Myself, For MountainsThe Blue Mountains
have never worn their colour so well—
on their backs
I may lie down and feel
the pressing of ground against sky
and realise I ride their wingbones,
realise I witness the slow birth of new
I breathe on wingbeats,
fill the cæsuras in the earth's phrases
with a strange music,
learn to see the hills and mountainscapes
as they are. I consult them
like tea leaves, become a flute
destined for their lips alone.
In winter, the way the tree-strands
along their tops look like lace:
old Grandfather Mountain
becomes his widow, doily-shrouded and mourning.
My songs, by spring, will bring the birds back to her hair.
Emo Hearts and Suicidal PoetryOutcasts they tend to call us,Emo Hearts and Suicidal Poetry9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
The wierd ones,
But we like to think of ourselves as the special ones
With our permanent-marker doodles on our converses
Ripped jeans and emo hearts and suicidal poems written in the snow
Novels read beneath the covers 'til dawn by light of a flashlight
[batteries nearly dead we've used it so many times before]
And dancing in the rain
Praying to Beethoven
And tears at dusk
And singing to the stars
At the top of our lungs with the car windows open and the night rushing in
Or on the top floor of a beach house with the sea stretched out before us
"Go home, you lose, good day, sir"
Turn around and say good bye
Gum-wrapper bracelets and crying to the moon
Glasses and braces and beautiful eyes
Sad behind the smiles
And sitting in the corner to escape the staring eyes
But we live for funny looks because they remind us that we are special
Man, we are special.
We aren't the outcasts, for we know how to live.
For we know what to do with ourselves
On a r
Divination as a Means of Finding a Way Back 1. I say nothing I am thinking.Divination as a Means of Finding a Way Back3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
For twelve years I have wanted
to do exactly this, but suddenly
pronouncing my own name calls up
the question of who it belongs to
in the same breath Like
Solomon I was born a singer
but in the wrong key and my
chords will not carry me, will not
summon the wolves to me only
packs of hungry dogs
stupid with domestication
but nearly feral And like
a hungry ghost I have learned
not to speak against those
who will give me food
2. A sketch of myself.
He says I must have been born
in the wrong culture, he says. I got a taste of
the crackling heat here, heat to drive you crazy,
and suddenly I open my wide arms for
New Orleans, find myself needing the wind from
the Great Plains. Like a buffalo I have the spirit
of the Sun and I carry it with me. I am a plant
of burnt umber,
brown, ready and waiting like
sage bushes, like the hill you go to that is best
for collecting jun
Mermaid SongI have tried to love you.Mermaid Song6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
But you have become
little more than an evening in pale watercolors
the shadow of Monet.
I have decided to leave the lilies as they are.
Perhaps in later years, with desperation,
fearing the thinness of my thin limbs,
the creaking of my spider fingers,
I will go to wander those gardens again,
hoping for the promise of Eden,
clutching beads in my weary fist.
For now, you are fleeting as mermaid song,
brief as tall spires in pink and green beneath the sea
I can never touch them.
Our connection fades,
a violet mirage
disappearing within the swells.
A wave breaks
the silver froth wipes the sand
clean and perfectly brown.
StarЗвездаStar2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
i. I was still, once;
a rock amidst constellations that
flapped like birds.
Their spinning gravity wells
have strung me—
a glittering necklace of asteroids.
Madness is only a quiet hunger for those
who do not live within the skull
that is being broken apart by too many stars.
as a fox kit i will wander ice white russian forests in winter hoping to be taken in
longing for bright red curls but silver furred and searching hungry for the mice beneath the snow
ringed round with chicken wire and caught amongst the hens wishing for the
russet hair that would blend me in
if i were catherine the great i would not have to feel the rising fear every december
and as virgin queens go i would be more of an elizabeth than a victoria always
turning tailward to devour enemies of the throne
but the most i may hope for by march is to be caught by the forest witch
and have my bleached boiled bones strung like constellations amongst my fox kin
Ruminations on a Fallen Star, Not Yet Fallen A priori:Ruminations on a Fallen Star, Not Yet Fallen2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Though I am not in love yet, I will be.
I remember how our eyes will meet;
you will see the green stars in my eyes for what they are.
