Poetry!
So. I think this is the near-final draft of my poetry portfolio. At least, it's the version that I will be submitting tomorrow. I still don't have two poem titles and an overall portfolio title. I don't want to call it "______ and Other Poems," but I can't seem to find a title that works for everything. Ah well. I'll take suggestions-- crit and comments are welcome.
Poetry!
Oak Tree Grove
Poem One - Place Poem
the midnight moon floats high,
a bloated, milky opal
against a sea of black
velvet.
prickly, wet grass crushes softly
underfoot, a crisp breeze sweeping
against my uncovered skin,
and candle flames
cast out sparks of amber
towards the tall oaks
of the wizened grove.
smoldering lavender and sage embrace
me as three times I trace a circle
with measured pace.
cicadas strum stridently,
hidden among the gnarled roots,
as I drop petals of sweet
honeysuckle upon the newly flowering earth.
Her names rise up in familiar chant
upon my wine-sweetened lips--
all ancient names for Mama
I begin to step as fluidly
as the rustle of leaves
in the canopies above,
whirling to the insistent rhythm
of half-heard drums
until I collapse,
exhausted,
like a solitary leaf
upon the moistened soil.
Then I am still again, placid
as the watery moon
that peers at me
from inside my chalice cup,
round and shimmering
like a silver dollar.
Playground
Poem Two - Memory Poem, Dramatic Monologue
The swing set creaked hollowly as I shifted
my weight. The filthy rubber tips of my well-worn
play shoes trailed in the pungent cedar chips
of the quiet playground.
Childrens' voices ceased to echo
through the hills
of the park, which grew silent
with winter's first bite.
'Go and play,' said papa vacantly.
Billy and I flew through the splintered
doorframe into the chilly
afternoon air without stopping
to find our scarves. Softly
sniffling behind the locked
bathroom door, Mama didn't notice.
As the first tendrils of crimson
splashed across the sky
and my empty stomach cried
out, I knew we should be getting back.
We marched somberly
back to the house with the cheap peeling clapboard,
kicking up dried brown leaves, and Billy slipped
his tiny, pudgy hand into mine.
'Maybe momma cooked sketti tonight,' he said,
eyes bright with hope and the first touches of cold.
I just nodded and brushed down his goosefeather hair.
Dancefloor
Poem Three - Rhymed Couplets
To the throbbing beat in a silent night,
our branch-like arms shake in the light
smoke curls arabesques in the sweat-soaked air
she's got cheap mesh stockings on and glitter in her hair
Let's connect, intertwine like sweaty braids-
'Deeper this time,' she says
and hot mouths widen in lust
to seek what will soon taste only of dust
For a shining snapshot moment we feel divine
as our feet pound the tile caked in grime
(In our strobe-lit world, beauty's the insistent jut
of a succumbing cheekbone that could cut.)
The bullet-like bass slams, pierces, begins to fade--
Her kohl-smeared eyes evade
mine. We're tired ragdolls, frayed and worn,
looking for distractions to patch what's torn
So quickly, search for another pulse
to cover the rot of our sublety lost.
Untitled One
Poem Four - Dramatic Monologue
wrapped
in the cloak
of my own bandages
and stillness,
the ghost of wanton
rouge smeared
on my lips
and phantoms
of yesterday's khol smudged
across pallid cheeks,
I gaze dead pale
into the dim mirror
to watch how she
(that strange staring girl)
fogs over the cracks
with her breath
One day I'll stay
in rough black lace
too long,
self-darkened eyes unblinking,
These hollow whispers,
these half-heard echoes
will consume me,
then bind me in soft leather
(I love the scent
of a musky and silent
forgotten book)
My thin limbs will melt
away in the dew
and blend smoothly
with the wet green moss
below as the earth
quietly
covers my eyes
with white snow
Elegy for Autumn
Poem Five - Elegy
the earth groans
beneath the tread
of many tired feet, it braces
for the coming frost
no shawl for comfort
as the steel bite of winter snatches
the scent of woodsmoke from the air
and the flushed pinks from lovers' cheeks
with greedy
spindly
fingers
like those glorious days
that I would warm my small hands
in your pockets and you would read to me
those lofty classics you so adored
in your steady, sonorous voice
beneath the blazing ocher and russet trees,
these days are gone to me
I wish you could know
how often I walked alone
in the amber golden sunlight,
wishing these raspberry colored leaves
were ripe mouths waiting to kiss
the warmth back into the browning grass
Lullaby
Poem Six - Word Poem
For Michael
Wrapped in this warm
quiet cocoon,
I envy your stillness
and the childlike sleep
that covers your face
like cream linen
bracing,
I lie caramel-coated
to you
Can I trust this?
