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The Topic of the Day is: Wednesday, July 04, 2007 | |
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yes, yes, I'm terribly behind in my poetry making. And it's been so long that this one is unpleasantly fuzzy. There's a lot of stuff I want to work out with it. I don't like the gifts paragraph so much, but I like the idea of it. might have to recraft it. Dance of the Fireflies Perhaps your light was inside you. A candle in the Hollow of your brow. Fireflies behind your eyelids. I never saw it. You never let me. Furtive shadows played over your face. I watched you quivering in half-light, uncertain You never met my gaze. You never kept your word You were dappled and imperfect and you didn't care. All sorts of fragile gifts from your hands: Crimson droplets of petals on the cold stone, Half a bright smile, discarded twists of paper, Vague fears of worthlessness and doubt. Now you send your clay golems in your place. Fingertips along the polished surface of your Face come up with unfamiliar indentations. They shatter, clay pots on the ground, all shards and hollow. I want to open you up to the difference Between middle ground and uncertainty Between compromise and apathy; To let a sapling form itself of your ankles; To welcome the fireflies forth from your sockets. I want to scream your name in rage, Push you underneath the dark, Hold you there until you stop kicking. No more uncertainties. Labels: A Poem A Day |
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The Topic of the Day is: Tuesday, June 05, 2007 | |
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Oh yes, only one poem, this is from far earlier on. Haven't done one in a while *shifty eyes* oh well. Lysandra bellargus I am a cold ghost in a flaking husk, nothing more than a memory of myself. I am shimmering threads clutching at a branch. I have not yet changed my mind Inside, everything is changing in a tumultuous slur, all pale colors and light. You keep waiting for me. I am waiting for the sunshine I am waiting to be free, to split out of my shell, to shiver fragilely in the new cold wind, to have flight whisper in my hair. It is moonbright out here and I am waiting, seeking ash, seeking the phoenix, waiting for sunrise. Labels: A Poem A Day |
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The Topic of the Day is: Tuesday, May 08, 2007 | |
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Whimsical I saw a fluffball hanging there suspended in the morning air a sunbeam held it in its place; it twisted slow to warm its face. It hovered, gently turning round then drifted softly to the ground then with a breath of air it rose as if had wakened from a doze. I wondered what had made it fly without wings into the sky. Why had it acted riskily defying laws of gravity? Did it not know what physics said? That all things must attract instead? Then a revelation came to pass it must not have a gram of mass! I watched it fade into the sky and wished that I could also fly. Labels: A Poem A Day |
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The Topic of the Day is: | |
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Never Knowing Whether to Make Monsters or Destroy Them Your paper-cut words bring flinches, twist bluish bruises from my fingertips. I have no desire to watch you bleed vermilion ooze, the earth crumbled and damp under your toes. All things whither with your blood, blossoms, apple trees, autumn leaves, and me. But I won't stop to watch you bleeding any more. I spent years gathering up the black words you scattered in your path. I had them arranged in glistening cases, backed by soft velvet, under a glittering light Some of them are: your indifference, "cunt," one of your glances, a dark critique of my choices, the blistering surface of scorn, an empty seashell that echoes one's pulse, the silent void into which I threw my tiny voice long ago. I lost it there but-- But when I uncovered Thor's hammer at a discount antiques mall--it was only three dollars; I wondered why I hadn't seen it before-- I brushed its flatness through your glamor quickly, trying not to look as glass shimmered to fragments, and cobwebs, dust. I threw your darkness in the dirt where you dropped it and moved on. I won't hunt your seared footsteps through fall-bright leaves. There is no point. I am not a Dr Frankenstein, I am not a Van Helsing. My swords are dull. But if there was a battle that day, I won it. Labels: A Poem A Day |
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The Topic of the Day is: | |
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A Lesson in Abjection from Beethoven Himself Beethoven sounds violence out on white and black keys all shivering crashes and bounding fingers. She waves a silver knife of sound, Pierces the tenuous boundary between you and me. The cold, wobbling surface, laced with ripples and shimmers, bursts in a spray of paint, and light, and all the colors that make up your eyes. (I wanted to look away, but the action of the music wouldn't allow it .) Pooled tears well up within the dark hollows in your face. They bleed, meld, merge, dance, escape, until there is nothing underneath your gaze but the night-black pupils, drops of ink dissipating into dark water-- one moment shrinking and hovering the next one: gone. Labels: A Poem A Day |