I am afraid.
1. I am star-crossed, tattooed and traversed;
my clumsy limbs build a bridge of my belly
for the constellations to write their paths onto my pounding heart.
Some days these star charts are a chain link fence across my body
and on others—I can trace your name in the lines between my stars,
not the name you bear now but the true one I have always known,
the one that is for me.
2. Nostalgia is always poetic, but the blood memories
are harder to pinpoint; they do not catch like butterflies.
We cannot feel their feathered scales, their veined wings
just their violence against the insides of our veins,
the strength they give us, the gods they hope to make of us—
cruor vult, and I may only hope to survive their frantic seas.
3. I have never been so aware of all the muscles in my neck,
of the way my
EmoA tear seems to fall from spaceEmo9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and land on her check.
It adds to a river
that falls off her chin.
The stain of blood on her sleeve,
She looks at her arm
with pulsing eyes she stares at the blood,
like her tears, running.
Afraid of her peers comments
labeling her for something she is not.
Emo, the word rang sourly.
The tears ran faster,
as though racing the blood.
Her black hair clings to her face,
and again she cuts.
One for the laughter,
Once for the looks,
another for her pain,
Her arm pulsing,
One for the names,
One more for the pushing.
She watches her pain drain from her arm.
She smiles, then thinks,
they will pull back her sleeve
and laugh at her pain, again.
Emo, the word rand sourly.
Emo, she thought.
Emo, she said out loud
and she cried.
Ode to Sylvia Plaththe smell of the kitchen floor.Ode to Sylvia Plath8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
six days ago you left a note,
and promised the world you would die.
your eyes are destiny,
i can see the patterns aligning
in the stars. there is
consecration in the grief.
coins flashing last-day sighs,
your lips pink and pink
against chalky exhaustion.
your mind was truth.
you left textures in the darkness
and the candle flames. linoleum and dried milk
and gasoline. beautiful, you thought.
Alice of Sky and Earth [Cheshire treasure shepherd, nest, sir, chest. of.Alice of Sky and Earth4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I am only as real
as the teeth that spread themselves into a smile,
the eyes that wait to see the air ripple.
I fear people who call things simple.
I kneel at the hearth
and dirty my knees in the sienna-brown earth
and throw fistfuls of ashes
against the mountains
great stalactites growing down into the cover of clouds.
The theory of relativity
says that I can borrow time
by turning back the hands of clocks.
I would remove
those shining prison teeth one by one.
My body roves
the length and breadth of well-shafts,
roves like the machines built for Mars; but not
Fabulous Friday Feature 4: Edgar Allan PoeFabulous Friday Feature 4: Edgar Allan Poe3 years ago in Personal More Like This
Greetings, all, and welcome to my fourth
FABULOUS FRIDAY FEATURE
I've decided that now that I've got this fabulous year-long subscription, I should take the opportunity to get the word out about other deviants and their magnificent work! Please note that I AM STILL LOOKING FOR SOME LOVELY POE-THEMED LIT! I WILL BE UPDATING THIS FEATURE AS I FIND MORE, SO PLEASE SEND SUGGESTIONS! If you've got someone you think should be featured in next Friday's Feature, send me a note with a link to their gallery and I'll take a peek
I'd also love to hear about other features, particularly themed ones. I'll list those in the bottom section to help spread the word! The same goes for contests or news articles!
Please favorite this journal and pass it on! And if you liked this feature, be sure to check out the one from last week: http://azizriandaoxrak.deviantart.com/#/d5icuky
Meditation on ThoughtBegin the quiet storm of fidgeting,Meditation on Thought4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
a drum, a drum:
fingers through hair,
the insides of my lids.
My mind grows scrublands.
"What do you mean?" and,
"What do I mean?"
I tend slowly toward the abstract.
Pine trees sprout from my hair,
a forest of church steeples.
Whippoorwill am I,
and my fingers stretch
to build me bridges of stone,
a whole cathedral of bone archways.
My Michelangelo eyes sit restless
in a face of white and green marble.
The smallest drop of rain
against the window
and my thoughts collapse
I must begin again.
There is a secret
as the drops of water
roll down the glass.
