T: Good morning. J: Just beautiful. T: ? J: You are just so beautiful. T: You don’t really know me yet to say that. J: I knew it when I walked through the door. You… More
The birds are cooking mischief
In bowls, big enough
For my hungry mouth.
Not three nights ago.
In a bitter storm of curses
That tore my ears
And the windows
The crows flew in
To drink blood
From the flood
Of my broken heart.
Not three nights ago.
My throat is worn
On the torrents
Of your scorn.
But I can still swallow
The birds’ bitter corn.
Not three nights ago.
I guess it was to be free
When you left,
You left every window open.
It’s now cold air and thick frost
Inside my pantry.
I soon learn
Hunger comes with a cost:
Is cheaper than eating.
The chase is on:
Owl’s after hare.
I’m running through rooms
I’m hunting for reasons
For your leaving
But your drawers are empty.
Owl wings flap hard.
Rabbit paws scorch the ground.
It’s only three steps
Before beak is on neck.
Not three nights ago.
I’m left to daydreaming
I sit cold at the table
In your old shearling coat
Thirsting for your water
And it’s burn down my throat.
Owl rings the dinner bell.
Today, it will be
Minced meat on feathers
For brunch it’s only me.
Not three nights ago.
How dare you still walk
Through the thoughts
In my head!
I shed tears on our bed.
Without your heat,
I can’t eat.
Your return is improbable
And Cooking for one is intolerable.
Jackals run through the pantry rubble
To deliver sour grapes.
Dinnertime is trouble:
They snarl and scrape
At their plates.
not three nights ago.
And I hit the sun.
It’s no fun
Knowing the limits of agony.
There’s really no hope that
You’ll come back
With dinner for me.
The beasts and birds have all left
Our broken-hearted nest.
So I’ll take to the couch,
With feathers and fur in my mouth.
I will starve and grow thin
From the memory
Of the salt off your skin
I will try to hang in
Imagining your regret
But you’ve run off for good
And that couch soon becomes
One lonely coffin.
At our backs.
We went seeking
The tracks of a deer
Who was heartsick.
We trod through piles of snow
Slick with the ice
Of the arctic.
We feared the night.
With windy howls and ice squalls
It nearly destroyed us.
In the cabin,
In the candlelight
I painted melancholy on the walls
While you reopened
Old wounds of distrust.
Cold hunger stabbed at my guts.
The last of the frosted grapes
Turning our tongues an awkward blue.
You grabbed my hand,
And we began
Our frigid walk.
With icy breath,
You swore to your death,
That he’d be out there somewhere.
You’d met him before.
You had to settle the score.
He’d ran from the sight
Of your black hunting knife.
This massive beast:
Perfect for our Winter feast.
We had to pick up speed
When you heard the hungry cries
From a stampede
Of skinny coyotes.
I was almost lost,
In a heavy fog of snowflakes
That outnumbered us.
They gave chase
But we made escape
Across the frozen landscape.
My heart could almost burst.
My muscles screamed to stop –
But you screamed back,
“I’ve seen his tracks!”
We were so close to the spot.
The giant black deer
Under a canopy of snow.
I held out a frozen palm.
He came much too close.
He did not know to fear
The black steel of your arrows.
I couldn’t move.
I almost caught,
The beautiful scent
Of his evergreen breath,
But you launched the shot
And his untimely death.
With an arrow aimed
For dark breast.
Your black steel sank
Into his chest.
The beast fell.
The ground shook.
And I couldn’t look,
But you smiled
At the thick flood
Of deer blood.
Streaming like hot milk
Across the snow.
The blood that you spilled,
From an unfair kill.
Put an end to the pain of hunger
That grabbed at us.
You tore him apart.
You cut in deep,
To make me
A treasured trophy
Of the Black Deer’s heart.
Across his furry brow,
I made the sign of the cross,
And I vowed:
‘The beast will be blessed,’
Before my teeth sank into
His hot, steaming flesh.
On the way home,
With our bellies full of deer bone,
You sang me old Orkney songs.
I was almost happy again
To hear your baritone,
Even though I knew we had done wrong.
The sun went down.
We were covered in snarls of snow.
When the sky sent rain
In sheets of black ice,
We fell to the ground.
Under frigid winds and frozen rain
We held hands that were stained,
The colour of rust
Form your awful hunt.
My mouth thick with the taste
Of regret’s dust.
