Prose Poem

Okay, it is time to introduce you to the hybrid known as "prose poetry". Not really a poem, and not really prose, this homogenous mixture of the two is in prose form, but has the lyrical qualities and rhythm of poetry. Let's see what you make of this one.

BACKGROUND: I wrote this one a few weeks ago and while it started out to be about someone I knew a long time ago, it of course wound up being about me (much like all art is mostly about the artist), and my inability to let go of things, to admit defeat, and the need I have to solve every situation. Enjoy!


Those in need of salvation are dangerous. At first it is flattering, to repair something so broken. It is an apotheosis, to pull a soul from so near death. Beguiling in its nature, pity breeds love, a kind of sick love that leaves you breathless.
They regard you with such idolic adoration, that even the whisper of your name sounds like a prayer.
It is a gross intoxication, like the taste of rotten fruit, yet so addictive, some think it is the closest they will come to God.
The curtain flips on you in an instant, from crimson to a dusty black. There are only two paths ahead and both are grim.
Either you grow to hate the sound of prayers, and whispers, even the sound of your own name said so pleadingly in despair. Or you live short days, trying to save them, from unknown foes and mirrors in their heads.
Both roads end in failure, and the fall from grace is thorny and red. The loss is so inevitable, it leaves only annihilation and horror in its stead.
Gingerly you stand amid the wreck of what you used to be, cutting your feet on broken dreams. There is no one for miles, old friends and lovers long left behind; a small trade for such godly worship as you have received.
Yet you are deceived, fool, because the battle was always destined to be lost. And while you wasted years trying to save them, there was no one left to save you in the end.

In need of a title.

All right everyone, I know I've had a bit of a hiatus, spent the last week enjoying life, rather than writing about it, but two days ago this came to me, and it might be the best damn thing I've ever written. Tell me what you think and give me a title idea if you can. I'm at a loss.

Background: This is in response to a prompt for a sestina in my poetry class. A sestina is one of the hardest poems to write because the rhyme scheme is very specific. Each line must end with a series of the same six words and the scheme goes like this:

1. ABCDEF
2. FAEBDC
3. CFDABE
4. ECBFAD
5. DEACFB
6. BDFECA
7. (envoi) ECA or ACE

Enjoy and let me know what you think. I'm really proud of this one. 

Unforgiving Dream (temporary)

I remember the first day I saw the knife

Small little thing, tucked away, hiding the sharpness…

Its glisten drew my eyes, like in some “Sweeny” dream

And beckoned me to take it in my own idle hand.

The handle felt warm, fleshy, as though some  body

Had already held it pressed against their skin.

I smiled, coyly, and touched it to my own skin,

The blade’s cold, quiet danger, made the knife

Feel to me like your caress. My body

Became listless, my senses lost their sharp

Bite, and when you touched my hand

You, me, the knife, all three fell into dreaming.

And as we slept, we all three dreamed:

I of your sinew, muscle, flesh and skin,

You dreamed of holding someone else’s hand,

Between us, with hollow dreams, slept silently: the Knife.

Should it have tossed in its sleep, its sharpness

Would have cut us both in our slumber. Three bodies

Intertwined, each one a slave to our own body’s

Needs. Yet truth does not come from dreams

And we must both awaken, with a sharp

Snap of the head and a flush of the skin,

Back to reality where between us is only a knife,

And two severed hearts, unable to handle

Even the slightest touch of a human hand.

Both trapped inside our own body

Of lies, and the only solution… the knife.

I believed, for a moment, the dream

That I was worthy to crawl inside your skin

But you are well protected, your edges sharp,

Unforgiving. Yet I tried to file down the sharp-

Rough parts of you, and somehow hold your hand.

I let you take me, and felt you inside my skin.

No longer a foreign prisoner of my own body,

I’ll weave real from the fabric of the dream

With sheer will power and if needs be, the knife.

Within my lonely life just for a moment, somebody

Took my hand and pulled me into a dream.

It all started and ended with a knife. 

In the Heat of Battle

Written today, hot off the press as I would say. Don't judge it too harshly, it needs more revision.

The web is thick with sieve and fluid.

Clinging to my flesh,

Osmosis through the skin,

Seeping into my blood,

Crushing my lungs,

Filling my heart,

Blinding me,

Freezing my tongue.

I’m lost in the thickness of it

The rotten smell

Creeps in my nose

Traveling through the cavity

Fogging my brain

Stealing the rich thick color

Killing the neurons

Blocking the synapses…

I can’t think!

I can’t breathe!

Where do I turn?

What do I do?

I am a pile of flesh

With no working organs

This mess I’m in

Is killing me…

Week three... still trudging

So I've decided to be diligent and continue posting here, despite the fact that very few people are probably reading it. I suppose it might take a while for anyone to notice, if they ever do, but I am hopeful, and of course relying on you, dear reader, to spread the word. I am going to give you one of my favorite poems today, "The Flea" by John Donne, a metaphysical poet, who mostly focused on either sensual love poems, or religious ones. Most of his religious poetry is actually about man dealing with faith, and being torn between belief and atheism. This is definitely one of his love poems, see what you make of it. I'll tell you the truth, this is how I'd like to be wooed!