This need
to twine around you,
to be inside you
to kiss
to carve out a hollow for myself
(your skin
smells still
of that soap I love,
of musk and desire)
pale lantern flicker
through the thickening air-
through sticky-soft dreams-
(no one has ever touched
me like you do-
no one else
has ever run
their fingers
in small delicious circles
all over my body)
no one ever told me
it would be like this-
they always speak
of the joy, or
the hunger of the flesh,
the arching of bare backs
in the night
and yes
that you have given me
no one ever told me
it could be so desperate,
how my love for you
is as sharp as your hipbones--
I fear that if
I dipped down my lips
to kiss them
they might cut
breathe a little deeper
and I will keep you
under my dreaming spell,
oh, I will sing to you
the first dulcet notes
of a familiar tune--
hush hush,
my darling
I will guard
your sleep
Mary
Poem Seven - Sestina
The scent of cigarettes smoked in huddled bunches still lingers
here, a scrim of ash
blankets the ground. I remember our appointments. Jesus.
Not so long ago, that we would steal
away under these forgotten stairs--
Shh, darling, bite your tongue.
We fondled with untrained fingers, stifled moans as our tongues
tangled in the cold. You would linger
at my throat, nipping with your teeth as the metal bite of the stairs
scraped the small of my back. Your breath tasted like ash
to me even then. It was a solemn dance-- faked hitching breaths and steely
eyes veiling unspoken words as strong as the passion of Jesus.
I think you'd have fucked me if you didn't love Jesus
so damned much. But you loved me more than Beth, you'd say in your tongue
of riddles that only I'd understand, and you'd push me up against the steel.
I'd thread my fingers through wiry dark hair rich with the lingering
scent of pineapple shampoo. We were so young, never thinking that ash
would one day pepper those strands that fell shining beneath the stairs.
In those gray days under the stairs
you tried to play Jesus,
or at least a saint-- I was the virgin whore grinding you into the ash,
and you were sure I spoke with the flickering tongue
of Eve's cunning snake. But even as I whispered of your convenience, you lingered
close to me, eager for all the new sensations you could steal.
I'll never know what hidden anger stole
tender words from my mouth, why my glaring stares
were a worthy substitute for softer gazes when your face lingers
in my mind. But I was just your Jezebel, the Mary Magdalene to your Jesus,
tempting you to hell with my honey-tipped tongue
and hips that would press into you as I smeared your chastity with ash.
It's all slow-motion now, the memories of those ashy
pleasures of a darkened paradise. Hushed and stolen
glances never betrayed the tongues
of desire that licked my skin when we dueled the beneath the stairs.
We never said 'I love you,'-- you wanted a girl who loved Jesus
but I looked so damn fine and lingered
in your mind. Under those forgotten stairs
you never admitted that I made you see Jesus
and though you screamed his name, mine still lingers on your lips.
Sunday Morning on Federal Hill
Poem Eight - Ode
Sunlight filters
slatted through rustling blinds
upon my cream white sheets
I wake to peer at the stately mosque
across the Chesapeake
from my sill so high up,
its glittering gold dome spidered
with verdigris.
The city is alive
with the anxious bustle
of bargain-hunters fingering though gold-plated treasures
and joggers in ratty tennis shoes
who pound the concrete of Federal Hill Park
in steady stride. Impatient children in ribbons and stiff ties
chase one other outside Saint Mary's
in an endless game of tag, heedless
of their mothers' call
not to ruin their best shoes. Their laughter rings
through the streets like tinkling bells.
