25 posts tagged poetry by me
From Becchime & Ink:
Forewarning of birth:
something screaming, salty, sad.
I am so much my mother these days,
heavy with her,
and the contractions of the hurtful thing.
Spiny as an anemone -
uniform and toothy,
but with a dull and delicious
aching.
From Becchime & Ink:
If my skin were made of words,
rippling adjectives written in flesh-ink
and curves of verbs, saying my do
with each shadow and each forgiving slope,
each time that you cut me down
whether with your hand or your voice,
I would bleed insults: first a trickle, barely a whisper;
then stories of moments when you brought me down.
This is my voice:
It was a disgrace to live at your side! and
just let me be in my moment of glory.
And as my eyes darkened
I hope for a bloody third act,
because whatever insults
came from my body, my story
they would never explain what hate is in yours.This poem was originally written in 2007.
From Becchime & Ink:
The first kaleidoscope of the season:
punch-drunk, steel drums,
happy.Smothered by insufferable heat,
wonderful sweat,
joyful summer.
Sipping - no, gulping - the sweet wine
of afternoon sunlight:
midday eyelids
dappled, swimming,
intoxicated.
From Becchime & Ink:
The outline of your sloping hips
framed in delicate linen and lace
A lady:
Lips like a separate entity,
too perfect to be human
too human to be anything else.
Hands so spindly
I expect
cherry blossoms at your knuckles
and ivy tendrils ‘round your ankles.
You’re tall - a monument
of God, of beauty
Oh, God!
Is there anything
you cannot encompass?
Sweet fault, where is your fault?
Thread-thin ankles,
spinning like a top;
the perfume of petals,
you consume me.
Holy fire -
the tiniest kindling at my sternum
floats ashes up into my eyes.
From Becchime & Ink:
Today I feel out of focus:
the photograph you took
before the shutter was ready;
the transient place between
dreaming and waking,
where light conceives colors
that may never take shape.
I am the ghost in the humid afternoon:
gently perspiring
breathing on windows
leaving traces of handprints
to show you, perhaps
I was once there.
From becchime:
The world is hanging like a pendulum today,
swinging between fog and solidity,
the frank and shallow pool of truth
smoothed by the grayness of the day.The air is sweet: the perfume of sap and rain
and the wetness of the ground.
It makes your skin feel tacky,
like something brought only recently into being,
subject to a holy birth of light and sweat and mythology.
From becchime:
Today I woke up feeling like a lost generation.
With broken glass under my feet, hardened stones to grind into my soles.
The only season we have here is winter;
The sun is cold, the wind is cold, the air it howls like whores from street corners.And my father beckoned me into his den,
and there he beat me down with belts and knives and magazines.With a coat too big I walk these streets,
left staring at my broken feet,
and with every step they only become more senseless.