THE FLEA.
by John Donne

MARK but this flea, and mark in this,
How little that which thou deniest me is ;
It suck'd me first, and now sucks thee, 
And in this flea our two bloods mingled be.
Thou know'st that this cannot be said
A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead ;
    Yet this enjoys before it woo,
    And pamper'd swells with one blood made of two ;
    And this, alas ! is more than we would do.

O stay, three lives in one flea spare,
Where we almost, yea, more than married are.
This flea is you and I, and this
Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is.
Though parents grudge, and you, we're met,
And cloister'd in these living walls of jet.
    Though use make you apt to kill me,
    Let not to that self-murder added be,
    And sacrilege, three sins in killing three.

Cruel and sudden, hast thou since
Purpled thy nail in blood of innocence?
Wherein could this flea guilty be,
Except in that drop which it suck'd from thee?
Yet thou triumph'st, and say'st that thou
Find'st not thyself nor me the weaker now.
'Tis true ; then learn how false fears be ;
Just so much honour, when thou yield'st to me,
Will waste, as this flea's death took life from thee.




And much less awesome, of course, comes one of mine on love as well. I've been a lot into rhyme lately, so let me know what you think of it. 


Untitled

My eyes have now run dry,

The river is finally dead.

The tears have all been cried,

Wasted upon this lonely bed.

I’ve paid the price for love “so true”

With empty years that left an ugly stain.

I thought it was forever, but who knew,

That in the end I paid in vain?

There is no life inside me, a barren soul.

My heart has flat-lined without hope

Of life renewed or ever being whole,

And I crumble down a deadly slope.

Yet like Byron, like Shelley and like Keats

I’ll glue the pieces back together with my poem.

It will mend this lonely heart until it beats

And keep it strong and fast, unbreakable like stone.

No longer in love, no longer weak and sad

No more a slave, to offer my heart as a token.

You say my words are empty and that I am mad

But lock your heart away, to mend the part that’s broken.

Half-cut worm

Welcome back... if anyone is even reading this. It's time for a new week, and a new poem. Hope you enjoy this one, it is without a doubt my favorite poem.

Background: So I was in rehearsal one night, trying to focus on my lines when movement on the black floor caught my eye. When I examined it closer, I saw that it was a worm who had been cut in two, but only partially. Half of its body was wriggling trying to free itself from the other dead half. That inspired this poem.

The Half-Cut Worm

The Half-Cut Worm writhes in its sorrow,
Twisting and turning in the dirt,
Dragging along the dead appendage
That is its body, was its life.

And I writhe with it
In my own yellow, putrid muck
My life no more significant
Than that of the Half-Cut Worm

And yet it goes on living,
A half-life, this half-cut worm,
Should I go on living with it,
A half-cut soul instead?

New Beginnings

I tried this once before, and much like the procrastinator that I am, I completely abandoned it. I think even Blogspot, outraged with my utter laziness, booed and promptly excommunicated my poor fledgling blog from its digital congregation. So like the prodigal son I have returned to beg forgiveness and acceptance back into the fold. I will make it my solemn promise(-ish) to post at least one poem here a week. Sometimes they may not be my own, because let's face it, "we stand on the shoulders of giants", and I'm a working student so my time's limited, but I promise that if you stop by, I will give your week a literary touch. So if you enjoy poetry, and I don't mean that kind that no one can understand or even read, but the kind that creeps into the soul and makes a nest there, then stop by. If you like what you see, comment, and if you don't, comment anyway, and if you really like it, tell your friends at work, maybe they'd enjoy some poetry too. Just to start off the festivities I'll give you a couple of my own.

A little background: This poem was written for class, with the prompt: Erotic poem. It got me to thinking about what men and women find erotic, and how each would react to the fulfilling of their fantasies. Because it is impossible to truly cater to a woman's fantasy, I figured I'd focus on the guys.

Simple Seduction

Tell me your fantasy,

Tell me what you want.

I’ll do whatever you please,

I’ll do whatever you can dream.

Forget the rules of man,

Forget the laws of God,

Turn off the lights and

Turn on all your desire.

Let your hands roam freely,

Let your lips search unafraid.

My body is yours for the taking,

My skin yours to explore.

I can be fair and sweet,

I can be dark and dangerous,

Lift you to heights of passion,

Lower you down onto your knees.

I’ll be obedient and please you,

I’ll cast a spell and drive you wild.

Touch you,

Taste you,

Charm you,

Curse you,

Until…

If you haven’t seen it yet, sisters,

I have shown you a way that’s best

How to seduce any simple man

In 30 lines… or less.

Background: So my best friend and I were recently discussing moving in together and before I could wrap my mind around it I became nervous that she might decide to leave and go somewhere else. This poem is a reaction to the sense of abandonment (which was both overly sensitive and irrational, I was later told).

Breaking

Why do we love

When we know it leads to breaking…

A powerful explosion,

Bits of flesh.

It happens in a flash of violence,

The shrapnel fired at high velocity

Obliterating anything in its way.

And left behind is only smoke

And a memory of something

That was like a feeling.

What have we ever gained from a connection,

That is not paled by the pain?

Yet we keep on feeding it

Slivers of flesh,

Tossing,

Carelessly,

Pieces of us

Into an ever-boiling cauldron

Mixing with tar, and fat,

All growing together into a fitting meal,

For the slumbering monster that we call Love