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It strikes me as funny that such a crowd shouldn't share its poetry. Clearly we all have a knack for it - listening and comprehending is the most difficult part - so surely we must have attempted some of our own? Bare your soul here in verse, share the wealth of your experience with those perhaps less fortunate. I'll start us off with a few of my own; if you're not a poet, you should be. Put key to notepad or pen to paper and compose! The English language is yours to do with what you will. Here are some of my most recent poetasties:
A Memory
A memory: the sculpture! Yes, caressed from air,
such beauty there, such beauty where
no gaze could linger, no lip abraid;
and such a face, such eyes
that never could the sun (the mere sun!)
the mere sun, which I despise,
erase; not an atom could the sun erase,
nor the lip snag - no;
and his hands, which were soft hands,
pale hands with burden of cloth,
in his hands where the cloth fell -
by my cheek, where it fell -
there, on the Dirt, spilled a lie,
a little false sliver of dark on Her
back, which arched under a feather sky.
Here is his shadow, all around me;
all around me lies the cloth in ease,
cotton-clouded swaddling cloth;
but where the sky? where the Dirt?
Here, as I emerge (and cannot release
that swaddling cloth, lest I tremble without
that swaddling cloth); here they are
(O how the fingertips coldly sieze,
O such feeling, to be flooded with cold)
as I emerge, blindfolded, blinded with ease;
and there he is, and there the sky,
but nothing else. Where everything else?
Crack and break and ruin (please
let there be nothing else)
and him and the sky, and nothing else.
There he is, naked, nude,
warm stone; mundanely hewn - am I not ashamed?
But my eyes: I see him; blinking I see him, veined
with red, madness and mess rock-blotting red, red as a beast,
red as skin and red as nerve; red with lust and hunger;
"act, do"... and there the loss,
where a star falls from his eye and splashes in the Dirt;
there he is alive; disgusting, alive; naked -
there, the sky. So empty, sky,
where lost shapes reel, and missing hues,
and the grass's gulp, the dry bleach,
where the dying hiss rustles
over bones, and the shapes of bones,
charred there into the earth
(amidst crack and break and ruin)
in black light-ink; where the sky whistles
not seed nor tune, not relief; no,
too slow, the sky, to spin them out.
What fossil am I? Here (where the Dirt is warm, still warm;
and the sky light, lighter than before) where I see - how I see! -
am I wrapped in sinew, and bound in bandage,
and creaking and peeling and bloated with air.
And here do I, act, do, inch into the distance;
there the green plays in the sky, flickering in the world's walls,
there the fly and the bird,
there the blood, trickle from cut,
there they play and draw me on,
ignored, and I ask: "Tell me:
do any of you grow?"
Mask
Among a heap of broken images
sits a gilded mask,
raven's feathers framing
framed eyes, every glint
either love or hatred,
mirth or a tear,
which there I break,
once in a blue moon,
to mend with glue
with the rising of its splendour
in the despised Sun.
O Lord, O poet,
singer, whatever else
may hear me,
say that my gaudy enemy
will never again mock me
from behind the hills,
say that my indignity
is over, that the prostitution
of my faithful soul
might be brought to its close.
Lower the curtain, I pray,
and let the mask,
as it falls, reveal only
a smile.
Sorry
Well, I've embarrassed you and I again
in recollection of what has passed:
the only witnesses,
the morning dew on brash weeds
feeding on the damp stones
which impressed themselves
upon the downturned soles
of my bare feet;
the coils of smoke
which rose from lips
(which once,
before permitted memory,
had purpose)
and vanished, blushing,
into the scarlet air;
the smoldering butt, discarded
in a pampas:
all fleeting and silent.
Still mind,
permit; still heart,
never repent:
with which three words
I may not speak,
brim and overflow.
On Being Ill
An illness, insulate,
has seized my breast,
swelling to burst from its
tiny sample,
hungry, hungry, to feed
on my each limb,
on its warden,
on each fellow
prisoner, swelling
to consume. A contagion,
'controlled', fills
my no-man's-heart,
entrenched and, muddy,
shrinks from the
dust, kicked up
over it by scraping hooves
of rolling eyes, frothy mane,
bared teeth.
How could bars restrain
such a force? How could I,
weakened as I am,
weary of this mess,
keep safe the key?
Imprisoned in a prisoner's
prison, have mercy,
lay down, safe
and warm in my arms,
in my arms.
Now that all the pretentious poesy's done, I invite you to share your own.
I sometimes write hateful poetry about people I have loved and lost, perhaps another time :op
