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The sky and her epileptic frenzies,
Seemed as beautiful as melted alkaline
Raining into archaic canyons,
Where metallic whimsies form into stigmas of origami,
Alive and enraptured,
As a broadened pupil inhales to awe at it;
To fulminate, as though pregnant,
Where all that is sought are skeletal fragments,
Fingers churned by an aluminum windmill,
Where constellations are pasted, forming a hand,
Of light, sprawled
To grip the eye,
And drink the sun, erect and supple:
The epitome of the eye cannot be weaned
From the breast of observation.
Warm milk seething
across the indigo blankets of a jungle,
Where we lay hidden like insects abroad,
Pearl-like cocoons scattered across adolescent skies,
Where the seasons change by the wing of the butterflies,
Or the serenity mastered by the humble mantis,
Upon drowning into secreted teals of Atlantis,
Or the needy and wanton likes of the leech,
Where the sun orgasms into a silent breach.
Yet enslaved and tedious became the bee,
Where stars were pressed, and morning became
To bask in the psychedelic iris of a storm,
Like a vivacious philistine welding braids of cells
Into sequence; rushing into the arteries of the Caribbean.
Arms flexing to cradle electrified roofs,
Of sapphire cathedrals, mounting-
Swelling into a rhapsody of hellish chimes,
Bellowing! Paralyzing the eyes, clutching their hearts,
That for centuries of recycled skins and bones,
Cannot understand the residue of time,
Dangling on the crowned brilliance of the mind,
When dawn sprayed merciful perfumes on the
A spectral dystrophy that only moves by the will
Of a breeze,
Celebrating in the jamborees of the majestic aurora,
Sweet tempered and crystallized,
For the eyelids,
To kiss and wander in the chambers of a
Oranges peeled as my lips marvel,
Blazing with passion, I become the scapple,
Cupping the ocean in my hands,
And gliding it across the sun,
At the potter's wheel.
Breathing a bottled message, I wanted to,
Free the sparrow inside of my ribs,
And flutter in the celestial currents where,
The angels shroud the sky with feathered carpets,
And ballads are written in between the looms,
A phantasm captivates my eyes to search,
For a face, a hope, behind the
Trails of musk resurrects my soul,
To become green of cloves, sufficed by the rain,
Of a thousand horsemen rejoicing their wives,
And the children became the grass, the flowers,
Crawling the sky's apron like a spider, reaching,
Fervently thanking their mother for the love,
That sets in their eyes as a honey-dipped moon,
Saffron lips shattered to touch all the faces,
Of the creatures and become a mirrored tomorrow.
And their father never failed,
To be the light for his seedlings to walk upon,
Wrapping them in sheets of ripening yellows,
In the harbor of
The Lunar Eclipse.
| this was absolutely fantastic. i am impressed. |
thanks for the post.
|| Posted on 2007-10-08 00:00:00 | by fryte | [ Reply to This ] || "Trails of musk resurrects my soul": ungrammatical concord was deliberate? or not...?|
That aside - ignoring it - this was pwetty. Poetic. Sometimes the rhythm seemed off (though I'm not very well-read in poetry), especially in the longer segments; but the imagery was darn near gorgeous.
Azuire and A. Friend
|| Posted on 2007-07-23 00:00:00 | by Azuire | [ Reply to This ] || Beauty is in the mind of a poet and that is the vast truth even an amateur poet is proud to shout at any soul that would care to listen. This is very thoughtful. You really have every reason to be proud of your writing skills, your word usage and your style. You're very talented and you should really write as much as you can. I liked the imagery the most. Very unique!||| Posted on 2007-03-22 00:00:00 | by Porcelaine | [ Reply to This ] || I may have already used this as an example, but I used to go to camp, and there they have a medieval theme for certain activities.... And you had to complete certain tasks depending on how high you were in the echelons, and I was basically at the top to the point where they always had to invent new ones for me - also to the point where the tasks became literally impossible. One thing I was proud of was that I never gave up even if I missed one activity, and in the end, I defeated their "impossible" system... Mouhahaha! But the point of the story is, now I work at the camp and I watch over a load of kids, which I may have mentioned as being the best part of my years... Well anyhow, how this relates to your poem (more or less the quote) is that now I see how big of a joke those challenges have become... Not that nobody does them anymore, but just that the other councillors just use those challenges to make little kids do weird things to laugh about it. I personally didn't like the idea and it had me thinking - I learnt some stuff, realized how I could do some pretty hard things, but in the end did it really matter? Not really. What made it important was the fact that I cared so copiously about it, as every child seems to. And I've never really decided whether or not that caring was being foolish, or truly indulging in one of life's qualities; blissful ignorance. When I cared about those tasks I made them much more than what they actually were, substantially nothing, which is awesome. Somewhere along the line though, somebody had to be enjoying it in a spiteful way... Which is how a lot of things work in life...|
Besides that load of junk... I read your poem a few times now, before you kind of changed it (I'm really tired right now so my memory might also just be playing tricks on me) but I really liked the fact that you chose the sky to represent our minds. I couldn't agree anymore with you on that one... The planet herself has many moods, has many states of being, and feeling; the one thing that shares this the most with us is the sky. She herself has brainstorms, and from time to time, in her mind she literally portrays our souls melting into the sun as it slowly crawls under it's cover, under the horizon... There is also the much simpler idea that our minds are above us, and as many philosophers argue with dualism, there is a dichotomy between us physically and our mental being - just like the planet is separated from her beautiful skies - and a lot of simple beliefs show a spiritual link towards our spirits, our minds, going towards the sky, into the sky, into a paradise, or even her mind. This is a totally random cut by I loved your fifth paragraph, it was literally, the way I read it, as I just mentioned about the soul going into the sky or paradise, a place full of angels as you said, but then you say you're born again, resurrected, as a tree.. and the idea of crying being the rain, but not tears of sadness.. not they're tears of joy... It's actually a beautiful cycle if you look at it... The way you painted it I mean.. And just looking at the poem quickly.. a few words that stuck out were Me, Mask, Dandelion, The Tree (which doesn't respect the rules established in this piece, so it must be coupled with..) The Lunar Eclipse. Also something I noticed is that you say the father, which I supposed was God, offers a light always to his creations to be guided by.. but you contradict yourself by saying you grew up in a solar eclipse - which is mind you the DARKEST place you could physically be at, ignoring buildings and mountains and caves. So why do you grow there Nadia? What makes you so lucky? Or are you simply denying that you're a "seedling"... Or maybe I'm just reading this wrong...
Well... I must say... I very much enjoyed this piece for it's images, it's jovial ideas... and metaphors... You truly do have a beautiful mind to be able to write something like this..
|| Posted on 2007-03-20 00:00:00 | by Outlaw | [ Reply to This ] |