The breeze carries
the passionate tones
of the Credo
from a grandmother's wizened lips.
And the rich aroma of coffee,
dark roast, rises
to my nose. It is brought with a smile
and toast
to dip in the drippy egg yolk--
sunny side up--
he knows my favorite.
I grin sleepily
and pull back the cover to warm
our feet as our lips meet
in a cinnamon-laced kiss.
No stiff pew for us--
we know how
to worship
on Sunday.
Sappho Reborn
Poem Nine - Sonnet
Twilight's pale mist creeps across the willow grove,
Cretan girls sing under a hazy moon sickle,
their voices weaving ribbons through the tree alcove
and around the fireflies flicker.
Their lithe frames wrapped in cream
white linen, they dart as if around an altar
of love, flushed faces agleam
with fluid steps that never falter
as they crush the flowering grass
into smooth circles. They chant
their hymns to Aphrodite at their mass:
may the wave-born one grant
tongues of flame to run between their thighs
until night rains sleep upon their dimming eyes.
Untitled Two
Poem Ten - Catalogue Poem
The room is silent
but for the whirr
of a camera above
and the voices
They insist are not there.
No windows,
cold floors,
walls of stark
white cinderblock
with pink and blue
hydrangeas carefully stencilled.
They bring me a feast
of soggy
turkey sandwiches
and garish
red apples
every day
with a plastic knife
at precisely 12 o' clock.
The air here smells
like blood
samples and dessert
is always
a kaleidoscope
of candy pills
beneath fluorescent lights.
They've torn away
my garnet gown,
the new one is thin
and green-- it gives no comfort
as my breath clouds,
shattering
in the air.
The rubber sheets
on the foam bed
screech
in the night.
They tell me this is real. They
say to make myself at home.
note from an older sister,
leaving for college
Poem Eleven - Letter Poem
Andrea: Do not wear that red
flowered skirt on a first date.
I know it shows your long tan legs,
but it will surely give you
a colorful reputation.
Never dye your hair blue-
no matter what the smiling model
on the box says, it will not wash
out of your fair blonde strands.
Bubblegum pink lipstick
is also ill-advised.
Do not spend endless hours
chirping on the telephone.
Read some Camus or Wilde
and surprise everyone
by knowing a shiny
ten-cent word.
Do not live
up to every blonde joke
I've ever told.
Stay away from a boys
named Tommy or Joe
who chain smoke Pall Malls.
In fifteen years,
they'll still be working
at that same Shell station.
Do not wear silver
glitter on your eyelids
the night you break
the heart of your latest admirer;
his crumbling face
may cut you far deeper
than you suspect.
But above all,
don't let mom choose
your paths for you.
You are full
of more promise
than her nearsighted eyes
could possibly see.
Again
Poem Twelve - Free Poem
Bed sheets rumpled,
damp with the rising heat
of humid August
I lie,
sprawled on my back
and you,
your pale legs tangled
with mine,
rest your head
in that niche
beneath my chin
Your hair brushes lightly against my lips
auburn veiling your face,
and our eggshell white pillows
I listen to the quiet whirring
of the over-burdened fan
and the muted trumpeting
of traffic
ten stories below
And when you wake
your eyes blink
a clear gray-blue
like the sky
before spring rain
Your tiny frame stretches
kittenish
against me
The morning dulls
just so
It's time to get up,
to make some bitter
coffee, to listen to your banal
chatter, to let my eyes glaze
over like your favorite
cinnamon buns
It's time to remember
I love you best
when you're still sleeping
</center></center>
Hm. Phone post with me reading three of these will follow tonight. I have two picked out, but which one do you want to hear?
But for right now, I'm going to borrow Laura's boom-box, hook it up facing my wall, and blare something really obnoxious at the boys next door. They don't get the concept of quiet hours during finals week (or at 1 am). If I wanted to listen to their music, I'd buy the fucking shitty rap cd. Thanks.
