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[13 Sep 2007|02:44am] |
fixing the last couplet:
When asked why I believe I say (well first
I mark my battered Origin) but then:
Consider anglerfish, that most perverse
Of finned and swimming mouths (or one of them).
It is no proof, or not in formal sense
And yet those cave-like bear-trap maws that gape
Like evil shipwrecks or a graveyard fence
Are in their way divine -- or how they mate!
The ladies with their harems on their backs,
The tiny gentlemen reduced to sacks
Of clinging parasitic sperm, or how
That deadly dinner-bell hangs from her brow!
For all the world’s uncertain, we have this:
A God who laughs accordingly exists.
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| More poetry (I'm on a roll) |
[13 Sep 2007|01:53am] |
The Poet Reconciles Her Two Worlds
When asked why I believe I say (well first
I mark my battered Origin) but then:
Consider anglerfish, that most perverse
Of finned and swimming mouths (or one of them).
It is no proof, or not in formal sense
And yet those cave-like bear-trap maws that gape
Like evil shipwrecks or a graveyard fence
Are in their way divine -- or how they mate!
The ladies with their harems on their backs,
The tiny gentlemen reduced to sacks
Of clinging parasitic sperm, or how
That deadly dinner-bell hangs from her brow!
For all the world’s uncertain, we have this:
If God has a sense of humor, God exists.
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| Second Draft |
[26 Apr 2007|07:48pm] |
Those nights when I can sleep, because of you
There is no afterlife, but long white worms
Thrust up like blooming calla lilies through
My eyes, and send down grasping roots that squirm
Around my nerves. The gravid flesh of one
Breast churns, but on the left fat falls away
To leave exposed the meat and gleaming bone
To bright invasion by the prying day.
My thighs are sticky, gleaming with the slime
Of growing things. I bloat and stink, and you
Had hoped the scent of rue and creeping thyme
Would bury me. Awake, I still am too
Decayed, mephitic as I am with lies
And silence tumbles off my tongue like flies.
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| Draft one. I should have slept, because it's not very good. |
[26 Apr 2007|05:28am] |
Those nights when I can sleep, because of you
There is no afterlife, but long white worms
Thrust up like blooming calla lilies through
My eyes, while sending grasping roots that squirm
Around my nerves. The gravid flesh of one
Breast churns, but on the left fat falls away
To leave exposed the meat and gleaming bone
To bright incessant battering of day.
My thighs are sticky, gleaming with the slime
Of growing things. I bloat and stink, and you
Who hoped the nearby rue and creeping thyme
Would cover me, were wrong. Awake, I still am too
Decayed, mephitic as I am with lies
And silence tumbles off my tongue like flies.
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| First revision |
[25 Sep 2006|10:36pm] |
I hope to have this ready for submission to Clerestory or Issues magazine (not sure which).
My concerns:
It's very verbally dense. I think there are too many adjectives serving as rhythm filler.
Sometimes the intended meaning may be subordinated to the format.
Slant rhymes: acceptable?
Pretentious?
And I don't have a title. Hmmmm.
She stewed her fury with the ram that night.
Her husband bloated on the meat and wine,
And, lurching groggily away from light,
His eyes took on a drunken, guilty shine.
And Sarah set the saffron-scented rice
Between them so the stinging steam obscured
Her face, excused the acid in her eyes
And so its clinging dense perfume inured
Her screaming senses to her husband’s breath.
The boy sat silent, rubbed chafed wrists and strayed
In thoughts; he wondered if the ram’s swift death
Had left the beast the time to be afraid.
But when it seemed that he was poised to speak
She surged to stuff back pity with a sweet.
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[27 Feb 2005|09:03pm] |
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