At times
I eye my hands as if they don’t belong to me
searching for him
on the palms
but nothing is fired there
no smoke rises
and knowing the only true color
is absence
Dreams line up
along the shore
devoid of light
or even shadow
where I would sit and cry a thousand tears
but when I open up my eyes
I see the color of his tears
and he is beautiful
I used to stand as if I were not there
the quietness the purple of a bruise
not at the centre but at an angle
etching the deep gray lines
holding my stomach
spilling Lazarus down my shirt
evoking the perfect fit of his hand
and how once
it eased the sting in my fingers
My body has become an apology
entrails dangling pink
between paradise and fear
peeling my skin with the edge of desire
and survival
I have not yet stepped
into never being the same again
The Wild Colors of Absence
©crisstiena
_______________________________________________________________________________________
Author notes
When bunnies attack the inner sanctum of other fluffy things..
“If, later, you run aground
Among the headlands of Thrace,
Where with torches all night long
A naked barbaric race
Leaps frenziedly to the sound
Of conch and dissonant gong:
On that stony savage shore
Strip off your clothes and dance, for
Unless you are capable
Of forgetting completely
About Atlantis, you will
Never finish your journey” ~ WH Auden
A contest entry
- AP Best of the Best Season Three Preliminary by B Chandler.
300 points, ended March 15, 2007, 18 entries
Bronze trophy winner
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 6 of 6
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Oh how beautiful and wistful this piece is. Your word choice and flow are wonderful. I absolutely loved this read
Ruth
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It was read slow and fell readily to the ground. Lovely flow, lovely words. Poignant and always haunting. Yes, sigh, I do love your work. Anything less than 3 seems heresy on this. SO three it is.
mark
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Stunning poem, i just love your style
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"My body has become an apology
entrails dangling pink
between paradise and fear
peeling my skin with the edge of desire
and survival"
Sighhh...whenever I see a new posting by you, I take a moment to clear my mind before I begin to read...for I know I am entering a sacred realm, a place I have never been before...& will never be again...Your words are a swirling, sacred dance of light upon parchment, my dear Friend...& it touches us all so deeply, we will never be ABLE, nor willing, to be the same again...Completely brilliant & mournfully beautiful, Sweetie...Good luck in Trina's contest, Dear Heart...Hope all is well in your world, Lady...You always know where I am...
Wanda
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cobblestone measurements...
Man, you are slapping my capstone with a knobby club as I go tumbling back into a frigid zone, slick with the ice of an evening crispier than those same kinds of colours you allude to. And now that your shirt is ruined and your hands have become arthritic with the science of mother nature, how do you step between the fine lines of having and not having? How do you navigate compiled mercies, public oblivion, wired requirements and frothing markets?
Also, a great piece of Auden you’ve tapped into while none of us were looking – graces all smeared over bunker sponges; expunged among these tiffany throngs; prongs all piercing side by side by each; the reach and the leaping frenzy coagulates in marble pools wrung with his and her tears, becoming salient water and rainbow fusion. Outstanding piece, Crissy!
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I haven't read you in a while, but reading this poem reminds me of the depth of your talent, the depth of emotion and images you create trought your words...as if you are writing for and about all of us. This is a beautiful poem and these lines "I have not yet stepped into never being the same again" are absolutely memorable and priceless. There is such a gentle sadness about this poem...the beauty of a conch washed ashore - lonely. This applies to both the human condition and the lost land of Atlantis. Absence indeed has a "wild colour" that so often is a journey that never ends. Beautiful, soulful and moving poetry.
~ Nicolette
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