ETA: After blaring the first three tracks of Nine Inch Nails' The Downward Spiral at ear-shattering decibels, I feel so much better.
Oak Tree Grove
Poem One - Place Poem
the midnight moon floats high,
a bloated, milky opal
against a sea of black
velvet.
prickly, wet grass crushes softly
underfoot, a crisp breeze sweeping
against my uncovered skin,
and candle flames
cast out sparks of amber
towards the tall oaks
of the wizened grove.
smoldering lavender and sage embrace
me as three times I trace a circle
with measured pace.
cicadas strum stridently,
hidden among the gnarled roots,
as I drop petals of sweet
honeysuckle upon the newly flowering earth.
Her names rise up in familiar chant
upon my wine-sweetened lips--
all ancient names for Mama
I begin to step as fluidly
as the rustle of leaves
in the canopies above,
whirling to the insistent rhythm
of half-heard drums
until I collapse,
exhausted,
like a solitary leaf
upon the moistened soil.
Then I am still again, placid
as the watery moon
that peers at me
from inside my chalice cup,
round and shimmering
like a silver dollar.
Playground
Poem Two - Memory Poem, Dramatic Monologue
The swing set creaked hollowly as I shifted
my weight. The filthy rubber tips of my well-worn
play shoes trailed in the pungent cedar chips
of the quiet playground.
Childrens' voices ceased to echo
through the hills
of the park, which grew silent
with winter's first bite.
'Go and play,' said papa vacantly.
Billy and I flew through the splintered
doorframe into the chilly
afternoon air without stopping
to find our scarves. Softly
sniffling behind the locked
bathroom door, Mama didn't notice.
As the first tendrils of crimson
splashed across the sky
and my empty stomach cried
out, I knew we should be getting back.
We marched somberly
back to the house with the cheap peeling clapboard,
kicking up dried brown leaves, and Billy slipped
his tiny, pudgy hand into mine.
'Maybe momma cooked sketti tonight,' he said,
eyes bright with hope and the first touches of cold.
I just nodded and brushed down his goosefeather hair.
Dancefloor
Poem Three - Rhymed Couplets
To the throbbing beat in a silent night,
our branch-like arms shake in the light
smoke curls arabesques in the sweat-soaked air
she's got cheap mesh stockings on and glitter in her hair
Let's connect, intertwine like sweaty braids-
'Deeper this time,' she says
and hot mouths widen in lust
to seek what will soon taste only of dust
For a shining snapshot moment we feel divine
as our feet pound the tile caked in grime
(In our strobe-lit world, beauty's the insistent jut
of a succumbing cheekbone that could cut.)
The bullet-like bass slams, pierces, begins to fade--
Her kohl-smeared eyes evade
mine. We're tired ragdolls, frayed and worn,
looking for distractions to patch what's torn
So quickly, search for another pulse
to cover the rot of our sublety lost.
Untitled One
Poem Four - Dramatic Monologue
wrapped
in the cloak
of my own bandages
and stillness,
the ghost of wanton
rouge smeared
on my lips
and phantoms
of yesterday's khol smudged
across pallid cheeks,
I gaze dead pale
into the dim mirror
to watch how she
(that strange staring girl)
fogs over the cracks
with her breath
One day I'll stay
in rough black lace
too long,
self-darkened eyes unblinking,
These hollow whispers,
these half-heard echoes
will consume me,
then bind me in soft leather
(I love the scent
of a musky and silent
forgotten book)
My thin limbs will melt
away in the dew
and blend smoothly
with the wet green moss
below as the earth
quietly
covers my eyes
with white snow
Elegy for Autumn
Poem Five - Elegy
the earth groans
beneath the tread
of many tired feet, it braces
for the coming frost
no shawl for comfort
as the steel bite of winter snatches
the scent of woodsmoke from the air
and the flushed pinks from lovers' cheeks
with greedy
spindly
fingers
like those glorious days
that I would warm my small hands
in your pockets and you would read to me
those lofty classics you so adored
in your steady, sonorous voice
beneath the blazing ocher and russet trees,
these days are gone to me
I wish you could know
how often I walked alone
in the amber golden sunlight,
wishing these raspberry colored leaves
were ripe mouths waiting to kiss
the warmth back into the browning grass
Lullaby
Poem Six - Word Poem
For Michael
Wrapped in this warm
quiet cocoon,
I envy your stillness
and the childlike sleep
that covers your face
like cream linen
bracing,
I lie caramel-coated
to you
Can I trust this?
