labellementeuse | (no subject)

On speaking with

thinkaholic earlier, I was reminded I haven't updated my poetry on here for yonks... since I treat my LJ as something of a non-corporeal filing box, you therefore are the lucky recipients of a poetry dump. *eyeroll*

the words and letters triptych
(title seriously only a way of categorising three poems that sort of go together. I think. Maybe. Tell me if you think they don't fit well together?

untitled (suggestions gratefully received)

I want to write you poetry
instead of letters: what
I write in prose comes out clumsily.

I want all the words I send to you
to be whole and precious
like a fruit picked as it comes to ripening
perfect and round on my page
cupped in my hands
juicy.

instead of coversations,
I want to write you notes
and leave them where you
find them unexpectedly, tucked
inside your wallet and coat.

I want to say it all, compressed
everything
down to one word.

I don't know what it would be.

but I want to share it with you,
juice staining our face
and hands

About the rhythm of poetry

stuff it;
I can hear what I want to say
I don't need to count syllables
to feel my heart beat in it.

I have come to realise

words are useless,
they say nothing
about who we are

what I want
is to tell you this
and make you understand:

but words are ineffectual
and I have nothing else.
I'm empty

out of options and tired
of this, of you and me
not saying anything

with far too many words
and not enough silence
to listen in.

words, I waste my time
on the human condition
and translations of Balzac

for nothing, nothing, nothing
now I know
I knew before.

Hmm... I kind of want to chop off the last two stanzas? Except I really love the second-to-last stanza. I suppose it could start a new poem.

ever, never, forever

blue jeans and washing basket
returned to me in a dream
about cleaning
and dust grew between my feet
thick on the ground
and our bed, cloaked
the window sill: I opened
the curtains, coughing, crying
eyes watering
and saw dust silvering
softly, silently drifting
over the garden and the mountain
the buildings across the street

and a wind came up
and blew it all away

I'm... totally not sure what that is about. but I kind of like some of it. It's nearly in sonnet form- um, okay, maybe not, but it's nearly fourteen lines, which sort of makes me want to maybe elide "a dream/about cleaning" into one line. Hm. Yes/no? Could it be improved by "and saw your dust silvering"???

ode to a poetry book

dear old thing
cheap and worn
with the binding that comes apart at the edges;

dear old thing don't you know
you hold my heart in your pages?
fragile verse on ever page
delicate teenage ego and clumsy
rhymes, free verse poured out
willy-nilly.

dear old thing maybe I abuse you
maybe I should fill you instead with Shakespeare
and Tennyson
and Bornhaldt
and Glover
but you never complain though your
pages tear at the edges & your cover
is stripped away;

thank you
dear old thing.

Hey, tell me, is there a technical ode form? How does it work? Because I might rework this into it- I'm feeling masochistic and sick of lazy vers libre. Although some of you know what my poetry turns into when I try to make it structured, which is to say, gross(er than normal).

Um. And just to prove it, I found these two, which are shocking examples of what happens when I try to do anything with anything more than the very basic structure. Gods forbid that I should ever attempt a rhyme ever, ever again. Oh lord.

untitled (no suggestions needed, I'm going to take some delight in burning this. I just needed to have a record of it, like a dreadful reminder.)

dying flowers on the windowsill
still turn to face the sun;
why are they looking towards it
what have we done?

why, we've scattered petals down
to the ground where they grew
down to the earth they came from
the grass, the mud, the dew.

dew in springtime, dew in winter
in autumn, where leaves fall
to the ground like dying souls
but mostly dew in summer

in the soft mornings
where light spills gently over my sill
& I leave my room to walk barefoot
on the lawn.

Yeah, as you can see I didn't even manage to finish it. Yecch. Except for the last stanza which I kind of like.

And, haha, not content with my first attempt at crappy structure, I had to try AGAIN. why, subconscious, oh, why, why?

July song

July, it's all sky
that chases away from me
to all four corners

cutting cold, curling against my collar
around my neck with pale hands

July pours rain down on me
till I can barely breath,
chokes me with its wind, blinds me

I keep walking
turn my face to its chill kiss

I was born in July
cut kicking and screaming
from my mother's belly
yellow, bloody, barely breathing

I imagine the cold hit me then
the bitter middle of the year
woke me up, told me
yeah, this is it.

July rolls away from me
like a field, stretches before me

July, I'm alive.

Um. Yeah. *HEADDESK* feel free to come up with creative ways to abuse this. :P

untitled
NB: actually I think I titled this on the copy I sent to you,

insane_ophelia? You might have a better version, in which case, um, email it to me? ;)

for Josephine

she spends her mornings reading love poetry
and listening to reggae.
The taste of coffee in her mouth
as she opens to the page
of the poem that reminds her of him.

when she opens the curtains
blinding sun and the chill of morning
pour in and over her
until she blinks back tears.

from the corner, the sound of men singing
and colours like red, yellow, green
flash across her closed eyes

shoes lie in a heap; the heel of one
sits in the other, like a child crossing her legs.

she is untired; she opens the door

into the day.

Hrrm. I have an alternate version of this one that replaces the last four lines with
her feet are pale against the carpet, the book
is cupped in her hand. she is untired;

she opens the door into day.

I'm not sure which one I like best. I think the second one recalls the poetry book much better which is nice.. mm.

Anyway, that's all. But, you know the drill- I really really really worship and adore feedback, so if you're of that inclination, I'm not ashamed to beg. And by fb I do mean anything; if you hated everything here PLEASE, please tell me so, as creatively as you like. of course, it's even better if you tell me what you hated and why. Positive feedback is great (and if you like them, PLEASE tell me so, too. ;) ) but negative or concrit is probably more valuable to me in the long run- even if it's just "I think that word here is a bit clumsy." Anything.

Look at me begging. You know you want to!