The moment was a static secret,
our bodies poised like wax figurines with still-beating hearts.
Last night James and I sat in a railroad field as helicopters rose from the horizon
like too-bright stars; we read Shel Silverstein
in the fading dusk of a boxcar sunset.
The helicopters circled like carnivores
and we held on to each other like we were our own saviors,
knowing only that if we died right then
the moment would swallow itself up like an ouroboros
and we would never have existed at all.
We ran through the fields with our mouths open,
and he handed me a white daisy which he said was perfect.
I asked how perfection could be manifested in something so simple,
and he said "Exactly."
and I could only smile.
I wonder if the world could feel the vibrations of our love that night?
We followed the worn curvature of train car graffiti with our coarse fingers,
and sucked in the breath of each other
like it was the only sustenance we would ever need.
The path we had cut through the field was swallowed up by the sunset,
and we made our way back through skin-shearing brambles, unbudded roses.
Everything glowed with the dull, sterile hum of fluorescent warnings and day-glo paint.
We took off our shoes and sat down in silence.
He grabbed my hand,
so hard I was reminded I was made of bone,
and told me that sometimes he felt like he was living
in someone else's stolen skin.
We sat in silence and listened to the trains.
Our hands only touched occasionally
to remind each other
that all of this was real.
Author notes
Fiddling with a title. Still editing some.
First poem I've written in awhile and not felt the desire to crumble up in a ball and shove under the carpet.
A contest entry
- Graceful Tongues by rendezvous.
1500 points, ended July 19, 2008, 12 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Is this everything you hoped for?
Comments
1 - 13 of 13
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This, is some fine writing my dear, so real, so vibrant and alive! You are very talented. All the best in the contest.
Love and peace always,
mj.
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"He grabbed my hand,
so hard I was reminded I was made of bone,"
ahhgh. your words. this is so beautiful and real that I don't even mind the daisy whimsy that much. (which of course is great, in a way I can't entirely wrap my teeth around, and therefore don't enjoy that much- I think part of me doesn't want you to be running through fields with your mouth open because it's something I'd feel stupid about doing. but you can do it. doing that, and conveying that is part of who you are and what you do. and you do it perfectly. better than anyone. you do it honestly.)
I like the sentiment of the last line, but I'm not sure how I feel about the way you put it. and you always nail your endings. so I'll reread it and think on it.
you're great. -
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jebus.
Dearest, you are right. The ending is off. The whole piece is off, just a smidge, and I have to tweak it and all that, but I have to say, per always, that your comment made me so happy I was all "glee!" and told James "Julie always leaves the most fantastic comments." because you do. (That was an incredibly long sentence that I believe is still grammatical.)
I suppose I am all whimsy and such, but I have to be honest, as you've said, and this is me: honestly, really, this is me. And this night, almost to a tee (of course there is always the poetic license. of course.) really did happen, and I just had to record it so in twenty years when I am maybe a little less whimsy (I dare not think it, but it is possible.) then I can look back on this and smile and know it was not fiction, but this was my life and this is what I did and this is who I loved.
It reads like prose. I suppose that's one of my only qualms with it. I always write freeverse, but there's an underlying rhythm and beat that I feel this lacks. Maybe I've been writing too much prose lately. C'est la vie.
In any case, thank you thank you thank you.
I will review this and let you know when I do.
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Ahh, this is Fullness. Some brilliantly arranged imagery sauntering through this piece. Particularly enjoyed: "he grabbed my hand, so hard that I was reminded I was made of bone," the reference to ouroboros, and the very last line: awakening, really. Reminded me of a time when my Lover once closed a letter with "This is all really happening," and stole me away to the Moment.
In my book, a certain contender you are.
Thank you, so much, for this entry.
jen
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"I asked how perfection could be manifested in something so simple,
and he said "Exactly."
This is lovely poetry - very well-written, and yes, real. It leans towards prose but perhaps it's just the lay-out - anyway, it works! The lines I've quoted above remind me of a poem by Richard Brautigan "Stopping at Perfect Days".
~ Nicolette
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As a few of you have noted now, yes, this does lean more towards the prose. It makes me laugh a little bit because I know exactly why--I've been writing a lot of short stories lately. It's frustrating how I can do one or the other, but if I attempt to do both at the same time I end up making too verse-like prose or too prose-like verse.
Anyway, there are bits of this that I'm quite happy with, and bits of it that I'm not quite so happy with. I'll come back to this soon and play around with it a bit and see what happens.
Thank you. I think I may have read that poem, but I'm not sure. I am now going to google it and fulfill my curiosity... or maybe just stubbornness.
Anyway, thanks again.
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You used “boxcar” and my name in this poem. That caught my attention. I love the word “boxcar”. It’s the title of one of my poems on here and it’s in the poem as well. My only crit is this: “and we held on to each other like we were our own saviors” - Something about this line just reads off to me. Could be a sound issue. My attention is drawn to the “we were our” part. I think that’s what throws it off. It has been so long since I have read you. Well, not really. I read you lots. But commenting wise, it has been. Your strength as always been in your metaphors. In how you choose to illustrate the poetry with depth and comparisons.
This is littered with outstanding lines. I’m not going to post them here, obviously. This is on the verge of prose I think. But I could be wrong. It doesn’t really matter though as this is very effective. The third and fourth stanza are my favorites. I love how you have chosen to use the word “ouroboros”. Just everything gives off such a personal sheen here. That ending is dynamite. It is quiet, but oh so much more.
I love your stuff. Very strong.
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Hello love. Sorry I was so long in responding.
Your comments, like Julie's, always leave me with a feeling that there really are poets in the world who are worth speaking to and whose opinions I really genuinely respect. So thank you for that.
In any case, I, too, love the word "boxcar" a great deal, I think ever since the eighth grade when I read "Sunflower Sutra" and fell so deeply in love with Ginsberg that I would have given anything to be a boy child of the seventies, one of his many muse-like lovers. Of course, by now the love has waned, although I do still hold a special place in my heart for that man and that poem. Particularly that poem. In any case, I'm rambling. Boxcar is just a fantastic word.
That whole stanza that includes the line about being each other's saviors feels off to me. Although the whole poem reads more like prose than what I normally write, that stanza in particular stands out as a bit awkward when one tries to read it as poetry.
I have mixed feelings about the ending. I'm going to toy with it some.
Any way, thank you for reading. You are amazing and I will get around to commenting on your own beautiful words soon. -
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Well thank you very much for saying such lovely words about me. I appreciate when a writer can deeply get involved with their own works and do so with a tremendous amount of feeling and relevance, like you. There aren't many great writers so I am happy to find poets like you and people to share my time with as well.
Have you toyed with this at all? You might have to refresh my memory as I was on vacation and just now got back.
And no rush commenting on my poem wall. I'm not going anywhere and neither our my words.
I mirror your ginsberg thoughts. Though I probably have never looked up to him as much as you, I also respect and admire is deep intuition. I was raised on more of a charles bukowski appetite, with a lot of e e cummings, for good measure.
Take care of you now darlin'.
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This is amazing, the setting the snapshot of two people and all that surrounds them. A pleasure to read. Love, C
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beautiful !
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All of it was real. That is a beautiful poem.
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What a simply lovely compliment.
Thank you.
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