HomesickDo not let them see you blink,Homesick by salshep
Mother said, so I am careful to turn
away when my eyes dry out. My grip
on the brush is clumsy. Colours speck
and dazzle, slop like foam on rocks;
the teacher dabs their brilliance
from my flaking arms. Children whisper
behind starfish hands; they go to play
in the bright, hot yard but I stay in,
as Mother told me. Below the window
theres a tank of golden fish that circle,
circle, following their own reflections.
I dip my fingers in to scoop one up,
watch it flip and shine, cool in my palm,
and press my face deep into the water.
Membranes slide across my thirsty eyes.
I breathe, and breathe, and breathe.
WitchesWitchesWitches by salshep
Perhaps you thought we were gone
when the puddles of fat and ash congealed,
and our stink unstuck from the back
of your throat. When you exhale
into the face of your wife, does she smell us?
Lately at night, familiar as cats,
we've taken to creeping into your room,
reeking of bonfires, empty-headed
pumpkins, poppets of wormwood and rue.
In your sleep, you eat our bodies
and brag come morning, you dare not
pass a hedge for fear of whispers
nor linger where three roads meet.
We are slowly collecting your fluids,
your fallen hair; we hide in your socks
like foxtail, we diffuse our dust
into all your meals. Soon we'll leach
as salt from your skin, fly like spittle
out of your gaping mouth. We are the hook
and the bait. We are always to blame.
Field Notes.Field Notes by salshep
I snap: a sling-shot
of sinew, tendons whipped
to joints that buckle in lines as cleanly creased
as an origami crane. Poised on a tripod of paper tips,
I anticipate the wind but there is only steel
shearing bone and then it all unfolds
with a scritch-scratch and tickle
of segmented limbs sprouting,
barbed as berry-canes.
once fed on your skin;
sipped at honeyed pores
with a thousand tiny, hollow tongues
and those words you said, the ones that closed
like fists to cinch me mute but for this
thin-bodied whine: please
don't ever speak
They're predicting swarms
this summer: better batten down the hatches,
Better To Be HorsesShe pretends to be horses. Not one,Better To Be Horses by salshep
but a herd hurtling breakneck
past homes where other children sleep.
Better to be horses
than flattened under sheets,
to run until her body breaks:
Mustang, Arabian, Pinto, her tails
pluming as she streams
through the dark. Hooves flashing
on pavement, their thunder
proof against silhouette and silence,
she strains to be free of earth
until she comes to the edge
of the world and the horses, panting,
drop their heads
to catch their breath
before the long walk home.
DAYLIGHT BOBBERY!!! DAYLIGHT BOBBERY!DAYLIGHT BOBBERY!!! by salshep
Write a poem of at least 10 and no more than 40 lines using a phrase or line from a Bob Dylan song of your choice as the title of your own poem. The poem cannot be about the same topic as the song, and must contain the word (or a word containing the letters) 'bob', in some form.
The dev you post must have, in its comment box, a link to the competition, and the title and lyrics of the song you took your line from, credited to Mr. Dylan.
Link your poem to this journal with a message letting me know it's an entry, by March 1st, 2007 .
1st prize is a 3-month sub for the best poem, lots of lovely gallery pimpage for the runners-up.
</b>Have fun, and good luck! </b>
Ode to AccountingHere I sit a-counting,Ode to Accounting by KingEzekiel
In my a-counting house;
A-counting beads and nickels.
A-counting beef and spoons.
And when I go a-counting,
A-counting I will go.
A-counting beans and pickles,
Everywhere I go.
Memorial under StreetlightsRemember:Memorial under Streetlights by darkcrescendo
the drag of grit against shredded skin,
our chilled spasms on concrete pillows;
we were siblings to cracked paint
and the broken windows of orphaned alleys;
our tribe hunted under steel canopies,
each kill stripped, cleaned,
and sold on anew to feed us.
the taste of ozone in the fretting wind
as exhausts roared their challenges;
our wings were tied to the ground,
yet we chased Icarus through traffic lights;
we ignored the bright city's aging, tired song
and crazed through the streets of our youth.
But after the race is done:
when hair resembles a sanded down chassis
and only time still scars our faces;
when the city's slow song is our guide,
and the engines of our minds grow cold;
when the steel of our limbs rust
and our eyes cannot see the road,
The Uncreativity ExperimentOn February 4th (Sunday), #Uncreativity will be hosting the Uncreativity Experiment.The Uncreativity Experiment by StoneAnnexCipher
The object of this activity is to get a group of people together to retype books of poetry word for word in the chatroom.
Participants may enter the room at any time on February 4th. Once in the room, all participants should type from whatever book of poetry they have chosen and may do so at their leisure. Hellos and sidechat will not be tolerated if they become a repeated offense.
The results of the Uncreativity Experiment will receive a limited posting time and the location of the final copy will be presented in a news article following the experiment.
This was inspired by: http://poetryfoundation.org/dispatches/journals/2007.01.22.html#Tuesday
|-WHAT I'VE BEEN DOING LATELY-|
Avoiding sinkholes, mostly.
-WHAT I'VE BEEN READING LATELY-
Only Forward - Michael Marshall Smith
I love a book in which you cannot guess the next twist. And love better the book wherein you shouldn't, but do, and then the narrator calls you a 'smartarse' for having done so. Best narrator ever. Genre-defying, exciting, freaky, esoteric, brutal, horrifying, true, fantastical - loved this to bits.
Ring - Koji Suzuki
Compared (unjustly) to Murakami, the book makes the film look better (the Japanese version, I mean; the USA film isn't nearly as good). Still, a decently creepy read if you can get past the appalling translation (or wooden writing, I'm not really sure which it is.)
The Lovely Bones - Alice Sebold
Chick lit for morbid people. Beautiful, strange, uplifting. I also find myself suddenly obsessed with sinkholes.
The Riders - Tim Winton
This book gutted me. Gorgeous. Sad. Funny. Read it.
The Invisibles - Grant Morrison
Makes Gaiman look like kindergarten.
Focault's Pendulum - Umberto Eco
Dan Brown, for people who don't breathe through their mouths.
Some Poetry-Related Journals:
Derek Walcott Walt McDonald
Lord George Gordon Byron William Blake
Christopher Smart Maya Angelou
Richard Wilbur Robert Frost
I'll cut the hearts from pharaohs
I pull the road off of the rise
Tear the memories from my eyes
I drink a thousand shipwrecks
Tonight I'll steal your paychecks
I paint the sheets across my bed
The birds will all fly from my head
Take every dream that's breathing
Find every boot that's leaving
Shoot all the lights in the cafe
And in the morning I'll be gone