And then I wondered
Ever forgive us?”
Occasionally, some of your visitors m
Night promises me I can slip away
From the boring flatness of the Earth.
He’s the Universal Badass:
He juggles the planets, and kicks at the comets.
He is a bold lover,
With an expensive taste in clothes and hair product.
This long-legged bandit of Twilight
With star-dusted skin,
Makes all the girl owls preen and hoot.
Riding a dark steed across the skies,
He feasts from the dreams of slumbering girls.
I used to crush on the Moon.
I’d lay awake staring at his stubborn round white face,
Wishing for a cold kiss.
Moon was bright with just the right amount of dark.
But every star in the sky told me,
I didn’t stand a chance.
Moon was too happy to ever leave the sky.
When word got around –
Even Mars couldn’t understand
How that fat white stubborn orb
Let a catch like me go.
The wind carried the gossip to Night’s ear
And IT WAS ON.
In a fit of rage, Night swallowed Moon whole.
The planets screamed at him, and the stars burst from loneliness.
In the cover of darkness, like a thief, Night took off with me.
We rode across the universe,
Passing through the Northern Sky,
Galloping through belts of stars.
He nodded, saluting his old friend Orion
But I spat at that hag Cassiopeia
When she waved seductively at the Night.
In the unlit sky,
I felt his dark sleeves sweep across my body
As we crossed through frigid winds
To the very end of light.
In Night’s palace of dark halls,
I learned that where he kept the ghosts of dreams.
An orb of amber glass
Was full of the sparkling tears
Stolen from little girls’ hearts.
Before I could reach for it,
Night bade me to come and lay with him
On a blanket of pale stars.
Planting kisses fiercely across my mouth,
He made my lips burn.
I almost turned away.
But I my hands fought to make their way
Through the black mantle of Night’s hair.
In the dark palace, he made me ache,
Until I found a sweet surrender to sleep,
In his dark embrace.
Morning’s glow broke through his walls.
I heard him cry in agony.
The dull pale light scorched his skin.
My hands reached out, but Night stole away.
As he hid from his bright enemy,
I grabbed the amber glass full of dreams.
A new thief, I stole his horse and fled the dark halls.
We rode all morning and I was blind from the thickness of clouds.
But Night’s horse found land and in the light of day,
I threw the orb to the ground.
The glass shattered and the stolen dreams of little girls
Burnt the Earth.
My feet singed, I looked up to the sky.
Heavy tears dropped in waves across the fire.
Without Night, I can hardly stand to go on.
One day, I vow I will go back to find him.
For I now know the constellations
Like the back of my hand.
Your heart is a cage.
Your love is ripped
From a page,
On the Art of Confinement.
Inside my globe of glass,
I cut and scratch
Captive long songs for you.
Pulling my purple stockings up,
Plucking my hair just like a harp,
I sing for you in the dark.
The curtain rises from the stage.
I’m to perform for your wage.
It’s time for the show:
Le Grand Mentir et son Belle Oiseau!
Your fingers snap.
I arch my back.
“Ne Me Quitte Pas,”
And all eyes fall
On my long legs dangling
From the golden swing.
The song before the strut.
The strut before the strip.
There goes my corset.
An Exquisite tease
Meant to please.
There are shouts of applause,
and loud hurrahs.
Up from their seats men jump
Praising the tassels and bumps.
I roll my hips,
Seeing bills of green drip
Out from their money clips.
The crowd is blind
They cannot see
Your anger and envy.
I bend and strut.
You storm off.
And the show is cut.
The crowd will leave
Not to have seen
The full tease.
Through the bars
Of my gilded cage,
You pass lemons, poppy seeds,
And drops of Dramamine.
Now I yawn instead of sing,
And with clumsy legs
I wish for wings.
A la semaine prochaine:
I find myself, chained
To the Ponts des Arts.
19 Padlocks/Cadenas D’Amour.
Each one carved:
“L’amour est Confinement.”
On my knees,
I beg and plead,
but you laugh,
And throw the keys
Into the River Seine.
Loving you, is like getting sober.
The worst forty-eight hours of my life.
I am enclosed.
I am encaptured.
For you are the one,
Who brings me that soft,
Loving you, is like
an on-going morning-after.
You press me,
You press me
You’re pressing on a ripe bruise.
Ain’t that the worst news?
A case of the worst blues?