Rooibos TeaBreathe deep the chai hazeRooibos Tea4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
a muse of eggshells and grandma's lace tablecloths,
cradles the tea kettle to her chest
and abandons Latin words and names
flotsam and jetsam dribbling
irrelevant among the little red tea leaves;
the driftwood of genus and species bumping
against the shores of the South African scrublands.
She hovers orange and indigo,
a quavering flame of dreams
and drained tea dregs
divination with a soft-spiced voice
at the bottom of the mug,
never quite gone
a flock of Van Gogh crows
frozen in their hayfields.
You've Been Looking at Virtues, All WrongYou've Been Looking at the Virtues of Child, Man, and Woman All WrongYou've Been Looking at Virtues, All Wrong3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
In the end we're all myths, hermaphroditic deities.
Our names are the most real things about us.
i. My mother named me for the Virgin
and I carry her legacy in my blood
she is my spirit animal; the creature
who crawled first across the placenta line
outside my home. In truth, I imagine all
are wolves or coyotes drawn by the smell
of fresh blood.
ii. There is no purity in childhood:
we are simply jesters with blistered feet
and the pu
Though Afraid of Wolves I Seek Your Forest Hearti. My mother used to sayThough Afraid of Wolves I Seek Your Forest Heart2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
if you’re afraid of wolves, don’t go into the woods.
I never listened. I used to imagine
my blue winter-fingers through your hair—
a pack of wolves through the trees,
hungry and searching.
ii. These days I tend toward a kind of prophecy for my mental health.
I miss when you used to read the future for me.
I found the slow deliberateness
of your fingertips along the turquoise backs of my cards
iii. I have begun to learn a new language
so that our hearts might speak directly to each other,
ventricle to ventricle, as they did once on my blue bedspread
(but not as I’d have liked them to).
iv. My chest cavity is a dwarven dark,
indigo and mountain-deep.
Some days, my heart can manage
little more than cobalt ore
from earth crevices, hammered and cold-tempered.
v. I am nearly married to someone else.
On my wedding day, I will be a queen—
an azure beast wrapped in cloth,
an organ pumping someone else’s blood.
I lack bridal
I Have No Names for all My Teacup BabesI feel always like I am starting over.I Have No Names for all My Teacup Babes3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
As a magpie I gather trinkets under my pillow,
bay leaves and bags of herbs to bring the next lover to me,
to call the next dream-face forwarda picture
painted in the tea leaves.
But truth be told the start-again
is never clean, is never gentle,
and the sweat of all that labour
is a fire on my skin, telling me
I will never resist its wind-cry.
The moon comes when I call, to help me;
midwife, she is, and she carries into being my new selves
like the babes they are, teaches them to
fill long footsteps like hers.
Truth be told, I tire of the destiny
I was given onceI am a teacup,
and I cling close to my china womb,
to my cup tipped over, upset
by careless elbows.
I imagine Mother Moon climbing her way back to me
on the backs of pine trees, sweeping across the Appalachians.
Dead Bird HeartI never noticed the way ash looks like feathers.Dead Bird Heart2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I become aware of the shores where my body
folds to meet itself, doubles over so that my hair
seems to grow like roots into the ground
keeping me from ever lifting my head again.
Of all the things she told me, she missed this one:
what to do with the ashes.
Hers is a dead bird heart—
grey-haired and grey-feathered.
She is paler than she has any right to be,
But her eyes are open, and she can see the sky
where a roof once was.
The Journey-CallGrandmother says it wasn’t an accident,The Journey-Call2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
says it earnestly behind my eyes
just before I rise in the mornings.
The house has become a flock of birds,
grey birds all silent, house-looking until I turn away,
when they flutter their wings, open their beaks to tell me—
Jan says my mind is too strained from grief.
His beautiful forehead creases at me,
no longer, it seems, crystal-white
but somehow stained glass, blue and mars-red
and when I turn my back I can feel his cat-claws
in my shoulder.
I am bedraggled, mist-covered and owl-haired,
so strangely old with all the ghosts around me.
The signs of death mark the sky, mark my hands—
I am expected to carry them all home, I tell them
bedtime stories as if they are children and as their
rustling feathers quiet down again I see Grandmother
thrush on thistles, telling me I must go, I must go
down into the forest to see the medicine woman
to learn the paths into the world beyond where I
may gain the secrets of past and future.
