(no subject)
Have anyone of you heard of NaPoWriMo (National Poetry Writing Month)?
Well, I'm doing it, and some poems have potential to be worked post.NaPo. Comments will be loved and appreciated (Steph, thanks for the lovely review of Raconteur :D :D :D; ask why I do what I do and I'll answer in this thread). As always. :D
Here are a few of the poems:
April 1.
I Pluck a Magnolia, Just for You
What do you do when I walk through Wisconsin
as through my garden
all suave . . . all sashay
like a gazelle's grace. Do you look, do you turn around
for one last glance, for one last
wishful taste, then wish I was yours
and go on?
Do you paint me
in your bed? Do you splay me in honey?
Do you smell mangoes from my breath;
apricot and peach?
I pluck a honeysuckle from my garden,
then a magnolia:
this one is for me.
This one is for you. I put it here
beside the porch railing,
where you can see it.
¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤
April 3
Reverse
What if buildings splay
across the skyline dominion,
if gondolas melt into what
it covers, or stops rocking; what if
streets becomes water
and water streets, if the ground
drops beneath us
and people
they swim in water.
and fishes
rolled and wrapped,
they gasp for water, in heaps
on bricks, drying out.?
What if the moon becomes
the sun,
and sun the moon,
if God turns to Devil
and vice versa?
Will that be Armageddon?
What if it all
is just a painting?
¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤
April 4
Cannibals
Balm me in honey
and wine
because I say so. Dip me
two times, after, in water,
then wash and let what's left
stay splayed on me.
Take a piece of my flesh
and taste it on your tongue,
carve it up
with your fork.
Now bring the lamb:
dip it in honey but not wine,
wash it, cut its hair
away. Slice it up.
Salt it.
Serve lamb and moist potatoes
on a platter with some wild
cranberries.
I will be your desert.
¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤
April 7
Dream
I spill my cofee;
I lick my fingers, how
they are soaked in cofee the way
rain soaks trees whose crown gleams,
is glass dregs shimmering. The trees are not
themselves: fakes. The ones I know do not sweat,
do not shiver like bees' buzz, had sound been flashes,
do not seem a lemon in colour, no: they have
the ordinary kelly colour. Now I peel bark
of the trunk. Now not, my hands full
of sap. In my right hand I hold
a peach, smeared in sap,
to be eaten.
¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤
April 10
Rondelet
The moon's contour
a steep bowl, or a cycle, now.
The moon's contour
change: we shape it with these hands, place
fingers over our eyes, make of
it a triangle, now a bowl like
the moon's contour.
(Ruined) Rondelet
The moon the shape
of a bowl, or a cycle, now.
We stargaze in our orchard yard
as we shape the moon with our hands,
how we place each fingers over our
eyes, so that we make of the moon
at first a triangle, then a shape after
cutting it, aptly, in half; now
the moon the shape
of a steep bowl.
¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤
April 11
Sapphic stanza
These short shores make long, clear-cut lines that form my
day safely. I crave to pass waves, like bowls
draining deep: now, like what we deem quite real,
................................ by cliffs I plunge to sea.
¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤
April 13
This is How You Paint a Mockingbird
I bought a harness, I bought a bridle.
A canvas, and a brush. Today I'll be
a painter, tomorrow a horseman.
How my left hand give colour give shape,
how each line, each stroke, fills
the canvas. This is how I paint
a mockingbird. This is how
you shoot it.
¤
(L. 1 from Carl Phillips)
¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤
April 9
two parts of the very same story: fragments
How the tip of a wing
splits us apart at sunrise;
we are where reality
and illusion meet
¤
How the light of a streetlamp
spreads as only itself does;
the man who steps into, now out of
a light we call
Sacred,
sacred
star.
Well, I'm doing it, and some poems have potential to be worked post.NaPo. Comments will be loved and appreciated (Steph, thanks for the lovely review of Raconteur :D :D :D; ask why I do what I do and I'll answer in this thread). As always. :D
Here are a few of the poems:
April 1.
I Pluck a Magnolia, Just for You
What do you do when I walk through Wisconsin
as through my garden
all suave . . . all sashay
like a gazelle's grace. Do you look, do you turn around
for one last glance, for one last
wishful taste, then wish I was yours
and go on?
Do you paint me
in your bed? Do you splay me in honey?
Do you smell mangoes from my breath;
apricot and peach?
I pluck a honeysuckle from my garden,
then a magnolia:
this one is for me.
This one is for you. I put it here
beside the porch railing,
where you can see it.
¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤
April 3
Reverse
What if buildings splay
across the skyline dominion,
if gondolas melt into what
it covers, or stops rocking; what if
streets becomes water
and water streets, if the ground
drops beneath us
and people
they swim in water.
and fishes
rolled and wrapped,
they gasp for water, in heaps
on bricks, drying out.?
What if the moon becomes
the sun,
and sun the moon,
if God turns to Devil
and vice versa?
Will that be Armageddon?
What if it all
is just a painting?
¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤
April 4
Cannibals
Balm me in honey
and wine
because I say so. Dip me
two times, after, in water,
then wash and let what's left
stay splayed on me.
Take a piece of my flesh
and taste it on your tongue,
carve it up
with your fork.
Now bring the lamb:
dip it in honey but not wine,
wash it, cut its hair
away. Slice it up.
Salt it.
Serve lamb and moist potatoes
on a platter with some wild
cranberries.
I will be your desert.
¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤
April 7
Dream
I spill my cofee;
I lick my fingers, how
they are soaked in cofee the way
rain soaks trees whose crown gleams,
is glass dregs shimmering. The trees are not
themselves: fakes. The ones I know do not sweat,
do not shiver like bees' buzz, had sound been flashes,
do not seem a lemon in colour, no: they have
the ordinary kelly colour. Now I peel bark
of the trunk. Now not, my hands full
of sap. In my right hand I hold
a peach, smeared in sap,
to be eaten.
¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤
April 10
Rondelet
The moon's contour
a steep bowl, or a cycle, now.
The moon's contour
change: we shape it with these hands, place
fingers over our eyes, make of
it a triangle, now a bowl like
the moon's contour.
(Ruined) Rondelet
The moon the shape
of a bowl, or a cycle, now.
We stargaze in our orchard yard
as we shape the moon with our hands,
how we place each fingers over our
eyes, so that we make of the moon
at first a triangle, then a shape after
cutting it, aptly, in half; now
the moon the shape
of a steep bowl.
¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤
April 11
Sapphic stanza
These short shores make long, clear-cut lines that form my
day safely. I crave to pass waves, like bowls
draining deep: now, like what we deem quite real,
................................ by cliffs I plunge to sea.
¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤
April 13
This is How You Paint a Mockingbird
I bought a harness, I bought a bridle.
A canvas, and a brush. Today I'll be
a painter, tomorrow a horseman.
How my left hand give colour give shape,
how each line, each stroke, fills
the canvas. This is how I paint
a mockingbird. This is how
you shoot it.
¤
(L. 1 from Carl Phillips)
¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤
April 9
two parts of the very same story: fragments
How the tip of a wing
splits us apart at sunrise;
we are where reality
and illusion meet
¤
How the light of a streetlamp
spreads as only itself does;
the man who steps into, now out of
a light we call
Sacred,
sacred
star.