Two poems I've been playing with for awhile. The 'you' in the two poems is the same person, I think.

Twilight

A swatch of grey streaks low along
the skyline, like windblown
Smoke, underbelly tinted in
red-like-blood,
And a full moon rises.

Wind whines through a forest’s darkling pines -
Trembling shadows against the horizon;
And the heady scent
Of a summer-storm lingers.

Rain in the limelight,
Each drop illuminated,
Frosted and silver.

And, even unseen, you. Always,
You:

Hair as dark as the bruised-blue of midnight,
Rain water glinting off your perpetually tussled curls
Like stars.

Eyes of honeyed darkness:
Tender fragility ensconced in steel bars;
Altogether damnably captivating.

Freckles like scattered fairy dust across moonbeam skin;
Full lips made for caressing my name
And pulling fragile smiles.

Delicate curves and sharp bones;
Gasping noises and sugar on the tongue.

Moonlight shudders on a murky, rain-spattered lake
And I can hear the sound of you calling my name,
Beckoning me further into the
Gloaming.




and





Addiction


Wreaths of grey linger in the air,
forming mock-halos over
your dark shock of curls,
and I drown in the edged curve of your smile.

Second hand smoke might
kill me baby…

…but I’d die a hundred times over
just to feel your lips pressed against mine
once more, shot-gunning cancer
straight into my lungs -
the sweetest injection of toxicity a girl could ever know.





Going into both poems, the 'you' character was not supposed to have curly hair. Gah.

Trying Not To Miss You

A shock of dark hair;
SoCo eyes; I drown in the
Edged twist of her smile.

Pulling the Short Half

In class today, we focused on the specific unit of a 'line' and how each line is as equally important as any other. We were told simply to write a poem about a tree in which we focused on making each line a seperate, distinct unit, to describe the tree in a different way. We were also told to make it one sentence. So.

Wish bone dual branches jut up from a trunk
bowled and rugged 'round the split with fat knots,
leading up to selves that are the same but different
for each sprouts leaves sunset gold and spring green
from tiny delicate twig-branches thining as they split
like veins narrowing down to a single drop of fall colored blood,
and each are dressed in richly dark fabrics of rough bark
and they both fill the air with the heady smell of growing things
and both cover the ground in dead leaves that crunch underfoot,
but one rises thicker, fuller, stronger than the other, dwarfing its twin,
casting better shade, dappling the ground in more shadow,
rustling all the louder from the keening wind...
and greedily stealing more of the sunlight.

(That's where it ended in class, but I was kind of considering adding something about how someone who wanted to climb the tree would choose the thinner of the two branches, as it would be a good deal easier to climb than its fat twin, but I'm not entirely sure if I want to add people into it, or just leave it as a simple description.)

Playing with objects

So, in my creative writing class yesterday, my professor brought in four items: an apple, an orange, a piece of rope, and a pair of scissors. She had us spend two or three minutes with each item, detailing taste-smell-touch-etc, as well as the memories involved with such items. Afterwards, she had us spend about five minutes or so writing something with these four items, using our just-written notes to help us.

A last harvest on the farm, apples strewn like leaves in the Fall, sweet and soft. Oranges plucked in droves, a fresh treat, a last taste of summer, the soft innards sweet and light on the tongue like summer sunlight. Children running underfoot, laughing, stealing fruit out of poorly attended baskets. Young couples make a game of the apple picking, racing to see which pair can fill a basket most in an allotted time - he dashes up, scaling the branches with ease and dropping them down to her, or she, hiking up her skirts, pulls herself up to meet him.
Farmers in a nearby field roll up massive bales of hay and tie them 'round and 'round with twine. One of the young lovers laughs and nudges her partner, whispering a scandalous question about whether or not he would like to tie up her wrists tight like those bales. Another pair shares an orange under the shade of their tree, game forgotten. They lick their sticky fingers clean, careful not to miss a drop, and he leans forward to taste the juice on her lips.
Children sit in the sun, cutting up paper with child's safety scissors, making decorations for the feast that is sure to follow such a harvest and long day's work.

(To Gee - does it remind you of a certain scene in a certain book?)

Traded First Lines

We started talking about poetry in my creative writing class today. The professor had us write out seven possible first lines of a poem in three or four minutes... and then we had to switch one of these lines with a neighbor and, using their lines, write a poem in about five minutes.

I've been meaning to post something here for ages, and now seemed as good a time as any.

My line was: 'His face was stark and gargoyled'. This is what came from that -

His face was stark, gargoyled by the flickering light of the candles,
Shadows pooling queerly in the hard planes under his cheeks,
And around the tight set of his jaw.
A romantic dinner planned, bought, set for two
With immaculate, delicate care –
All in readiness but for the lack of his lady lover.
Four hours ago, time still for hope;
Three hours ago, dismay set in,
Two, and anger sidles to the surface, black and fierce,
One, and the heart sinks low.
Now, the clock chimes midnight,
The moon stands at its apex and the stars twinkle brightly, mocking,
Now, time only for resignation, and a back
Turned with finality on an eighth and last effort.