tonight
i have multiplied myself
to find just one
that did not hold
a debt
to half-smoked cigarettes
yellow photographs
and black birds
picking on
red windows
the nanny clock
murmurs:
child
you are so much
thinner
grayer
your eyes
hang like coats
in a february closet
where are your bright marbles
your christmas shoes
and when did
pine
only describe
wood
i do not know
i say like a woman
who bleeds on easter morning
but whose eggs have long since
dyed the same color found in
stone-stung knees
and fingers
that touch
then let
go
it
has gone
and i burn up at
the constellations of
thief and grief
at the white bursts
of seven lonely sisters
and then
i understand
the language of closed doors
no more
and that word:
space
the moon catches me
at a window
she knows
i have long
stopped praying to stars
but
o
how
i
still
love to
see them
twinkle
*
A contest entry
- A Challenging Frenzy of Emotion by Jade Rain.
700 points, ended June 25, 35 entries
Bronze trophy winner
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 20 of 20
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beautiful.
I loved this. It left me with the sweet feeling that accompanies finishing a book you couldn't have enjoyed more and the same desire to read it again and again. I would love to tell you what my favorite part was, but I'd be copying and pasting most of your poem- so take my word and believe that I admire this work of art. -
that third stanza -- oh my. the february coat image is brilliant.
you know how much i love this. i find it so hard to comment on your poetry, as it always floors me.
i hope you're well.
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So after just commenting on Mary and mentioning her talent for metaphor and imagery I come here. You were one of the first poets I connected with here and honestly I have always been completely envious of your ability to express yourself in such unique ways with imagery and metaphor and all that other good poetic device stuff. I know you want the hope at the end but I almost want it to send at praying to stars. Hate to pick one out but the eyes hanging like coats in february closets... that's the kind of thing I wish I could do in my writing.
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you always kill me so softly...
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Gawd I wish my eyes didn't hang like coats in a February closet, but there you have it: all the things the mirror says to me that I dare not repeat. You have courage, girl!
I'm finding lots of layers in this, proof in the twinkle that the spells of the younger you are not completely worn off. Great the way you pulled that off. Yep.
Love this.
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yes...
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Simply stunning poetry - I can relate to this so very well.
~ Nicolette
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I loved this. You leave me speechless every time, deary
Jeanette*~
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Your imagery ain't so bad either. Good luck in the contest Darcy.
Lisa
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I mean, i get it, dat part dat i say snip, and there's nothing wrong with it, but I don't think da pomer NEEDS it. I think some of da power is lost wit da meandering. Oh, I'm muttering. Sorry.
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You know...you don't strike me as someone who still finds romance and hope in stars. But I feel that if you DO in some small way, then maybe, just maybe, a star won't have to die tonight because of me...
Thank you.
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You never mutter, my darlin' Mr. P. I am beyond the moon for your wonderful comment and suggestions. I have changed a smidge here and there, however, the part that needs to be snipped...well, it is a personal reflection of why I stopped believing in stars. But I'll looks again to see what I can trim and save the reader from going 'huh?' lol
And yes, that twinkle is a nod to you and your greatness. And maybe a hint that I'd love to see that pomer posted again on your page...?
Again, thank you...
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Oh, I don't know. Maybe you should just leave it.
You know, every time you say, "I don't believe in stars," a star dies.
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ahhhh, cute that little asterisk twinkling on the black at the end of the pomer, reminiscent of "shine" i think.
The ending is a bit surprising. It's one of my favorite by you, dis pomer. I've been saying that often lately, but, hey, peoples be improving and writing gooder pomers, snot my fault. Ooops, dere go da value judgement again.
I think it might go on too long, and it starts to lose some of its focus in da middle. somewhere after that Christmas shoes bit, which is great. If this were my pomer, i'd probably try so snip some from the guts between dat xmas shitz and, well...I'd probably snip that stanza after it all together.
this bit:
i do not know
i say like a woman
who bleeds on easter morning
but whose eggs have long since
dyed the same color found in
stone-stung knees
and fingers
that touch
then
go
I'd probably snip that and then begin that next part with something a bit zestier than "i stare", but i'm probably missing something about the poem that makes that part vital or crucial or whatever, but hey, me simple Polack. The answer could still be "I don't know, then on..."
of course, me baffled by the title, as usual. I'd like to iterate here that I really really like dis one. I really do. AND not just that, BUT I think it is very good.
*French accent* supER.
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I like it when poetry affects me like this piece of writing does...
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I loved what you did with that "o" at the end. So, I entered your contest, like you implored and I was thinking while I read this, "wow, and she says she wants to be like me"...
Are you so sure about that... What a fantastic opening stanza. Of course I did think that the format in the gone part was a little strange in terms of reading it, but I know sometimes you are trying to convey emotion, more so than actually worrying too much about the consistent tone of the piece. We each have our own way of doing things and that is the great thing about art in general. You have a lot of killer lines here. Quite stunning, really.
;
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ohhhhhhh babe, this is stellar. i love when i can find myself in your words. whole third stanza was pure poetry, and the way you described the constellations was so lovely. you my friend are a true poetess and I am honored to be your friend. don't EVER stop writing.
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It maybe glass but oh how it shines
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me too.
I'm not sure about the last word, could end on 'them' for me.
Loved dead-eggs stanza, and the seven sisters one. Very, very fine work, hon.
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I am undone by your crippled sonata and am between the twin impulses to not desecrate your poetry with my gibbering like a simpering fan at the stage door, totally in awe, and the need to simply say Kudos. Neither seem adequate for the priviledge of reading your timeless, seamless, unique creativity which demonstrates what The Word is. I am incredibly moved by the poignance and melancholy. I could slow the server down waxing lyrical about every line, your phraseology hammers me, it nails me to a cross and I am happy to be crucified by it.
The debate re whether free verse is,in actuality, is poetry will be forever waged by afficionado's of rhyme and bless them, they cannot hear any other composition, any other song sung, unless it is to a set tune and whilst that is fine for them they are missing the beauty of listening to original compositions that make their own majestic music. Dearest poetess, you orchestrate with the individulaity of an orchid and not the banality of the red, red, rose. Outstanding!
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