Bigger, stronger...
I never really noticed before until just now... But I find it kind of funny how, when I name specific documents on my computer, I name them for myself. Specific documents meaning, documents that are obviously involved with writing. You can imagine my slight laughter then when I pulled up this one folder earlier, only to open another folder named "Lauryn's Poetry." Really, whoever else in this family writes poetry!? No one. But me. It's also kind of funny how the way you name something can also be another way of saying something else, as well. Similar to a teenager putting a homemade sign up on their bedroom door that says, "My Room", only really meaning to implicate to others, "Yes, this is my bedroom. Emphasis on the 'MY.' Aka: Stay out, unless I say otherwise." Of course, I could never be guilty of having done that. Ahem...
But anyway, so I really did go through a few of my poetry documents today, and was surprised to find a work called "A City Female Wondering a Country Lamb." Honestly? One other thing I haven't noticed till recently? That I can sometimes have really weird titles for the things I write. Yeah, yeah, it would appear obvious, but I'm starting to think that this is just turning into some sort of signature move for me, because anyone else that I've shown my work to always somehow comments on the... peculiar quality of the title. I really worry about my writing sometimes. Anyhow, just a piece of a little (okay, a very long) poem I've been working on since... what, last year, technically? I got towards editing it yesterday and today, which was good. I remember saying that I was going to take a long time on it.. I didn't think it'd be this long! Because I still haven't finished it at all (hence the random amount of ellipses between every other stanza -- yes, I really am that indecisive). I've just come out from a month-long drought, though, so I guess that's why my inspiration seems to be "up" lately. Or maybe I'm just getting moodier...? I guess that's why they gave me that one medication, huh? Onto the poem.
Why the strange title? Well, I'm thinking it has to do just a bit with the fact of how the subject in my poem has gone through quite a bit of abuse. And so, a dash of symbolism, y'know.
If Ever I Am Found With Scarlet Teeth
I. If ever I am found with scarlet teeth, loafing about sweet dirt and peppery lilac earth,
and fixed with a blushing head so lowly hung,
the resting babe would have thought it a doll-
body rasped and lost to that rough child’s passion,
among its crib licked cruelly of cotton and toy;
and if so below it is seen to hang, the citizens would stay inclined to sketch me as
husband with the monarch moon, that night abash her cheeks in particular rouge-
If ever I am found with those hot ivory jewels, stitched in my mouth by the canalling root,
clumsy neighbor to the wormly tongue,
slave to the spotted, motherly gum,
thickly clad in coat of body’s sapphire rum-
If ever I am found in no handsome field,
shortened to the gobblin stumps of feet which stick,
enameled rocks of the moist cave, as Plato went mystery grinning,
with the gristle, skin, and avarice of the roused poppy-
shall you take me modestly by the neighbor wrist,
and loan me as beast to the cage in my cottage,
a vile, lush of liquid slaying beauty,
sitting at my bedside as my ill wife-to-be.
If ever I am found afterwards giving back to that August air,
later crippled and unsure in station of my weep,
pray my knees give and nails pry to the creatures in the grasses,
limbs dearly sprawled all about,
a compass of arms and legs and neck and head,
and lie on the pleasant balance of my back to be at wait,
for the sun to make his spectator-
his son inherited, and cultivated cousin to the new country raisin.
…
II. And transcend the yonder bobbing world,
smiling to that recessive trait, twin to Brother Death and aunt to Sister Sleep:
Let me tip my glass by forgotten tavern, dimpled and clipped by cuddling sea,
and hum drinking to the pool, the laughing pupil to the rear,
romping, rattling, and clashing,
With a farewell close my lash allowing,
and like insect, I suck in holy taste of the gene.
An atom, I’d sit bonded to the tired grove of the tavern stool-
hear the wood of its legs whine at my weight,
as I groan harmoniously in mine the same.
The incest of two galling spirits kiss in the bright chance,
and serving fingers they presume,
Why can you not be lifted from me? they ask,
through the swallow of a copper medicine spoon.
