January 12, 2010
After reading something beautiful the past couple of days, I decided I should try and write some slower poetry, with more focus on each word carrying a lot of meaning. I also wanna be able to use (but not necessarily stop using) words I love to use and use all the time, so none of the following allowed for the following five days of poetic practice: World, Love, Gentle, Dream, Horizon, City, and Wanderlust. (Strange of me, you say? Poetry might be limitless, but it isn’t until you feel around for the glass limits that are already there.) So! Here’s one:
Song of a Wary Monster
None shall look to you for beauty
But there is screeching art
Like churning silk
Curling beneath your wingspan
None shall seek your solace
But the deep gaze
Of your flattened eyes
Only looks to embrace
None shall run to you
And yet you would sprint
Across Earth to no end
If you could not destroy
A thousand by feet
To reach a single friend.
None see your goodness
And yet, if they would listen
They could hear the booming of your heart
They could hear your bellowing,
Knowing it is not crafted from anger
But from weighted, lofted longing
“Precipice” (hat tip: Lil’ Bollin’) Plus “Underneath” (hat tip: Google search for precipice) Equals:
January 7, 2010
Worlds! Worlds beneath the edge of your grounded vision and yet your fingers try to cling to flat earth–they cannot!
Is the pinning safety of a sky-blanket so soothing? Is gravity so severe a fear? Have you forgotten your leap?
Your worries may run rampant–apparently they sap your energy to sprint in like,
But know: Horizons are not won by throwing a rope over the precipice!
Can you hear me down here, your estranged echo?
I am beneath you, flying in faith,
Yelling in curvature.
(Dunno if I like this or not. Kinda didactic. I enjoy the last line, at least.)
January 7, 2010
Despite the world collapsing around her and directly throwing its debris into her spirit, there was something beautiful left in her voice. Something still there, hidden to her but present, even if barely discernible, like a birdsong filtered through the echoes of a winding tunnel. It was there, and he would find it.