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The Topic of the Day is: Wednesday, April 25, 2007 | |
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4/25/07 Rain stamps the page with darkening circles-- parchment shivers in cold wind. A flowering tree shakes silver petals away, huddling under the moon, questioning the night. Where in that rising dusk is the scent of the flower? Why do the chords of the waves overwhelm the rustling of the wind? Petals, blushed a faint rose, press into the cold snow of your neck. I have sought you in the lines of a poem, overturned sofas, checked between the cushions. You were not where I last left you and I don't know if that makes it all right. Is it too late to request an infinite supply of blank pages and punctuation marks, thousands of lines tangled into ink, words that speak your name, black shapes that, glistening, put you all together? Labels: A Poem A Day |
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The Topic of the Day is: | |
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Night Flight It is not crowded. There are not even any children on this flight. It will be quiet. They are all relieved. It has been a long day. One woman leans her tired head against the cool window, Allows the hum to rattle down to her teeth. They push into the sky. Silent, the night folds them up into the soft velvet of its surface. Beneath them, the whole world stretches, yawns. They look down. Cities cannot know what glimmering strands of jewels they are at night. Gold and pearls, glistening softly against the dark, warm breast of earth far below. Meanwhile, the spaces in between are Firefly-reflected-in-a-still-lake, Constellations that trace the history of civilization. The plane begins its approach. Street lights resolve themselves into Individual flecks of gold, cities into fields of silver ribbons and diamonds Set in jet ink. Below is the dark surface of a lake, and it is indistinguishable From the star-shattered sky above. The humming beast dips his wings in the black water, touches gently on the surface. Flits away. They touch down. Tired people crawl away from the ethereal beauty of the sky To their cars, to their taxis and their rides home. They lean against the windows. They look up. Labels: A Poem A Day |
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The Topic of the Day is: | |
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City Apartment She sits reading her book, feet propped on the slick black railing. The streets below overflow with gawking shoppers, Ice cream cones, cell phones, tote bags and children. When there is a pause in the interminable pedestrian trample, A crumpled paper flaps against the cement, and last fall's leaves, Gray and weary, skitter along the pavement. Across the street The cafe plays 'Hotel California' to its chattering patrons beneath Sunny umbrellas. The people all wear sunglasses. Behind these Shades it seems irrelevant that this is the sweet beginning of a summer They've all been waiting for--the bright sun is yet again not what They wanted. Tank-top clad women show off their carefully Tanned shoulder to laughing men, reaping the product of a hard Winter's work. Everyone else is gleaming with pallor and noon-day sweat, Wiping tendrils of hair from their eyes, sipping iced tea and cold beer. The potted plant in the corner of her balcony shivers in the wind. It is just beginning to become fuzzy with green, as if a little Hesitant to risk exposure to the elements. Winter was so fierce, after all. The girl sits in the sunlight, the warmth of it tracing the outline Of her face. She turns pages and pretends not to notice anything else. Labels: A Poem A Day |
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The Topic of the Day is: | |
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Ode to Those I Want to Hate Car doors slam too early on a Sunday morning, and the air Is soon pulsating with the over pumping of subwoofers-- Lined, bright thousand-dollar hot sound system playing rap at 3am for some half drunk white guy's smooth exit from a party. Girls push by on the subway, clotted lipstick lips sucking on Jamba Juice beneath oversized, overpriced shades. They're fluffing up Their North Face fleece or their goose stuffed white coats with fake fur hoods, Their Ugh boots and jackets setting off the harsh orange tones of their Tanned winter skin. They wear their plastic earrings and they care for nothing other than their own selves, their friends' latest drunk party kiss, and All the rights their money buys them--hot boys, sex, and getting smashed. Cocky bastards mocking those who make their way to the libraries on the weekends, Tease those who seek tutors, insult those who study and refrain from partying. They Buy pot over their expensive cell phones in the hallways of noisy stinking dorms, And they have no idea what it means to be a student. They rape our little world of knowledge and the exquisite work of the intellectual They rape the idea of meaningful work, the thought of earning one's way, They with their parents' credit cards working too hard for their books and tuition. Occasionally one of them will pause for a moment, her pretty hair in a pony tail, his baseball cap on half twisted sideways, to observe the azure color of the warming lake, The green expanse of the hill, the way the trees sway in the wind of the coming summer. After a moment they will shake themselves, look hurriedly away, run after their friends, make a crude joke, As if afraid to be found staring at something outside of themselves. Labels: A Poem A Day |
