Dear friends of this academy,

You feel that? Breathe it in.
That's excitement.

-

my eyes travel through the fibers
of the carpet, my room is in cascades and
the television is left on,
simply for the noise

because I can't take this silence. How can anyone
take this silence without wanting to sing with it
or hold it until there's nothing left to hold?
How can anyone move on like this, knowing
there really is nothing left to hold

after six months have passed, and
I've yet to leave this place, or witness
the aging of your skin in this
stale, dusty place.

I wish for the rain to speak and for
the windows to tremble and shake. These
God-forsaken books have abandoned me, resting
against each other, retaining every word--
I could never do the same.

Speak to me, darling. Speak to me, I'm
curled into the corner of this desolate room,
whispering to the floor as if you'll give me an answer
or at least, if only for a short moment, laugh
in the soft echo from wall to wall


-

Oh this is glorious. Can't wait to read more, Ms Davidaniface.
Maybe play around with this stanza a bit more?

I wish the rain would speak, or for (that?)
the windows to tremble and shake. Those (These?)
God-forsaken books have abandoned me, theyrest
against each other, retaining every word--
I could never do the same.

I'd take out the first comma too.
Other than that... you are awesome. Of course.

II.

There are moments when
the light just doesn't shine, for her
I asked the sun earlier that morning
if maybe it could stay out
just a little longer

and that evening, I told her
candles don't even have to be lit
you don't even have to face the sky
you could just close your eyes and breathe
and still see that it's all around you
melting the walls and the wax

and she looked at me
glanced at the clouds and said
maybe we should come back
when it's raining, then
dug her feet into the dirt
and stopped completely

but time never ceased
for her, and surely not for me
when the glowing faded
the city was faintly shaded
and everything that once
touched fingers of the sun
didn't really seem like much
or anything at all.

Spoiler

mehh. Bland. I know - I hate it too.

III.

I wondered what to make of the past
in the middle of a room, waltzing with a ghost;
silent conversation between my eyes and whispering
walls once assured me that the wind never breathed
life through our chests, death never woke us from
existence and Time was a cold illusion that stopped believing in
us both long before we ever dreamed of moving on, moving
forward, so we moved closer, we moved closer--
bowing out, she brushed her lips against mine and
twirled through my bloodstream in a soft hush,
hush, hush; streams of smoke fed my lungs
with a slow, steady rush and

she fills me with questions to which my answers come
in the form of ice melting between my hands and her hips, swaying
within the walls - dance with me, dance with me, I
promise you these words speak beautifully
when I don't bother to speak at all.

---------------
so, this didn't come out easily at all.

We must get acquainted. So, earendil, I'm Navi, pleased to meet you, more pleased to see you doing NaPo, and even more pleased to see it's going marvelously.

Allow me:

I wondered what to make of the past
in the middle of a room, waltzing with a ghost;
silent conversation between my eyes and whispering
walls once assured me that the wind never breathed
life through our chests

You know, I talk of turning points and twists of emotion so often that it surprises me when I see it done so naturally, here; the strange thing is, it slips by unnoticed unless we actively look for what's done right. The first line is hesitant, inquisitive, gentle. 'Waltzing with a ghost' is where you switch mood a little, give it some playfulness and humour, but it's a black humour, here; a bleak one -- a lonely impression of the past and the ghost waltzing, and the strangeness of that, the fascinating strangeness of how you differentiate the two, when one would be inclined to think them the same. And the enjambment that creates the double meaning on 'the wind never breathed / life through our chests' is great, also; it makes us miss the simpleness of the phrase entirely, and also creates the pause necessary to darken the musings of the narrator further.

There is something not quite working right about the next parts, and the last stanza, but I think you sense that anyway, and it's nothing some quiet rethinking could not fix; a matter of rearrangement, and deletion, and care, I think; I also think you capable of finding the issue yourself.

And, for some strange reason, I don't mind the second at all. Ordinarily, the subject matter and approach would bother me, but there's something else here, in the lines, or perhaps in the phrasing (and I cannot reiterate often enough how important enjambment is, and thank you for doing it well), that gives it a sense of control that feels beyond the text as it is; something a little more elusive -- a good quality in any poem.

my eyes travel through the fibers
of the carpet, my room is in cascades and
the television is left on,
simply for the noise

because I can't take this silence. How can anyone
take this silence without wanting to sing with it
or hold it until there's nothing left to hold?
How can anyone move on like this, knowing

Inconsistent punctuation intended, I presume; I've seen it before, and adds an off-beat flavour -- kind of like it, kind of don't, but up to you. Just change the 'my room is in cascades' so it slides in more subtly, rather than flaunting itself, and this part will be perfect. Likewise, I thought you had built such a delicate web of subtlety, what with all the well-timed pauses and double-layered line breaks, that you couldn't afford to put descriptions like 'stale, dusty,' 'God-forsaken' and 'desolate room,' all of which don't fit with the clean softness of the poem.

All in all, though, a good start! I will be interested in seeing how you progress.