This need
to twine around you,
to be inside you
to kiss
to carve out a hollow for myself
(your skin
smells still
of that soap I love,
of musk and desire)
pale lantern flicker
through the thickening air-
through sticky-soft dreams-
(no one has ever touched
me like you do-
no one else
has ever run
their fingers
in small delicious circles
all over my body)
no one ever told me
it would be like this-
they always speak
of the joy, or
the hunger of the flesh,
the arching of bare backs
in the night
and yes
that you have given me
no one ever told me
it could be so desperate,
how my love for you
is as sharp as your hipbones--
I fear that if
I dipped down my lips
to kiss them
they might cut
breathe a little deeper
and I will keep you
under my dreaming spell,
oh, I will sing to you
the first dulcet notes
of a familiar tune--
hush hush,
my darling
I will guard
your sleep
Mary
Poem Seven - Sestina
The scent of cigarettes smoked in huddled bunches still lingers
here, a scrim of ash
blankets the ground. I remember our appointments. Jesus.
Not so long ago, that we would steal
away under these forgotten stairs--
Shh, darling, bite your tongue.
We fondled with untrained fingers, stifled moans as our tongues
tangled in the cold. You would linger
at my throat, nipping with your teeth as the metal bite of the stairs
scraped the small of my back. Your breath tasted like ash
to me even then. It was a solemn dance-- faked hitching breaths and steely
eyes veiling unspoken words as strong as the passion of Jesus.
I think you'd have fucked me if you didn't love Jesus
so damned much. But you loved me more than Beth, you'd say in your tongue
of riddles that only I'd understand, and you'd push me up against the steel.
I'd thread my fingers through wiry dark hair rich with the lingering
scent of pineapple shampoo. We were so young, never thinking that ash
would one day pepper those strands that fell shining beneath the stairs.
In those gray days under the stairs
you tried to play Jesus,
or at least a saint-- I was the virgin whore grinding you into the ash,
and you were sure I spoke with the flickering tongue
of Eve's cunning snake. But even as I whispered of your convenience, you lingered
close to me, eager for all the new sensations you could steal.
I'll never know what hidden anger stole
tender words from my mouth, why my glaring stares
were a worthy substitute for softer gazes when your face lingers
in my mind. But I was just your Jezebel, the Mary Magdalene to your Jesus,
tempting you to hell with my honey-tipped tongue
and hips that would press into you as I smeared your chastity with ash.
It's all slow-motion now, the memories of those ashy
pleasures of a darkened paradise. Hushed and stolen
glances never betrayed the tongues
of desire that licked my skin when we dueled the beneath the stairs.
We never said 'I love you,'-- you wanted a girl who loved Jesus
but I looked so damn fine and lingered
in your mind. Under those forgotten stairs
you never admitted that I made you see Jesus
and though you screamed his name, mine still lingers on your lips.
Sunday Morning on Federal Hill
Poem Eight - Ode
Sunlight filters
slatted through rustling blinds
upon my cream white sheets
I wake to peer at the stately mosque
across the Chesapeake
from my sill so high up,
its glittering gold dome spidered
with verdigris.
The city is alive
with the anxious bustle
of bargain-hunters fingering though gold-plated treasures
and joggers in ratty tennis shoes
who pound the concrete of Federal Hill Park
in steady stride. Impatient children in ribbons and stiff ties
chase one other outside Saint Mary's
in an endless game of tag, heedless
of their mothers' call
not to ruin their best shoes. Their laughter rings
through the streets like tinkling bells.