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The Topic of the Day is: | |
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Raise Your Glass, Toast the Day Here's to the jump-sparking hot days filled with summer, When everything is flash, the bulb brilliance of day An electric zot bolted from the moment of waking A snapshot of life with too much brightness Leaving you blinking away sunspots afterwards. Here's to the downy fluff of night's breeze, the sweet music of the evening All dark velvet folded around a stentorian rhythm, the beat of it Larger than yourself, losing your pulse to the dance-with-sweating-brow, Hip to hip, skin to skin with the throb of drink and music Outside the stars are beating themselves to shards against ink sky Here's to the melting slow liquid that is copper-pooled sun just over a lake Cut-out shape of white sails running off into the rising indigo and silver clouds in lilac and crimson bleed off against the golden sun There is silence and shade that both hang transient on fading mote-beams And when the light and music change, the world fades with it. Labels: A Poem A Day |
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The Topic of the Day is: | |
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Bioethics: The Legalization and Patentability of the Creation of a Human/Animal Chimera The face of the creature Is, at first glance What you would expect of it In its curled-wool body. But when you look another time, Look longer, look deeper into eyes Hauntingly familiar, look at the too-long Face, the lips, the Something else that isn't right, not here, not in this shape, not Here. You cannot deny that this strangeness lies not in the fact that he is less than human, But in that he is more human than it should be. Labels: A Poem A Day |
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The Topic of the Day is: | |
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Blood Monday When I awoke, I found blood in all the usual places: Dark stains under the carpet seeping through the rough fabric; Cold pools on the bathroom tile--wipe away the steamed mirror's cold breath; Stones under the feet marked in brilliant scarlet Every blade-sharp swish of grassy meadow painted with a brush--or a gun, or a knife, or a bomb, or a pen. All the human hands--all the earth, its lands and its trees and the water all around All red with the blood we weep. She does not know where it comes from--the creases in her hands, the hollow at her throat. He does not know where it comes from--the gap between parted lips, the crevice in his chest, the wound opened in him. No one can know where it comes from. Labels: A Poem A Day |
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The Topic of the Day is: Monday, April 09, 2007 | |
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After Life There is a dead man in the aisle of the supermarket. He is looking at some pencils. He is shopping, his cart has toilet paper, two boxes of Raisin Bran, a package of hamburgers, things he should not need now. What is the impulse that stirred him up this morning? No one notices that he is half of Jesus, the part of the world that died and kept walking. What was his sacrifice? When he is home, his friends call him: "Hey Sam," they warble into the phone. "What's up, Sam?" He can only answer, "Garr," like some bad zombie movie extra. "Garr yourself, Sam." They come over. They do not seem to notice the scent of his death; that gamey, ripe reek of things in decay. They take food from his fridge, the hard boiled eggs, the loaf of bread, the beer--they take without looking, they bolt the food down quickly, something stolen by a child. They raid his closet, they borrow his t-shirts and never remember to return them. He watches TV and pretends not to see them. When he goes to the beach, the sun does not turn his body into the bronze idol. It raises the bloating, fetid stench of him for miles. Swimsuit-clad, oil-slathered mothers rub under their noses, politely trying to not notice. Their fat children with dripping ice cream cones pinch their noses and declare, "Eww!" until berated. No one will quite dare to meet his eyes. Now he is at the supermarket, he is pushing a shopping cart and turning a corner, putting the foods he used to eat into his cart, buying mayonnaise, buying candy bars, buying those things that are the habit of living, trying to make up to himself everything that he has lost. Labels: A Poem A Day 1 Comments:
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The Topic of the Day is: | |
