When the sky strikes clouded hour
it should be sleep which you devour–
to lay your sights
upon the treasures of your birth;
shaded, still, but gold by mirth
a notion-thought, a nation-state
set upon the starry plate
lips consume by golden ticks
of time, of hearts, of callous pricks
(of soul, you dirty mind)
that in their feasting bind
further dawn, further hope
and leave the starving poets to elope
with museless musings
by economic typings–
which is to say, by morning I am weeping
for all the pains that you’re still keeping.
She woke before me,
straining her brush through aurora strands,
smiling at the pale gown
reflected in the blue-green mirror.
When she stretches,
pink melon breasts exposed at the nipple
collect prism dew, drowning
in the throb of rehydrated crystal needles.
The vapors of her perfume are scentless,
senselessly caressing the rivers of her eyes
like butterfly winds—fluttering out
from east to west; an oriental song.
But the lantern burns—
by night she is radiantly departed:
she lays her head in my lap
and the mascara runs in shadows down my leg.
*Out of season by the title, I know, but I hope you’ve all enjoyed the cool touch of this one all the same…my contribution to what may well be the last, or one of the last One Shot Wednesdays at One Stop Poetry. It has been an honor and a pleasure, everyone. I look forward to visiting you all outside of the linkies though, and to continue basking in your poetry as time rolls on.
Enfold in me
your light, your life–
sweet summer child
turn not your color from my heart,
the scent of pine trees,
sculpted in the dawning,
where all of nature is the swell at your sweet breast,
the gathered breaths cultivating
convalesced coercion of my soul.
Breath to breath, I seek your notes,
the tantalized texture of your smile
writhes still in me, in places
only faith should know.
You drink me, though you do not know
the taste of my desire–
the character in the caricature–
myself, I, wilting in that shade,
in those dark places where your lips and light
shall never know, nor ever sing.
when you would walk through moon beams
silver youth, in my mind,
your long-tossed hair that fleeting glimpse
unworthy hands would never know.
A dream-wrought kiss
for all sensation’s cheer—
a note to set the pen to dance
beneath your light.
What is your name?
Reality, but a longing and a life
no bearing on the yearning—
the dreamer’s supple realm.
A thousand ships would sail for you,
in mind, while your eyes turned—
it wasn’t till the flesh took my hand,
crowned in cruel identity
cast me out to sea
that all those ships were set to burning.
* My latest contribution to One Shot Poetry Wednesday. This piece was essentially the second part to the post I made yesterday, on muses and their very real, physical departure, in the form of people. Yesterday I gave other people’s thoughts on muses, but today I put forth my own thoughts on the muse’s withdrawal. For those with a physical embodiment to their own creative drive…
Gustave Moreau's, Hesiod and the Muse (1891)
This week, I’ve been dwelling a lot on the concept of the muse, particularly owing to the fact that a person I once took to be the physical embodiment of my own muse recently dropped out of my life in any meaningful manner.
Necessities, in life, I suppose…but it does hurt to see such dramatic shifts in relations with others. To watch yourself drift entirely out of someone else’s life. Particularly when the creative in you recoils from the blow, in such horror…
This week’s quotes, thusly, are based on the concept of the muse, as shall my submission for One Shot Wednesday tomorrow. Enjoy.
“Illustrious acts high raptures do infuse, And every conqueror creates a muse. ”
“O! for a muse of fire, that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention.”
“A muse can be a mirror: a reflection of the artist’s desires, anxieties, dreams and needs.”
Your song at midnight moon
dancing in the starlight
to Owl eyes
predatory notions of existence
concealed in civility
the hands know not
the texture of your moment
for the breaths
they force between us.
I dub thee Goddess Moon,
Patron of the painter’s boon
Mistress of the writer’s swoon
The world could circumnavigate
This trait, you call thy state
But they would only desecrate—
That holy word, this blurred
In bitter flight, bird
I am certain they should call absurd
But here you are, a smile
Resting yet upon the winds of wile
Of your fertile guile
Of my dearest heart’s devotion—
This world is not yet ready for your motion.
My latest contribution to the wonderful One Shot Poetry Wednesdays! Once you’ve had a look, check out some of the other One Shot Poets as well– they’re a skilled bunch of poets, looking to form a community and support one another. Enjoy!