Post by Anna on Nov 11, 2008 13:17:24 GMT -5
I decided to copy Scarlet and post some poems, just because poetry is a huge part of my life. Sadly I haven't written much since September, but these are from over the summer. They were from a workshop at Lewis and Clark college, and so they are slightly weird and random, in different styles, etc.
--
boy bands will sing of this.
"it's kind of love," you say,
and your seashell eyes blink staccato
to the 6/8 time of your
paper heart -
I can see the waves crash in
the ink drop pupils there
and can hear the ocean
when I cup your lips around
my ear.
you try to share your breath
but the salt and sand spray
stings my ears
and I close my eyes
against the rapture.
you touch instead
fingers playing and pressing quiet notes
into the sun burnt skin
and this composition will go down
in history, first recorded
in the melodies of our synchronicity.
"yeah," I say to the time of
the metronome of our reverie,
which ticks backward and out of sync,
"it's kind of love."
--
something of a memory.
a man leaning on a cane with rough stubble
and no smile, anonymous man
walking in front of all eyes
to me,
telling me the bad news
lightly as a messenger,
explaining
he'd taken one too many pills
and his heart just beat too fast,
too fast,
but in a dangerous way
not in the way he used to tell me,
the way he'd whisper,
"my heart is beating
too fast, too fast,
you make it beat too fast."
The messenger didn't tell me this.
he didn't know like I did,
he only knew facts, facts
and he ignored all the faces around
as he watched mine and explained
in a museum voice
that he had taken one too many
and his heart had just beat too fast,
too fast.
something of a regret.
I remember when he started taking the
pills,
around the same time that I started
smoking,
we'd stand, smoke and static buzz filling
the thought bubbles around our heads,
unfurling like our fingers
when we gave up holding on to our grips.
and we wouldn't talk.
He never told me when I stopped
making his heart race
but I guess he needed the pills
to make it beat too fast, too fast again.
I wonder if he knew I'd be the death of him.
"too fast, too fast," said the messenger
and I lit a cigarette to remember.
--
I wasn't prepared for this,
the spread of pollen on your lips
and the soil between your toes;
surprises bound me in bee's honey
sickly sweet holding me down
to watch you become
one with the earth.
I wasn't prepared for this,
this unexpected,
self inflicted
turn of events.
The gleam in your eye, mud on your skin
and patchwork bruises on your knees.
I wasn't prepared
or very much scared
but when the earth swallowed you whole,
there were holes.
--
Dearest Cheater,
I use you as an excuse not to let men kiss
me on the mouth. I don't need to dot
around my lips and skin to show where
you've been. You left tattoos and now I
only look in the mirror when it's fogged
with shower. Mostly, all fingers feel like
yours now. There is always dust on the
windowsill when I wake up, but I don't
clean without your eyelashes. I'm sorry
for stealing your birthmrks when you were
asleep. I guess you really showed me.
--
boy bands will sing of this.
"it's kind of love," you say,
and your seashell eyes blink staccato
to the 6/8 time of your
paper heart -
I can see the waves crash in
the ink drop pupils there
and can hear the ocean
when I cup your lips around
my ear.
you try to share your breath
but the salt and sand spray
stings my ears
and I close my eyes
against the rapture.
you touch instead
fingers playing and pressing quiet notes
into the sun burnt skin
and this composition will go down
in history, first recorded
in the melodies of our synchronicity.
"yeah," I say to the time of
the metronome of our reverie,
which ticks backward and out of sync,
"it's kind of love."
--
something of a memory.
a man leaning on a cane with rough stubble
and no smile, anonymous man
walking in front of all eyes
to me,
telling me the bad news
lightly as a messenger,
explaining
he'd taken one too many pills
and his heart just beat too fast,
too fast,
but in a dangerous way
not in the way he used to tell me,
the way he'd whisper,
"my heart is beating
too fast, too fast,
you make it beat too fast."
The messenger didn't tell me this.
he didn't know like I did,
he only knew facts, facts
and he ignored all the faces around
as he watched mine and explained
in a museum voice
that he had taken one too many
and his heart had just beat too fast,
too fast.
something of a regret.
I remember when he started taking the
pills,
around the same time that I started
smoking,
we'd stand, smoke and static buzz filling
the thought bubbles around our heads,
unfurling like our fingers
when we gave up holding on to our grips.
and we wouldn't talk.
He never told me when I stopped
making his heart race
but I guess he needed the pills
to make it beat too fast, too fast again.
I wonder if he knew I'd be the death of him.
"too fast, too fast," said the messenger
and I lit a cigarette to remember.
--
I wasn't prepared for this,
the spread of pollen on your lips
and the soil between your toes;
surprises bound me in bee's honey
sickly sweet holding me down
to watch you become
one with the earth.
I wasn't prepared for this,
this unexpected,
self inflicted
turn of events.
The gleam in your eye, mud on your skin
and patchwork bruises on your knees.
I wasn't prepared
or very much scared
but when the earth swallowed you whole,
there were holes.
--
Dearest Cheater,
I use you as an excuse not to let men kiss
me on the mouth. I don't need to dot
around my lips and skin to show where
you've been. You left tattoos and now I
only look in the mirror when it's fogged
with shower. Mostly, all fingers feel like
yours now. There is always dust on the
windowsill when I wake up, but I don't
clean without your eyelashes. I'm sorry
for stealing your birthmrks when you were
asleep. I guess you really showed me.