Ever I swallowed.
Loving you, is like gaining sobriety.
Two weeks later,
the table scraps you’ve left
behind for me.
The memories are distant,
But, the sound of your voice
Was So Persistent
In swearing that you loved me.
Two bottles later –
I will be on my knees
For just one ampule
Of your sweetness
I will plead.
A few drops and I stick you in
Under my skin
Ah – there it is.
But in a split second,
Not a simple single word.
Not a simple single gesture.
There are the rough cut circles in my fence.
We started from the top.
So now it’s bottom’s up,
Until I find
The right replacement
On hot summer nights the apartment was empty.
Amis au club.
We lived: careless, reckless and random back then.
Youth is Always Wasted On The Young.
Leaning against our small stove,
My ears glad to hear the sharp sound of the kettle boiling.
The steam rises to my face,
And spreads across my bare breasts.
I always went topless in the heat.
The front door crashes open
And in you fall in:
Tall, blonde, and terribly handsome boy.
You stand up casually.
Despite the crash landing,
you are high and drunk on confidence.
Tight blue jeans, Stussy tank, no shoes?
A thin smile and you are looking at me something fierce.
It will happen again:
Boys woke up randomly in my bed that summer.
Their heads buried between in my breasts,
Eager to leave, and I encouraged them.
No hint of desperation.
Never urging them to stay,
Despite how empty I felt after.
With shots of rum burning down our throats,
And the Femmes in background –
We laugh together.
“Violent beats…I stain my sheets….”
Within a second your big hands wrap around my waist.
I collapse against your thin frame and you grind against me.
I feel your mouth next to my ear.
Whispers of hot breath –
“I am going fuck You, good and right.”
I laugh softly,
Drawing my fingers down the line
Of coarse blond hair to your belt.
“Hold on a sec, Babe…”
You carve a line through the snow,
And then snort if off my tits.
Let the games begin.
You are tugging and pulling at my hair.
My Bonne Belle lips part with expectation.
Your zipper slowly opens,
And I flick my tongue lightly.
Your cock head jumps up.
A key bump for me –
Then you have me on my knees.
You slide right into my mouth,
And gasp at how warm and wet it feels.
The rush is more than decent:
You are pumping hard and slow in and out.
It feels like you could conquer the world.
I beg you to murder my pussy.
As we bite down, lick and claw at each other:
Music blasts in the background.
When you cum, it feels like bolts of liquid lightening inside of me.
Your thighs shake and your calves are slick with sweat,
Just like a long day of kickturns.
With another breath and with chemical strength,
You flip me over and drive into me
Over and over again.
I feel your mouth press up against my ear while you
are cumming again.
I choke inside when you call me another girl’s name.
We spend the night slumped on the couch;
Your long boy-arms locked across my chest.
I lay awake feeling sore between my legs.
When you finally wake, it’s awkward:
Another “Hey You. ”
I feel your hand across the top of my head,
Before you leave,
Like you were petting a Saint Bernard.
I spend the morning staring at the ceiling,
While I wonder which parts of me are still whole.
“It’s not so easy,” you say.
“Keeping your hands to yourself.”
You spend your days
Adding pretty trophies
To your bedroom shelf.
Cracking your fists in cement,
You’re unwilling to repent,
For each glace you shot,
Whether I liked it or not
At girls dressed in gowns
As thin as parchment paper.
You lied your way into adulthood;
Stealing from the heavy pockets of rich men,
While filling up their wives
With your own brand of adrenalin.
You’re a romantic felon,
Who steals from the hearts of vulnerable girls.
I am a bright burning star,
Who longs for pink cashmere and vanilla pearls.
When we met,
A tornado hit the Church.
For a brief pause,
You thought you could stop the search,
For a full-bodied wine,
When your tongue hit mine.
We took to each other,
Like monkeys bathing in gin.
But you can’t stand my parents,
And the way that you lie,
Makes my head spin.
When we fell,
We fell hard.
We fell into fighting:
Instead of sending hate text,
We started having hate sex.
You come home late,
And don’t really appreciate,
That I vacuum in heels for you.
I keep the flowers watered.
I pick the socks up from the floor.
I am doing my best,
While you’re off chasing
Your next conquest.
You’ve stepped out on me
Three times already.
Three uninspired flings
And I am the bird,
Who refuses to see.
My head is buried so deep
In my wings.