Yet- before the grasses and daughter bugs would go thatching soil for my grave,
I dare sink in remembrance in the peachy stomach of that day,
when the lad had bestowed me first with new cloud of his word,
whence by and by the time had so gained,
and thus have I given dollars - and blue-teeth coins,
to this expensive woman of age.
EDIT: I have an oooodd feeling that I'll be posting a lot today. So damn restless!
But anyway, so I really did go through a few of my poetry documents today, and was surprised to find a work called "A City Female Wondering a Country Lamb." Honestly? One other thing I haven't noticed till recently? That I can sometimes have really weird titles for the things I write. Yeah, yeah, it would appear obvious, but I'm starting to think that this is just turning into some sort of signature move for me, because anyone else that I've shown my work to always somehow comments on the... peculiar quality of the title. I really worry about my writing sometimes. Anyhow, just a piece of a little (okay, a very long) poem I've been working on since... what, last year, technically? I got towards editing it yesterday and today, which was good. I remember saying that I was going to take a long time on it.. I didn't think it'd be this long! Because I still haven't finished it at all (hence the random amount of ellipses between every other stanza -- yes, I really am that indecisive). I've just come out from a month-long drought, though, so I guess that's why my inspiration seems to be "up" lately. Or maybe I'm just getting moodier...? I guess that's why they gave me that one medication, huh? Onto the poem.
Why the strange title? Well, I'm thinking it has to do just a bit with the fact of how the subject in my poem has gone through quite a bit of abuse. And so, a dash of symbolism, y'know.
If Ever I Am Found With Scarlet Teeth
I. If ever I am found with scarlet teeth, loafing about sweet dirt and peppery lilac earth,
and fixed with a blushing head so lowly hung,
the resting babe would have thought it a doll-
body rasped and lost to that rough child’s passion,
among its crib licked cruelly of cotton and toy;
and if so below it is seen to hang, the citizens would stay inclined to sketch me as
husband with the monarch moon, that night abash her cheeks in particular rouge-
If ever I am found with those hot ivory jewels, stitched in my mouth by the canalling root,
clumsy neighbor to the wormly tongue,
slave to the spotted, motherly gum,
thickly clad in coat of body’s sapphire rum-
If ever I am found in no handsome field,
shortened to the gobblin stumps of feet which stick,
enameled rocks of the moist cave, as Plato went mystery grinning,
with the gristle, skin, and avarice of the roused poppy-
shall you take me modestly by the neighbor wrist,
and loan me as beast to the cage in my cottage,
a vile, lush of liquid slaying beauty,
sitting at my bedside as my ill wife-to-be.
If ever I am found afterwards giving back to that August air,
later crippled and unsure in station of my weep,
pray my knees give and nails pry to the creatures in the grasses,
limbs dearly sprawled all about,
a compass of arms and legs and neck and head,
and lie on the pleasant balance of my back to be at wait,
for the sun to make his spectator-
his son inherited, and cultivated cousin to the new country raisin.
…
II. And transcend the yonder bobbing world,
smiling to that recessive trait, twin to Brother Death and aunt to Sister Sleep:
Let me tip my glass by forgotten tavern, dimpled and clipped by cuddling sea,
and hum drinking to the pool, the laughing pupil to the rear,
romping, rattling, and clashing,
With a farewell close my lash allowing,
and like insect, I suck in holy taste of the gene.
An atom, I’d sit bonded to the tired grove of the tavern stool-
hear the wood of its legs whine at my weight,
as I groan harmoniously in mine the same.
The incest of two galling spirits kiss in the bright chance,
and serving fingers they presume,
Why can you not be lifted from me? they ask,
through the swallow of a copper medicine spoon.
Yet- before the grasses and daughter bugs would go thatching soil for my grave,
I dare sink in remembrance in the peachy stomach of that day,
when the lad had bestowed me first with new cloud of his word,
whence by and by the time had so gained,
and thus have I given dollars - and blue-teeth coins,
to this expensive woman of age.
EDIT: I have an oooodd feeling that I'll be posting a lot today. So damn restless!