Original poetry hungry for readers.
I know it’s been a while…here’s a poem I wrote a couple nights ago when I found myself unable to sleep.
I cannot conceal the righteous rhythms,
The tempered resonance of the night.
My mind’s at crossroads, and my eyes-
Tracing the pillow’s embroidery,
Minute and directionless.
On a different note: I plan to start a new blog. Just for things I like: philosophy, fashion, thoughts on life, music, and whatever comes to mind.
(for a project in which I was supposed to describe my existential self or who I am in an existential manner or some convoluted thing like that. i sort of preferred not to answer the question)
You’d ask me who I am, and how I’d know.
You’d ask me what material weaves my soul?
There are few depths and lengths to which I’d go;
My mind is not tame yard or shallow shoal.
My lock is not a keyed and open door
For any man to rest his curious eyes.
My stock is not new made in earthly forge;
I am no weapon when the battle flies.
My barrel is not straight and gleaming bright.
I hold myself against no poor man’s head.
Shuttle and loom are my weapons, my pride.
You pierce my peace with loaded balls of lead.
In time, and without deadly mortal tools,
I may discover this, the quest of fools.
Untitled (from Word Perhect)
tell me what I need to know
to get you back in real world time
a magic wand doesn’t do shit
hep me find the heart of it and crush the problem with a duled knife
sing the blues but do it alone
watch out for garden gnomes and keep singing
tel me what I need to know
to get you back to real world me
wasting away you’re full of it
help me find the stomach and crush the life with a sharp knife
I wrote these while using wordperhect.net which is a site which is a sort of parody of word processing programs, which you can choose an “item” to write on such as an old calendar or receipt, etc, and choose a type of handwriting such as messy or tidy. Sometimes I just stare at whatever page and something comes to mind, perhaps a line of music or a certain word, and the strange format in way frees me up to write really random things, which I sometimes end up liking.
Untitled
My day was short and tremoring within the skin of life
A striking flash of melody, vociferous and light.
The wailing boom of crowded ways concealed me with the noise,
And quietly I stole away in company of boys.
Untitled 2
Time is wasted on the shamed and shivering
Here we lie about to die quivering
Hunkered in our bunks of boredom striking deathly poses
And learning how to follow the sniffs of our noses
She was a virtuoso in her brazen composure
Suspicious, the tilt of her head as she bent over the missal
So visible, so vividly volatile
Like a breath of steam straining to be foam
Like sea-foam spray craving to rush
To rush and cry over the very rocks, mired in their steadfast prayers
Wary of watching eyes, she became a sculpture
The lines of her back fluid and clear
Her profile focused, her outline intense
Skimming inquiry through a blurring lens
The wind will soon blow her away.
His hand moves, stealthy and light,
The smoothing tread of his fingers pressing,
Caressing.
Disembodied and far, his eyes wander,
Widening, scanning the scene.
And still his hand moves, inching, creeping,
The black apparatus warming beneath it.
Her face leaps into focus,
Clarity restored to the world.
Funneled behind the little lens,
A trick of perfection.
“Don’t move.” The careful hand withdraws;
He holds his breath, shifts his grip, waits, his heart beats, “this is perfect” he thinks, “this is it” but it is all a shadow of time and really what happens is he blinks and taps the button and the strobe huffs…
She blinks and smiles, shifts her weight…
Sliding out of focus…
The hand comes back up…
“Perfect…”
She gathered up the petals, one by one
Glued them on the stem which they’d come from
Left one on the ground, left it to rot
Began again, whispering “loves me not”
Watching the sky, falling in.
The clouds chase my lazy eyes.
Blue untainted, no smoky guise.
Too deep for mirrored tricks within.
Drenching the earth it licks, a din
Of ground-groans fading, soft
And far, cascading aloft-
Away! -cleansed of their grimy sin.
Apparently, on 3/15, I sketched this from an “empty mind”, since that is how a titled it. This has not undergone any editing, and is just my rattling on before bed, I guess.
Shoes and patches and wood, slatted and warm
And rumpled life gathering on dust and curling on the carpet
And dreams on the windows and the sun catching them on summer mornings
And trinkets and tickets and junk and jumbles, sheets of paper, black dots of pitch on the snowy smile, cloth like jungle colors trip the eyes and feet.
This is actually based on the mess in my room. The line about “black dots of pitch” was inspired by sheet music, and led to another haphazard poem:
Music, 3/17
My hands are racing, dance to match my flickering eyes,
Follow the trickling paths ahead.
Skip, jump, high and low and black and white,
And fading from mark to mark, like jumbled child’s play,
Jumping rope at vivace.
Eyes flickering, following the black dots of pitch,
Still on the snow.
Their silence commands my trembling dance,
My heartless, faithful playback
Of melted holes in the ice.
I really like certain lines, like “jumping rope at vivace” and the metaphor of pitch on snow, but I would like to point out that playing piano isn’t really “heartless” and I’m not sure how that ended up in there. I think I might disassemble this and try making something else of it. Give me a few years, I might get back to it.
Nah, hopefully sooner.
Sketch on realizing I hadn’t written anything for a long time.
Far too long
Since my pen
Scratched a song
Like a hen
Picking seed
From the grass
Feathers gleam
Like old brass
Long since time
That I sat
Spit a rhyme
Like a cat
Hairballed words
Ticking out
No weird curves
Not a doubt
Too long since
My pen primed
Took the hints
Of my mind
Now I scritch
Even scratch
Poet’s itch
On my back
The Periled Point: A Poetic Journey 