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More Than Enough Puzzle Pieces Somewhere under her skin, nerves twining through tissue, cells clustered, the blood and the life of her ebbing and rising, all tidal with the contractions, burning with electrical impulses, chemical responses, at the center of it all is a well that holds her in its rickety bucket, all splinters and gaps through which she gushes-- at the center is a spring that is her renewal, a fire that is the brightest light of her, sparked and shivering in the cold, dark, silvery hollow of her skull. There is something there that is more whole than the sum of the parts. If you took it away, her eyes would be there, her hair, her tongue, her cellular membranes, her extracellular fluids, her saline, her blood. Everything would be there. The chemicals, the molecules, the shape of her, her outline in the world, her mass and matter. Gravity still keeps her on the earth, still sends her round the sun. All of her pieces would sum to her, but sometimes that's just not enough. Labels: A Poem A Day |
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The Topic of the Day is: | |
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April 7th, 2007 Suburban Autumn Between tree trunks, she finds her way through the woods. There is no path. She can taste the rot, the decay. The leaves are everywhere, a carpet that will never need vacuuming. No sticky cookie crumbs here from where the youngest had his snack. The breeze that finds its way to her tumbles the leaves across each other. They make a sound like pages being turned, the air permeated with their scent. Autumn. Every paper-doll cut-out shape is brilliant crayon yellow, crumbles to acrid dust in her clenched fist. Wind will sweep the ashes away. Above, a sky overflowing with azure fades itself to lilac, crimson, rose. Then silver. Dusk falls. Somewhere her house is waiting. Glass windows cleaned the day before, for company, have probably acquired smudges from dog's noses and children's hands. She likes the feel of glass herself, the slippery quality, the sense of an eternal smoothness. As if someone had given her a piece of the lake on a still day and said to her, "Touch this. You will not make ripples." But her mother taught her that company needs to have a clear view of the perfectly trimmed backyard, the too-green grass, the swing set; taught her that the wagging of neighbor's tongues needed to mean something to her. She was still never sure what. Was it them who defined what her husband was at his job? All starched suit and red striped tie, a briefcase of papers and a fancy cell phone? Was it them who made her week a trip to the grocery store, opportunities to pick up and drop off her children, coffee and tea served on a pristine table top in a pristine house with a perfectly trimmed lawn and a clean front door and a clean carpet and a cheerful welcome mat? Her wind rose, sweeping the leaves from the trees above. They fell like fire, hot yellow flickers of color and light, and for one glorious moment everything else in the world was gone. Labels: A Poem A Day |
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The Topic of the Day is: | |
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April 6th, 2007 Gregorio Allegri -Miserere (or, Even Mozart Sounded Harsh Afterwards) Begins with a Sound. The Sound is effortless, brimming with a saccharine purity that dissolves the humanity that made its music. High, clear pitch burns, hangs in the air, unfolds slowly, a ribbon on the wind. Unshaken. Crescendoes. Dances. Sings on its own, blurring through octaves; alone. Not one trembling flaw, nor faltering; nothing demonstrates those who voice it. It is this Sound that clouded cities build with, all golden purity and light. Music that is to noise as integrals are to arithmetic. Abstracted beyond normal comprehension. When they talk about the pure beauty of mathematics, they cannot mean more than this Sound. In the darkness behind eyelids, the whole world becomes diffuse, a gradient of shades a differential of light. Labels: A Poem A Day, music |
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My Other Writing Sites | |
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Webcomics | |
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Stories I'm currently working on. | |
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***Tbook1 (Time and Chaos, needs a new name, needs to be edited) ***Book of Sun (Just needs to be edited. Tis a Nano novel) ***Book of Whispers part 1 (Does not jive at all with part 2; needs to be rewritten to fit and to have less suckage) ***Book of Whispers part 2 (Needs some rehaul editing, needs some loose ends tied up, needs to fit) ***Book of Whispers part 3 (Needs to be finished... then needs to die o.o Not sure if I need a third part in the series) ***Dium's Story (Needs a point, progress, anything... needs to be integrated into Tbook1, since that is what it is a part of, mainly) ***Trio Story with Jackie and Louise (Maybe we should get together and work on this, guys) ***Demon Story (This is working out pretty good so far. I like the plot, it's a bit convoluted, and the characters are interesting) ***New Witch Story (It's only 30 pages long, dang) ***Dragon's Voices (This has SO much potential! wee!) | |
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1 Comments:
Zomgawd! I love it. and it scares me. but I love it.
teh <2
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