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Literature Text
if she could make the early mornings with her eyes
that swallow the wings of straggling stars and
recede into themselves to become churning salt-lakes
that lap at the insides of her irises
with moonshine-crusted crescent waves--
with her fingers
that trace the paths of roller pigeons
plummeting through the pale mist
and cutting arcs of blooming dawn across the sky
like scars, sunlight falling from the horizon in spades
to wound the freshly-turned earth--
if she could make heaven with all the things
cradled inside her heart:
the brittle arms of
sycamore trees drumming lullabies against
her lungs, the river reeds shaped like
the whispers of rainstorms, the daffodils whose heads
are crowned with wheels of thunder and
the clouds that turn belly-up and move
backwards, their lightning striking at her feet
upside-down, sucking back the currents from the sea
to spit out gardens of angel-bone coral
and islands with faces that have yet to be named.
that swallow the wings of straggling stars and
recede into themselves to become churning salt-lakes
that lap at the insides of her irises
with moonshine-crusted crescent waves--
with her fingers
that trace the paths of roller pigeons
plummeting through the pale mist
and cutting arcs of blooming dawn across the sky
like scars, sunlight falling from the horizon in spades
to wound the freshly-turned earth--
if she could make heaven with all the things
cradled inside her heart:
the brittle arms of
sycamore trees drumming lullabies against
her lungs, the river reeds shaped like
the whispers of rainstorms, the daffodils whose heads
are crowned with wheels of thunder and
the clouds that turn belly-up and move
backwards, their lightning striking at her feet
upside-down, sucking back the currents from the sea
to spit out gardens of angel-bone coral
and islands with faces that have yet to be named.
Literature
Hearts on Her Breath
my bottom ribs dig into the counter-top
i exhale bluish smoke
{wonderfully//desperatelywonderfully}
onto the kitchen window
both my lonely eyes search
{delicately//desperatelydelicately}
for your finger-paint hieroglyphics
my knuckles morph into baby teeth, threatening to burst from taut skin
it's not that i'm tense.
it's not that i'm used to you holding me up to see out this window.
it's not that all the color from my upper body is draining, dripping, and pooling
on the linoleum between my legs.
it's just that
i want to know in my heart that when you're eighty and you have your ruddy grandkids making carpet angel
Literature
before
a little while ago
maybe a couple of months or something
i wasn't drinking ; instead i was
waking up to you
every morning you would stretch
and your spine would move and i felt it all over
your skin stretched into the sun and
i saw it everywhere
but guess what, that shit was gold and
gold doesn't last and you didn't last.
i got boring and you got mean.
and you're less of a gypsy and more of
a woman and i know if i called you up tonight
said hey baby come home
how did we get here baby i'm crying on the
floor drinking lime pepsi
and this goddamn pepsi is flat. so why don't
you come home. just for the night.
you would say you h
Literature
we could never say
'-one year.'
'strange how things change.'
'i didn't know you a year ago.'
'you'll still know me in a year. promise you'll remember me, us-'
'gone. two words.'
'it still hurts.'
'i can't.'
'i thought we had it all.'
'we were perfect.'
'yeah.'
'what happened-'
'-no.'
'no.'
'do you ever think it could've been different, better?'
'not better. we were already there.'
'at our peak.'
'yeah.'
'i still think about us.'
'i know.'
'you do-?'
'i dream about it too; and you're always there staring back at me when i close my eyes.'
'you're my last thought when my breathing slows and my heart carelessly springs with the mattress.'
'it'
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I guess I can't really call this a writer's block anymore, seeing as I'm writing more than ever (though that might have something to do with the lack of school). It's more like "writer's block that prevents me from writing anything I really want to write." So I apologize for the bombardment of half-baked poems. 
This is not all what I thought it'd turn out to be. I pretty much kept playing the same three/four Death Cab for Cutie songs while I was writing it (namely Transatlanticism). They're quite good for poetic inspiration, and you should go listen to them. Like, now.
Questions for theWrittenRevolution:
Is the lack of capitalization off-putting?
How well does it flow?
Are the images effective?
All comments are appreciated and well-loved.
This is not all what I thought it'd turn out to be. I pretty much kept playing the same three/four Death Cab for Cutie songs while I was writing it (namely Transatlanticism). They're quite good for poetic inspiration, and you should go listen to them. Like, now.
Questions for theWrittenRevolution:
Is the lack of capitalization off-putting? How well does it flow? Are the images effective?All comments are appreciated and well-loved.
© 2010 - 2024 CyneNoir
Comments18
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First of all, the title is a great hook for the piece! It kinda starts to be poetic, then hangs off at the end, and made me want to keep reading.
Your imagery is just amazing. The bit about "wings of straggling stars" was the first one to really jump out at me, and I love the way you described how her fingers traced the pigeon's paths in the sky. And this little bit,
"if she could make heaven with all the things cradled inside her heart:..."
provided a great little pause right in the middle of the piece. It was an outstanding image, because it made my mind think right away of the huge expanse of the heavens, and then right away went into the inside of her heart... that was just too cool!
Other things I liked:
"sunlight falling from the horizon in spades to wound the freshly-turned earth,"
"brittle arms of sycamore trees drumming lullabies against her lungs,"
"river reeds shaped like the whispers of rainstorms,"
among others.
I honestly didn't notice the lack of capital letters until I read your description at the bottom, but now that I look at it, I just really like it for some reason.
You did an awesome job with this piece
I'm definitely adding you to my watch list.
Your imagery is just amazing. The bit about "wings of straggling stars" was the first one to really jump out at me, and I love the way you described how her fingers traced the pigeon's paths in the sky. And this little bit,
"if she could make heaven with all the things cradled inside her heart:..."
provided a great little pause right in the middle of the piece. It was an outstanding image, because it made my mind think right away of the huge expanse of the heavens, and then right away went into the inside of her heart... that was just too cool!
Other things I liked:
"sunlight falling from the horizon in spades to wound the freshly-turned earth,"
"brittle arms of sycamore trees drumming lullabies against her lungs,"
"river reeds shaped like the whispers of rainstorms,"
among others.
I honestly didn't notice the lack of capital letters until I read your description at the bottom, but now that I look at it, I just really like it for some reason.
You did an awesome job with this piece
I'm definitely adding you to my watch list.