At some point this has to give.
I will won’t take your tales.
Because if I really wanted to torture myself,
I would work in retail.
You’ve played the hell out of me.
But I pretend I do not know any of it
And none of it knows me.
When it ended,
It ended sadly.
“The thing about you?
The things you want to see
Change the most about me?”
“Well they most probably never will.
The universe knows,
That is just the case with me.”
Now you’re in bed
With the misery of vacancy.
Now you can you see,
That all the things
You swore you would never do,
Have finally caught up with you.
I will remain your lesson learned:
The thighs of vulnerable girls
Do not compare to a bright burning star
Who dreams of cashmere and pearls.
There is a maze of blueberry bushes and silver yews that exists somewhere south of the imagination.
It requires walking an uncertain path where the brown cobblestone is chipped and rocks jut of corners. If you bypass the potential dangers of falls or a concussion you will turn a corner into a brilliant rush of green ferns.
You have arrived.
Here, you will find the site of the event in which things take their shape.
Brushing aside fronds, you find yourself in a field of violently purple violets. With soft foot falls you wander among the flowers for what seems like hours. The sun’s heat pours across your skin and the thirst grows inside of you.
Up ahead of you, there is a dark line of trees. Standing like soldiers, they guard the Forest. As you pass by their enormous trunks, some part of you knows they are ancient. As a gift of welcome, they drop heirloom pears into your palm. The fruit has a hard reddish-green skin, but when you bite in, it is like they are ripening in your mouth. The crisp taste is one of the purest pleasures you can remember. With this sweet taste in your mouth, you spread yourself across the grass. Looking up into the white down of the pear leaves, their moisture drops on your forehead. The slow rhythm pulls you into a deep sleep.
You dream of canaries and poetry. Soft words are whispered sweetly into your ear and they come from the wind. They speak of unsurpassed aching and temptations that are known only to you.
You are unsure of even the hour or the day of when you wake. But when you finally stir, you are looking up into the petals of her eyelids. She stands six-foot tall and has been crafted out of white stone. She has a comeliness that startles the birds out of trees.
A thick mists drifts down from the sky, creating a soft haze across your eyes. You have found the Forest’s daughter. Even though her arms are solid, you imagine a soft embrace. You imagine a cherry taste to her stone mouth.
Her arms are carved reaching up, as if she could touch the sky. The sun pours hot and molten across her palms. You can’t help yourself and press up against the statue. It feels like your whole body is burning bright with fire. The sky melts in strips of tangerine and orange above as you wraps your arms around her stone figure. Your embrace is like molten fire, exploding from a volcano. You have merged and united. This is a kiss where you almost forget where you start and she begins.
This is the event. This kiss has shattered every logical rule there is.
Suddenly you know her name and it is Splendor. Her arms push free from their stone confines and the warmth of her flesh spreads across your skin. Hair in dark waves of silk unfold across your shoulders. It smells like damp cinnamon. As you grip at each other, thick vines of ivy shoot up from the Forest floor and wrap across your feet. You are tied to her. the ivy winding tight around you. The leaves crawl across your chest and up your neck, trying to take your last breath.
Struggling against the pull of vines , she can feel your desire to escape from her. Splendor whispers the Secrets of the Forest into your ears. You are privy to how the seeds were delicately placed into the soil, the sins of the trees and the long-forgotten names of foxes and toads. This forbidden knowledge is a seduction and it merges the two of you together even deeper. It is knowledge that angers the skies. Thunder shudders over you and bolts of lightening pierce your feet.
It grows silent and dark. Under a canopy of stars, Splendor’s skin begins to shine. Clumsy birds fall from the sky into the dark green grass below. It is almost a wonder. How very exhausting it must be to be a bird!
In the pool of silent wings at your feet, a small wren struggles to fly. He works through the night, pecking at the vines tied tight to your body.
Thanks to his tireless work, your hands eventually find their freedom from the ivied handcuffs. With the release, you wrench the twines from your body. The feeling is incredible, you are naked and free.
But remaining still – there is Splendor. Her dewy skin and dark eyes give you a gaze screaming of sadness. Looking deep, you are almost lost to her again. A white alabaster arm reaches out. Her palm offers you a dark green and red fruit. You shake your head, but her arm pushes forward. With that familiar sweet taste in your mouth, you turn with regret from her. The pear provides you with strength and you race from the site of sin towards home.
