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Literature Text
I. So it comes to this: pangea tearing itself raw
from our throats to pour into squares of newly open sky
where the stars grew aches and darkened lakewater
once bloomed into bruised winters. Somewhere
beyond the thick of snow, prayers are strung
on moon-rattled winds
and birds' teeth tear apart the poetry
of our hands. They will raise something beautiful
from these ruined words.
Continents shift slowly. They are
dirt-bound titans, these beasts;
rootless giants that mold themselves
to fit the vision we hold inside our heads. Oceans sigh
and their tides crawl ever upward.
II. Our shadows become umbilical
in certain light. Unknown children cast
dark shapes of water
to nourish the gardens springing forth
from the dirt's wrist like a eulogy for lost sky.
Morning doves sing because they see what we cannot:
the years between us laid out like miles and our feet
that never mark the reddened earth and
the passion-trees birthing flowers of such cold, untamed souls.
We are walking in the wombs of stars. Here our soft-spoken dreams
turn stillborn, unmoving as the winter sun's spokes, unholy
as moonless night. You will find their ashes
in the form of lovers, back touching naked back.
III. A rainstorm grows in violent blossom. Its water does not fall
but tumbles, an endless stream of fists
tearing away clusters of scabbing clouds and battering
tender-eyed dawn. The horizon is a fresh wound
which cleaves the world in two, fraying at the edges
and unhinged like bald-faced craniums. Swollen moons
slip through the cracks to bathe forests
with handfuls of pale and sickly light. We become divine
in this darkness, even without wing or garb
or golden flame to illuminate the road. I do not turn
to sky to pray
when our feet become black with walking-- your words
are the only god I need.
from our throats to pour into squares of newly open sky
where the stars grew aches and darkened lakewater
once bloomed into bruised winters. Somewhere
beyond the thick of snow, prayers are strung
on moon-rattled winds
and birds' teeth tear apart the poetry
of our hands. They will raise something beautiful
from these ruined words.
Continents shift slowly. They are
dirt-bound titans, these beasts;
rootless giants that mold themselves
to fit the vision we hold inside our heads. Oceans sigh
and their tides crawl ever upward.
II. Our shadows become umbilical
in certain light. Unknown children cast
dark shapes of water
to nourish the gardens springing forth
from the dirt's wrist like a eulogy for lost sky.
Morning doves sing because they see what we cannot:
the years between us laid out like miles and our feet
that never mark the reddened earth and
the passion-trees birthing flowers of such cold, untamed souls.
We are walking in the wombs of stars. Here our soft-spoken dreams
turn stillborn, unmoving as the winter sun's spokes, unholy
as moonless night. You will find their ashes
in the form of lovers, back touching naked back.
III. A rainstorm grows in violent blossom. Its water does not fall
but tumbles, an endless stream of fists
tearing away clusters of scabbing clouds and battering
tender-eyed dawn. The horizon is a fresh wound
which cleaves the world in two, fraying at the edges
and unhinged like bald-faced craniums. Swollen moons
slip through the cracks to bathe forests
with handfuls of pale and sickly light. We become divine
in this darkness, even without wing or garb
or golden flame to illuminate the road. I do not turn
to sky to pray
when our feet become black with walking-- your words
are the only god I need.
Literature
Existential Crises
There was an odd feeling that washed over her on Saturday mornings. She sat dazed between unfinished paintings, white canvases with specks of reality, and piles of unorganized papers; they seemed to magically grow and multiply as if by an imaginary stroke of the hand. Some were bills she always forgot to pay, or letters from Dylan that always ended up, with the envelope still tightly shut, in the trash. You can read a person's personality, right to its gritty core, simply by examning their trash. She had Ding-Dong wrappers, ice-cream containers, sketches of people and people that were no-longer, and a rotting carton of orange juice with a lon
Literature
Vertigo
He sleeps the sleep of a man
who doesn't yet know that Love
sits sewing her shadow to the dawn,
nursing a subtle,
aching silence in his lungs
with her name, her shape.
He can't fathom how someone
can sit so deep inside him,
shelling the shadows of himself
as though there are moons at their core,
how he no longer believes
in falling lightly in love
but in committing himself
to inevitable call of concrete
or how she lingers like ink on his fingers,
like a story he's still figuring out how to write.
Literature
fate
fatalism stalks me.
its chalky finger-bones
scrabble at my windows,
greedy to pry panes
and rend gaps—
mouth agape
to vent its algid breath.
conjured,
like a voodoo zombie
of the bayou,
by pious disciples
to the temple of matter.
they strain to evade
the burden of their choices,
worrying at the knots of destiny
and scattering dust
to fill in our footprints.
in a sly reversal of legerdemain,
they entice hands from rudders,
with their relentless mantra:
"free will is illusion!"
but illusion is smoke,
and stars still burn in my chest.
not nebulae, but hard points and brilliant.
I pass through them,
burning the fog
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A very last-minute prompt fill for #transliterations. OTL This procrastination thing, it is taking over my life.
The prompt was this lovely triptych:
We were supposed to "translate" the effect of the painting into writing, so I kind of failed at that. Like. How did I even go off on this tangent? But hey, I'm kind of proud of this piece. All's well that ends well, I suppose. :3
Comment, please?
Questions:
Do the sections feel connected, or are they too disjointed?
How effective are the descriptions?
After you saw the triptych, did you see the poem differently? Or if you saw the triptych first, do you now see the painting differently?
EDIT: GUYS GUYS A DD, WHAT IS THIS NONSENSE. How did this happen. Holy crap, I love you all. Beccalicious and Halatia, you are freaking awesome. Thank you so, so much to everyone who faved this. I'm sorry I can't respond to all of you personally. <3
The prompt was this lovely triptych:
We were supposed to "translate" the effect of the painting into writing, so I kind of failed at that. Like. How did I even go off on this tangent? But hey, I'm kind of proud of this piece. All's well that ends well, I suppose. :3
Comment, please?
Questions:
Do the sections feel connected, or are they too disjointed?
How effective are the descriptions?
After you saw the triptych, did you see the poem differently? Or if you saw the triptych first, do you now see the painting differently?
EDIT: GUYS GUYS A DD, WHAT IS THIS NONSENSE. How did this happen. Holy crap, I love you all. Beccalicious and Halatia, you are freaking awesome. Thank you so, so much to everyone who faved this. I'm sorry I can't respond to all of you personally. <3
© 2011 - 2024 CyneNoir
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