Dramatis Personae Summer—Dramatis Personae2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I wear bird spirits and fox bones in my hair,
tend my thistle garden, bend and break my thistle stems.
Grandmother says I am still a child,
that my blue river deltas are small yet,
have not known yet what it is to run over their banks.
But I have known the pulsing flood-flow—
my heart’s been overrun before,
and she will see me one day soon as the summer I am,
brown and freckled and aging, finally.
She raised me
with her many words and stories;
she says my parents had scarcely writ my name in the family Bible
before they were gone,
says I need to keep thistles in the garden
to know who’s a friend and who’s a liar.
She says lots of other things, too—
the devil’s in the details,
hay should be made under a shining sun,
she’s a Nile River Delta of words,
she sees through muddy water to river sands—
but sometimes I think her river bottom is just mud, too.
Santa Fe de BogotaSimón Bolívar found you como una Flor de Mayo.Santa Fe de Bogota3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I know that in your swelling city heart
you long por el mar, por la sal del mar,
but instead you straddle the roads,
hunker down over your landscape and breathe
your car fumes, inspiras las fumas como sombras,
espiras tranquilidad inquieta.
Colombia, madre, you have become
bloated in your old age, have grown your
ankles, pálidos e inflamados;
you should have been a sea lion,
morena y rapida y a la cresta como la espuma.
Mi alma, I will bring you the sea salt to run through your hair,
diamonds with which to crown your mane.
Breaking in to Lit!IntroductionBreaking in to Lit!3 years ago in Personal More Like This
Literature has long been considered one of the closest knit communities on deviantART. As a result, some people find it difficult to "break in" to the Lit crowd. There are rumors of elitism, difficulty in getting exposure, and lack-luster appreciation for the incredible work that goes into writing a good piece of prose or a well structured poem.
If you look at a painting you can see amazing detail, great use of color, and the importance of the subject immediately. You know it came from the artist's imagination and that he or she had to spend hours translating that to a canvas. The tangibility of the work is right in front of you. With writing, it is not quite the same. The effort the author puts into the work can only be appreciated if readers put in their own effort to read the work. The gratification is not instant, which is one reason the lit community is so close knit.
Those who do have large followings often also comment and read quite a lot of work h
EmoIs this "over-emotional"?Emo9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Is this "over-emotional" to you?
Crying in an empty glass,Worrying about the things you might do?
Am I some sort of a liar? Just wanting to be cool?
Is this "over-emotional" to you?
Behind my back I hear all the things you say,
Complaining about me complaining when I'm away,
So why'd you choose to stay?
Why did you stay?
It's not my fault my life ended up this way.
Is this "over-emotional"
Is this "over-emotional" to you?
When I slit my wrists, and you notice at school.
Yeah, I cry because I have feelings too,
I cry because of the things that you do.
Is this "over-emotional" to you?
I walk right past you and you see the stains,
You see my arms moving and you notice the veins.
Don't say I show it off, don't blame it on me,
I've felt this pain,for the last couple of weeks.
Is this really "over-emotional"?
"Over-emotional" to you?
When you see my arms, and worry about what I might do?
When I say "I love you" and you have some feelings for me too?
And is this what
Thunderstorm PhysicsJune 21stThunderstorm Physics4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
This morning I woke up and
wiggled my toes, as usual,
listening to the drumming sound inside my head.
By lunch I was thinking
Good Lord, where have all the thunderstorms got to?
normally, I could pluck them out of the air like
apples on strings.
Isaac would have been proud of me.
When cold air and hot air meet
But no. That's thermodynamics, isn't it?
Today Mom shattered
the vase she'd been arranging sunflowers in,
and I watched the glass pieces skitter across the floor
it's been so long since it rained
before I ran to put shoes on and get the vacuum.
The clouds today are wispy,
cotton not yet spun for dresses.
Gases act differently in a vacuum.
All the equations become easy,
yellow and buttery like sunshine.
In the mountains for the Fourth.
The thunder rumbled like war drums
but there was nothing to put out the fire
when one of the fireworks
went all wrong and I had to go get a bucket.