By the time you find the field of violets, your legs drop and you swoon into the grass. Whether it is only moments or ages that pass while you sleep, only the old trees of the Forest know.
You wake in your bed with a heavy fog in your head. For some reason you feel confused, and exhausted. There is a desperate need inside you to remember last night’s dream. When you close your eyes and try to recall it, all you can see is the black of eyelids. There’s a small scratching beside you. Turning over in your bed you see a small tiny brown bird. He seems to be struggling with tired wings. Placing him in your palm, you walk him to the window and whisper old words in a language you do not recall. Their sound is strange but familiar. The bird’s wings flutter with strength. Opening your bedroom window you watch as he flies towards a dark line of green up ahead. A small smile escapes your lips as you know he carries a message of regret to her.
PROSE OR POETRY:
Deciding the milieu in which you want to write
If you are taking your pen to the page for the first time and cannot decide whether to write fiction or poetry this guide will help you.
The Differences Between Poetry and Pose:
You need to have at least two strings to your bow. In other words, make sure you have more than one talent. As a poet, your primary task is to ask yourself: How Am I Going to Harness the Power of Words? In asking yourself whether your work is a poem or a piece of fiction you need to consider the differences between poetry and fiction. Narrative is purely about entertainment and its purpose in the end is to keep the reader awake and turning the page. The function of stories is to answer the question of what happens next? The writer’s responsibility is to take the reader on a thrilling ride. The poet on the other hand, is required to draw the reader to the ride. Your primary responsibility is to ask who your audience is.
Poetry is a bit more passive in that the author wants to describe and evade. The poet is not asked to provide any conclusions. In contrast, the fiction writer is required to describe and explain. Another major difference between poetry and prose is the use of metaphor. Poets use metaphor, which is the replacement of one thing for another. Poets use metaphor, in order to express experiences which are close to the human condition. When considering the literal meaning of verse, which means to twist and turn, a poet needs to consider the image of the poem or how the reader will see the poem. Whereas narrative is rather literal and close to everyday life, poetry is able perhaps even more powerful. Regardless of the subject matter, the difference in the poet and the narrative author is in the way they express themselves.
WRITING YOUR FIRST POEM
If you haven’t take tried writing poetry there is a simple exercise you may want to try. First try writing a “snap” poem. What are all the objects you can associate with a verb such as snap? An elastic, a barrette, a polaroid camera?
Once you have written your poem, you are just as responsible for editing it the same way an author must revise his/her own story. The poet will want to approach the editing process in two ways. First, as poetry is a visual medium in the sense that the reader not only “reads” the poem but looks at the way the words are displayed on the page. Therefore the poet will want to stand back at and look at the way his/her chosen words flow across the page. How will the readers’ eyes graze across the page?
Secondly, the poet must consider that the poem needs to have a beginning, a middle and an end as much as a traditional novel is required to. Although a lot of effort is put into hooking the reader with the first line of a poem, the poet will want to ask himself or herself whether he or she has a great middle to his or her poem. Why? Because it is in the middle of a poem where you are most likely to lose your reader.
CONQUERING WRITER’S BLOCK
Sometimes writer’s block may just be the need to process your experience. Years may go by without you physically writing something, but if you feed your creativity every day somehow you will reach a point again where you are writing again. Engaging with creativity means being curious everyday. Engage with media, read everyday, dream journal and make sure you collect an endless amount of objects which will keep you inspired.
Writing is like exercise, if you do not do it everyday, you might as not bother. Just as your daily run will not be pleasurable everyday and sometimes it will be tiring and shitty, there will be times when writing will feel like you are almost flying.
Today, I caressed the Pale Seashore.
My bare feet were punctured quick
By a thousand tiny white shells.
I could feel the sting, but no blood fell.
Against the backdrop of sun; I placed myself in exile.
Hoping to learn comfort and ease
And to make a friend of myself for a while.
I saw white-breasted gulls
Slice across the cloud-crusted sky.
I called one down to be witness
To every salt-filled tear drop I could cry.
He led me to a black crest on the beach
And as heavy rains fell across my skin,
I listened to him preach
“You need to cast your sins, if you want to be free.”
I looked away from his brown beating wings
and towards the violent seas.
As I watched the new born waves swirl;
I whispered my secrets into the cold wind.
My regrets were no more,
As the dying waves hit the Pale Seashore.