Navita

IV.

Spoiler

some yucky language in here. just as a fair warning und ja.

she sleeps on her couch, whimpering
about the grinding in her shoulder, the aching
in her feet, the pain, my body, the pain
with the tv turned on and the sound of
gunshots outside of her window

and in that split second, everyone starts
running their heart out against the world
like it's some kind of race where the finish
line is nowhere to be seen-- reserved for
the winners who have already won

I stand on the sidelines, medals in hand
with her name etched into my chest;
my knees start to give under the weight
of gold, silver, and undeserved ribbons
and the voices, those voices-- they speak to me
in my sleep, they encompass my dreams

It must be nice having everything you want
and not having to do a damn thing to get it

I tell them it's great. It's so fucking wonderful.
but why listen to me? why don't you listen to
everyone announce it to the world for me
as if they pull my dreams by a lonely string and
as if there's some sort of pride that comes
with having both of your knees broken

I'd like to hear that poem without the mixing of the two stories. It seems like it's about two different things. I'm more interested in the "sort of pride that comes with having both of your knees broken", personally. Anyway, it was important for me to read that, because I knew what it meant. So, very nice. Thank you. :3

V. (whooo, dominant chord) (<--sorry. music theory nerd, here.)

She saw it
right there, in my overturned palms
two empty seats, fingerprinted
windows and broken
bracelets

through it echoed her smile
that followed a tired but kind
"After you."
and she passes, slowly
alternating left and right
the way she goes from green
to blue

you wouldn't know it, the line
that divides question and answer
pressed between our hands
silently communicating
after you, after you, after...

VI. (very behind and very, very busy. :/ )

she stares intently
from the opposite end of the room, tapping a pen
softly against her notepad and sometimes
glancing at the watch around her wrist; the watch
her grandfather gave her, the watch that had
been passed down generation after generation
of forgiveness and never forgetting
the tunes we sang during victory march and
the songs that were never played
at all-- not even once.

Time is such a peculiar thing; I
can't say I've ever believed in the seconds or
the way they move with or without her counting.
A man in a rusted trash bin once dusted off his eyes
before gazing straight through mine, speaking to himself
about the years that had gone by before he realized
that nothing had really changed; he tried to count the aged
numerals inked into his skin; he lost track so many times
and the numbers didn't bear a single ounce of
significance - not in the way they ticked or tocked or the way
they tapped nervously through the night.

She waits patiently for now, but I watch the way she
winds her watch like a plastic soldier boy, heading off
to war as the key between his shoulders twists backwards;
she's fighting to keep up, rewinding herself over and over
until her the pen marches steadily across the paper in sprawled
letters spelling "precision, precision" between the lines-- how cruel
it would be if I were to rip the numbers from her fingertips and
leave her laying there, mangled on the battlefield.

How cruel it would be if I were to play my victory march
through her ears until she loses count of how many times
she's tasted defeat; until she loses count of how many hours
are in a day and how many days are in a year and
how many years she's been breathing or if
the years even mattered to begin with.

.roloc ni saw eh
ylno ,etihw dna kcalb ni
saw esle enoyreve nehw dna

yad ym fo nwad
eht saw eh taht mih llet ot
,wodniw sub detnit
a hguorht eybdoog devaw i erofeb
,emit eht dah i hsiw i - kcab og
dluoc i hsiw i

____________ .IIV

V. (whooo, dominant chord) (<--sorry. music theory nerd, here.)

Pffft. Secondary dominance ftw.

Also, please keep up the pretteh poetreh. <3

VIII.

Perhaps we are light to the
beacons of the night - cities shining
and wildfires like shooting stars;
you told me once, sinking your shoulders into the sand
and your fingers weaving with mine, that we are
like constellations illuminating the earth and
Orion makes his wishes every night and the stars
rub there sleepy eyes as they gaze at our aged
bodies, weighted with millions of years

but we are golden.
We are glimmering and you, with that
heavenly smile-- here I am, sleeping beside you
as the ocean pushes and pulls at my heart. I had a dream
about waves that were everything but blue, but they were
waves nonetheless and I'll never let their pulse go - not in
the sea that rushes around us, not in the slow beating
I can feel in your veins. You, with that heavenly smile--
count the stars. I bet they all have wishes to hold on to,
holding on to you, grasping your hand tightly
before the morning tide carries them away.

Spoiler

2:something AM - had a dream, woke up, wrote down some stuff, here it is, I'm going back to sleep now, adios.

IX.

Don't listen to their scolding,
their arrogance or their certainty
when they say they know you.

That's just them
clothing your bones in their own flesh
and judging you based on the way
they would judge themselves

if only, if only,
if only they didn't have to spend
their days in their broken and
beaten body.

X.

her glare is a head-on collision
bending and snapping my spine

eyes like vacant stop lights
anxious to waste time

red beacons in the night-- I
drove home in the dark, afraid

for my strings have become hers
and her troubles, mine.

Spoiler

I'll probably end up rewriting half of these poems in the future.