The breeze carries
the passionate tones
of the Credo
from a grandmother's wizened lips.
And the rich aroma of coffee,
dark roast, rises
to my nose. It is brought with a smile
and toast
to dip in the drippy egg yolk--
sunny side up--
he knows my favorite.
I grin sleepily
and pull back the cover to warm
our feet as our lips meet
in a cinnamon-laced kiss.
No stiff pew for us--
we know how
to worship
on Sunday.
Sappho Reborn
Poem Nine - Sonnet
Twilight's pale mist creeps across the willow grove,
Cretan girls sing under a hazy moon sickle,
their voices weaving ribbons through the tree alcove
and around the fireflies flicker.
Their lithe frames wrapped in cream
white linen, they dart as if around an altar
of love, flushed faces agleam
with fluid steps that never falter
as they crush the flowering grass
into smooth circles. They chant
their hymns to Aphrodite at their mass:
may the wave-born one grant
tongues of flame to run between their thighs
until night rains sleep upon their dimming eyes.
Untitled Two
Poem Ten - Catalogue Poem
The room is silent
but for the whirr
of a camera above
and the voices
They insist are not there.
No windows,
cold floors,
walls of stark
white cinderblock
with pink and blue
hydrangeas carefully stencilled.
They bring me a feast
of soggy
turkey sandwiches
and garish
red apples
every day
with a plastic knife
at precisely 12 o' clock.
The air here smells
like blood
samples and dessert
is always
a kaleidoscope
of candy pills
beneath fluorescent lights.
They've torn away
my garnet gown,
the new one is thin
and green-- it gives no comfort
as my breath clouds,
shattering
in the air.
The rubber sheets
on the foam bed
screech
in the night.
They tell me this is real. They
say to make myself at home.
note from an older sister,
leaving for college
Poem Eleven - Letter Poem
Andrea: Do not wear that red
flowered skirt on a first date.
I know it shows your long tan legs,
but it will surely give you
a colorful reputation.
Never dye your hair blue-
no matter what the smiling model
on the box says, it will not wash
out of your fair blonde strands.
Bubblegum pink lipstick
is also ill-advised.
Do not spend endless hours
chirping on the telephone.
Read some Camus or Wilde
and surprise everyone
by knowing a shiny
ten-cent word.
Do not live
up to every blonde joke
I've ever told.
Stay away from a boys
named Tommy or Joe
who chain smoke Pall Malls.
In fifteen years,
they'll still be working
at that same Shell station.
Do not wear silver
glitter on your eyelids
the night you break
the heart of your latest admirer;
his crumbling face
may cut you far deeper
than you suspect.
But above all,
don't let mom choose
your paths for you.
You are full
of more promise
than her nearsighted eyes
could possibly see.
Again
Poem Twelve - Free Poem
Bed sheets rumpled,
damp with the rising heat
of humid August
I lie,
sprawled on my back
and you,
your pale legs tangled
with mine,
rest your head
in that niche
beneath my chin
Your hair brushes lightly against my lips
auburn veiling your face,
and our eggshell white pillows
I listen to the quiet whirring
of the over-burdened fan
and the muted trumpeting
of traffic
ten stories below
And when you wake
your eyes blink
a clear gray-blue
like the sky
before spring rain
Your tiny frame stretches
kittenish
against me
The morning dulls
just so
It's time to get up,
to make some bitter
coffee, to listen to your banal
chatter, to let my eyes glaze
over like your favorite
cinnamon buns
It's time to remember
I love you best
when you're still sleeping
</center></center>
Hm. Phone post with me reading three of these will follow tonight. I have two picked out, but which one do you want to hear?
But for right now, I'm going to borrow Laura's boom-box, hook it up facing my wall, and blare something really obnoxious at the boys next door. They don't get the concept of quiet hours during finals week (or at 1 am). If I wanted to listen to their music, I'd buy the fucking shitty rap cd. Thanks.
ETA: After blaring the first three tracks of Nine Inch Nails' The Downward Spiral at ear-shattering decibels, I feel so much better.