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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
Dogma: a sestina
Dogma:
So we began, as was the world, from air,
So too, in the beginning, was the word.
We met as strangers, as in some ancient idyll,
Caught among an unexpected course:
Lives lighted with those soft, celestial rays
Our eyes, our lips, our tongues a hymn of praise.
And what cannot be thought enough in praise,
Those words oft-said, but spoken with an air
With which the mountains crumble; angels raise
Their voices from the veil, or Holy Word
Echoes from its pages, lauds its course
Unstable though it be, but seldom idle.
Then falling from your grace, my love, my idol
To whom this lonely soul kneels down and prays,
My soul, my hear
Literature
a tongue of tea leaves
she has spoken with a tongue of tea leaves
the autumn pied piper
across discarded beer bottles
plays to the phantoms
of summer
the wind, her dusky eyes
a twinge to her rouged lips
rouge, and ragged
her nail polish sparkles
little asteroids glitter
like Orion's belt
she has three places, out of time
three droplets of crystal
the crystalline
she, with her tongue of fortunes
the divine, prediction, prey and predator
she's counting courtship flowers
the tolling bells
among absinthe and aromatic rings
the nettle and bee stings
so that between chances
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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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