Posts tagged poetry
Posts tagged poetry
As I write this it is a common tradition
to have sparklers at wedding receptions.
I assume the crackling geyser of light,
spitting gold bits of fire onto their wrists,
give the guests much joy.
They are beautiful.
Or maybe it’s more symbolic than that.
Maybe it’s meant to recreate,
in a tangible image,
Love that begins
like the strike of a match.
The explosive first glance,
the sensuous heat,
the licking flames of passion
that await hungrily.
That’s all right with me too,
but I just wonder if the eventual fade
and the grey smear of ashes left on the skewer
should also be comprised
into the metaphor.
I am aware of my own sin the way
the rowboat observes the hungry cliffs
as it splinters against them
with a crash.
Blessed lighthouse that will never dim,
You will not take the rocks away
so that I may steer off course, and know
The knuckle-bleaching grip on the oar
is caused by my own deciding hands.
But crash as I might I never sink;
instead I am rescued,
again I am rescued.
The water will not
fill my lungs the way it should.
I will never fight you
in the current of conversion,
but if you baptize me, I ask,
Drown me first
in Noah’s flood.
It was good enough to wake Sleeping Beauty
and frame the ending to fairy tales,
a common symbol for innocence
and the wonders of new love.
I, for one,
For after Sleeping Beauty awoke
Prince Charming and she had a kingdom to run,
subjects to attend to,
perhaps wars to wage.
Surely that kiss was not enough
to ward off life
and all its unpleasantries.
And with innocence comes the loss thereof,
with the wonders of love comes the lesson that love
will not always be wonderful.
After the first comes the second third fourth,
the tenth and hundredth and thousandth, and I
am quite sure there’s an afterward
to happily ever after.
The girl with the sad eyes and pale white skin
had crossed her legs just so
the word could be seen
carved into her ankle.
The cuts were thin and many,
a scratch upon a scratch,
red without rawness
and not quite new.
There were two conclusions that I could draw.
The first was that the girl believed
that she was worthy of such a branding,
that her skin was not precious enough to preserve.
and the one for which I prayed,
was that this was an old philosophy
and her scars were beginning to heal.
I’m not lying when I say
that in many grotesque fantasies
I’ve stabbed you with an icicle
and stopped your heart.
I’m never concerned with spilling your blood.
The act is much more like staking a vampire.
You were kind enough never to bite my neck,
but something about the way
your arm slithered around my waist
drained the life out of me.
So in these dreams I gain my strength
and pierce the heart I never heard,
Causing the same jagged
and smarting chills
you sent down my spine
so long ago.
I don’t enjoy hearing your finely tuned laugh
erupting from your throat like
champagne from a bottle.
I can’t express my distaste towards
the ever-deepening curiosity
with which you look at me
I abhor how handsome you looked in that coat,
Standing there, reading my book;
Walking there, your thin hands in your pockets;
Leaning there, against my doorframe, with a grin.
The way your upturned collar grazes your cheekbones
is an abomination.
I despise your smiles, both of them:
The self-satisfied smirk when you know you’ve been clever
And the wide silly grin that dimples your cheeks
when your happiness was an accident.
I detest your vast and abstract intellect,
I could kill you for the compliments you paid,
And most of all I loathe the way
You broke the rusted-over locks
and stepped with confidence into the front room
of my old and empty heart.
I’ve seen the smile sprawl across your lips
while I speak.
Your laugh is more genuine than mine.
I only slightly notice when your eyes flick downward
never quite reaching the floor,
as I lean forward in enthusiasm
You watch my hands carefully when I gesture
and my legs when I cross them
and my back as I turn away.
You said that while it wasn’t perfect
you felt confident in your understanding of me.
I laughed at you after you left.
I’m not a butterfly
to soak in formaldehyde
and pin to a card,
nor am I a novel
whose margins and lines must be annotated
marked up and underlined
for theme and comprehension.
Therefore I find your persistent study
as while endearing confusing,
and I have no intention of testing your knowledge.
The yellow balloon had been tied to my car,
among many friends in a similar palette,
wishing me a happy transition
from adolescence into adulthood.
Likewise the golden sunflowers
had been placed in the dirty vase on my desk
with a similar sentiment.
My mother and father invested in
a dress the color of pale daffodils,
material as light as air
and half as translucent;
one that bore however slight a resemblance
to the one worn by the cartoon princess
who tamed the cartoon beast.
Mr. Frost was right when he said that
nothing gold can stay,
and who am I to disagree,
but I do like to believe
while it will not stay
“She acts like summer and walks like rain.” —“Drops of Jupiter” by Train
You walk, my darling, in such a way
that you are unavoidable,
so much that when I shut my door to you
I can still hear your small
and manic steps.
Dear love, your actions are sweltering,
over-romanticized and laconic
with no perceived consequence
but the burn of your company.
You conduct yourself like a hurricane,
Encompassing the world around you
with an awful swallow.
A wake of destruction follows you
wherever you go.
Yet how I love
to sit at my window
and watch you.
Some say the world will end in extremity.
You know the type.
There will be a power shortage
or an outbreak of disease
or another world war
In which everyone loses.
Some predict fire, some predict ice,
and a few believe
that the world will be over
in the blink of an eye,
ending as quietly
as falling asleep.
And then there are some people who think
that the world will collapse when their beloved stops breathing.
They firmly believe that with their last heartbeat
comes the detonation of an entire planet.
These people are sentimentalists
And should be avoided in the event of an apocalypse.
Oh, my friend, my friend, forgive me
That I hate when you’ve learned to love.
I’ve smashed the clocks upon my walls
and knocked the analogs off of their shelves,
Leaving us no option but dim city lights
to indicate the passing of time.
With naught preying upon us
and all that is gold staying,
Shrouded by the purple night
and the promise of dawn with innocent blush,
Write me into your past
as I pour the champagne.
Success is counted sweetest
By those who ne’er succeed.
To comprehend a nectar
Requires sorest need.
Not one of all the purple Host
Who took the Flag today
Can tell the definition
So clear of Victory
As he defeated—dying—
On whose forbidden ear
The distant strains of triumph
Burst agonized and clear!
“Language is only a part of the complete concept we have in mind.” -Franz Boas
You could blame the voice inside your head
that calls to your mind’s eye when you read or speak,
requesting images your eyes have stored
within the folds of your brain.
Let us now experiment
while I say the word “caterpillar.”
some of you
are imaging a black furry creature
mounting a blade of grass, while others
now are fondly recalling
a hungry hungry protagonist.
And to think, this is only a set object,
a known quantity,
a definite thought.
I can only imagine
what comes to mind
when I say such words as love
and beauty and death.