done with, now. I don't like all of them, but there's not much I can do about it, is there? I tried something new, and as a result, these poems seem a bit unfamiliar. If that's a good or bad thing, I can't really say, but it's interesting, at least. Will I ever come back to these? Probably not. I'll probably end up deleting them all next year and writing them off as garbage, all. That's what I do with most of the emo poems I put up on the intarwebs. And rightly so, too.

SOUVENIR* 

May 03 [Sat], 2008, 2:05
The sun subtracted the ordinary―
my eyes sought out familiar shapes amidst
the brick and glass but found
only dark, thin suggestions in the unexpected heat.
That cool, quiet corridor where you held
your palm to the space behind my ear
has faded, bleached like the bit of coral
left drying on the windowsill.
I’ve lost the way, my footsteps
covered over or scoured clean.
Your words are the dying echoes,
the waves I pushed away with
cracked, white hands
standing in the weathered doorway.
It didn't matter, at the time, what you saw in me,
hair wild and lips chapped,
but you were right, and

I wanted you to know.

*With a first line by Brenda Hillman.

FALLING 

May 03 [Sat], 2008, 0:35
It makes the effort harder
when we sleep like skydivers, turned
towards each other for the descent.
Perceived velocity pulls at the core of us,
closing our eyes in fear
or acceptance.
We dream of flying because
the principle is the same.
The world dims,
and maybe you or I
reach out a hand to steady,

but nothing is solid here.

There is only the air,
still as our lips.

AVOIDANCE 

May 02 [Fri], 2008, 15:31
Fingers trace the spot on the sheets where
the iron lingered
too long,
the sickly imprint perfectly defined.

My hands are smooth today, though my nails are ridged and broken.
This seems important, especially when you ask
had I heard you?

A kind of hopeless anger seems to permeate,
seeping like infinite points of energy
through place between my shoulders where
my muscles often tense.

I say something about deficiency
and how it relates to the ridges on my nails―
You stiffen and don’t see
why it matters.

I told you, didn’t I,
that I have nothing to say?
Shadowlike with a singular mind.
I told you I was feverish and numb,
but the numbness comes and goes.
Sometimes I feel acutely.

In all this time,
you haven’t learned the difference.

BRAMBLES 

May 02 [Fri], 2008, 14:09
fingers bleeding blackberry
gray sky
two children run unwatched

tiny green leaves and
a glorious point
many glorious points
hence my fingers and the blackberries and
the blackberry juice running off

stuck
and

I never wanted to do this

today was not the day, I had said
no rain but always
the wind
the threat of it
and you

clouds in my eyes on my fingers
bleeding blackberry―

you’ve never shouted


rustling in the leaves and points
which were leaves once

we
were once

these children have no sense
of how deep these points go

I wish they would go

and I could
and you would take me
but instead we’re standing here
with blood or blackberry on our hands

HUSHED* 

May 02 [Fri], 2008, 14:01
A straining into speech,
as in the first moments of consciousness
when the body pulls
against the mind,
held heavy under dreams.
We lie bleary-eyed, our mouths
contemplating the syllables necessary
to express our mutual awareness.
We search the ceiling,
looking for what is lost or
forgotten, but it’s silly, and
we know it.

Resting in the familiar seam
where your arm meets your side,
I want to say something
charming but
I’m not charming.
A weight presses down―
in the Indies they might call it kokma,
but it is nothing so malicious
―it is the weight of the thing we
cannot name,
the weight of my ear
over your heart.

*With a first line by Margaret Ronda.

10 AM AMBIVALENCE 

May 02 [Fri], 2008, 5:47
Today it is clear and
warm through the glass,
my brittle fingers
feeling their way along the day’s edge.
You are still asleep, but
just asleep.
I know because
I worry, and feel for your foggy breath
against my palm.

When you stir, will you smile or
remember?

When you stir, I may look away
and say, It’s lovely outside,
and you might agree.

Smile, or remember―
I cannot say which I prefer.

AUTUMN IS ALWAYS PAST-TENSE 

May 02 [Fri], 2008, 3:51
We thought we might see the world
with new eyes,
large and lovely, like
the moon is sometimes.
But all there was
was the dull, flat yellow―
our bits laying limply
at the backs of our mouths
like old notebook paper.
We lay on dry grass
and pushed hair behind our ears.
My freckles darkened―
at least the bugs had gone.
The deep stillness of our autumn
made us mean sometimes,
and we hoped for wind or
birdsong, but it was not the season for blooming.

POST-CONFESSIONAL 

May 02 [Fri], 2008, 3:47
Hands, palming hair. Fingers,
sometimes holding each
other, sometimes brushing against a
flushed cheek, nose, forehead.
Hems pulled at,
smoothed.

I wish I could trust myself
like you do.

I know what they say, but
it's a lie.

I’m sorry.

A lingering damp. Hands, palming
hair and a whisper, repeated.
Laughter and a small
smile. Quiet glances.
Fingers, sometimes holding
each other. Cat-tongue hands and feet,
rain-wet.

SPINDLY 

March 30 [Sun], 2008, 7:44
Last night, the snow stuck, so today
we are brittle, fingers
crooked
like the branches which cast thin shadows
over our eyes, our bed.

You said I look pale.
I protested, it’s winter, but
I was never good with seasons.

We are swaddled, now―our
most fragile parts wrapped
like presents―
teetering out of our warm nooks
and crannies, blinking
in the lucid air like baby deer.

We are seeking the first green in the cold,

but it is months off.
P R
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  • アイコン画像 ニックネーム:chocool
  • アイコン画像 性別:女性
  • アイコン画像 誕生日:5月25日
  • アイコン画像 血液型:O型
  • アイコン画像 職業:大学生・大学院生
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