Poetry Spam!
I'm in poetry workshop at school. This means I write a lot more poetry, which is easier to post on here than the other writing I've been doing lately, and faster too! Hooray.
Both poems were assignments, with their own restrictions, and specific words that I had to use.
Shawn Norton, Fisher of Men
He said “torture”, not me.
I just separate.
the useful
from the prattle.
Everyone claims to salmon swim
but I wait upstream
crouched, waiting for the idealists
with a net, a hook, an acoustic guitar
and all the best intentions.
When they pass my net, I wait
on a bench by the shore
tossing bread chunks I made with
the ground up bones
of anarchists, to let the new ducks
get a taste of what to come.
Not a Honeymoon
It was five days after that, when they went home,
when she relaxed, at ease in her own bed
and on her own desk
and in her own shower,
when she hissed in his ear to not stop,
even though he had long since finished.
He did not think of baseball.
He thought of two by fours,
fists, hammers, anything hard
convinced that his body would follow suit.
One day, he would come home from work,
and she would lift the edge of her skirt,
the frayed edges dangling over her thighs,
a fringe, like the beaded curtain
that used to keep her roommate out, but
is now only used to restrain.
One day she would leave marks along his neck and back,
plum colored contusions, marking him,
as he had marked her.
Both poems were assignments, with their own restrictions, and specific words that I had to use.
Shawn Norton, Fisher of Men
He said “torture”, not me.
I just separate.
the useful
from the prattle.
Everyone claims to salmon swim
but I wait upstream
crouched, waiting for the idealists
with a net, a hook, an acoustic guitar
and all the best intentions.
When they pass my net, I wait
on a bench by the shore
tossing bread chunks I made with
the ground up bones
of anarchists, to let the new ducks
get a taste of what to come.
Not a Honeymoon
It was five days after that, when they went home,
when she relaxed, at ease in her own bed
and on her own desk
and in her own shower,
when she hissed in his ear to not stop,
even though he had long since finished.
He did not think of baseball.
He thought of two by fours,
fists, hammers, anything hard
convinced that his body would follow suit.
One day, he would come home from work,
and she would lift the edge of her skirt,
the frayed edges dangling over her thighs,
a fringe, like the beaded curtain
that used to keep her roommate out, but
is now only used to restrain.
One day she would leave marks along his neck and back,
plum colored contusions, marking him,
as he had marked her.