Hannah's NaPoWriMo Thread; Beyond Silken Birds

April 1st, 2009;

Denial

Soft sea of white and feathers
that go floating in the air,
give up your linen breakers
as the foil to my hair.

I'm darker than you know now,
seaweed growing in my throat.
My books and blue pajamas
are my ever-leaking boat.

Could you float me off to dreams, please?
Could you wash away my pain?
If I slip into your waters,
will my anger boil your rain?

My black hair will softly float there,
with the saddest tinge of red.
To avoid the day's tsunami,
I'll pull the sea over my head.

Hannah, I adore this. It's put some beautiful things into my head, like the last line, and the rhythm is lovely and the title fits, and I love it. <3

April 1st, 2009;

Daybreak

Softly now and softer still.
The wind will end tonight.
It does not touch the window sill,
though it may have the right.
It beats not against the dirty glass,
though there lies its natural course.
It flows, instead, through dew-bent grass:
a gentler, dying force.

The drops of life then fall away.
The ground receives the love
that sky gave her to greet the day.
Here calls a mourning dove.
"Hoo-woo, hoo-woo" and through and through
the wind the wailing creeps.
Here sun peeks out. The sky turns blue.
And now the good wind sleeps.



April 2nd, 2009;

Look here

Here. Look here. Look!
Do you see my smile and
the pink rose in my cheeks?
Do you see my
sunlit hair? Do you
see? Do you?
Feast your eyes for all
I care.
Watch from behind, as most men
do. Or from above, look down
as they only think
they don't. Can you
see? Look here!
Can you see my
heart, then? It beats
steadily enough and it
is whole. You couldn't
break it if you tried.
Take your ratty, worn
confidence. Your love-act
grows old, so overdone. I can't
stand to listen, so look
here! Do you
see? Look here at my smile.
I am perfect and I am
fine. Leave me. I don't
need you.

You are particularly skillful at rhyming, twin!

Lovely, lovely, lovely (again). I love the way the first one sounds; it's gorgeous, the way it's all like, internal rhyme and 'hoo-woo' and how the form underlines the content and, yes.

And the second one was a huge step away from your usual style but I loved that one too. <3

April 3rd, 2009;

Cake

She thinks the cake on his face is beautiful,
that she wouldn't mind the sticky, lactose feeling
after it washed away.
She adores the way it clings to his neck
just so,
like she'd cling if he would let her,
like velcro, like scotch tape,
like what holds her heart together.

It's the smell she can't get over:
sour milk and attentions turned elsewhere.
So why is his nose the one turned up?
She wrinkles hers, squeezing self-doubt
out through the creases.

And the way the walls close in
just so,
the way they hold her, grope her, leave her,
doesn't feel cold, just familiar.
Like a lie told a thousand times before.
Like hope discarded in favor of denial,
which is easier, because it's natural.

Hanza yay another one! This month, I will glutton myself on your poetry.

I like the velcro/scotch tape bit, because it's SO how I feel sometimes.

It makes me think of a birthday party, or something else equally happy and innocent, but that part is only masking something deeper and more...terrible. (I use that word in the literal sense, not the colloquial one.) Lurking. There's a word.

This is so a nonsensical reply. But I like it. Yeah.

omg, the cake one is my favorite so far!

April 3rd, 2009;

Addiction

Give me another twelve step program:
a set of solid rules to swallow.
Rip out my smoking, clinging heart, dear.
I'll go cold turkey. My love's been hollow.

Longer than you care to drink to,
and longer than I thought I could,
I've loved you and become dependent.
I must dry out. I know I should.

Throw out my brandy, crush my cigarettes,
give away my fast food death-bed.
For all these evils, my heart pines not, but
your eyes are always in my head.

And in their absence, how my heart aches,
my fingers clenched like dying leaves.
My eyes spill wine and whiskey ashes,
and only sin this pain relieves.



April 4th, 2009;

Cough

I dare you to cough one more time.
I bet this time it's hope that you
send bursting past your withered lungs,
beyond a heart steeped in the smell of the vice,
where dignity, respect, self-worth have gone before.
No doubt it will be suitable company
to the peeling wallpaper,
cold concrete floor, disintegrating accessories.
Take another drag and seal the deal:
it has been deemed a fair bargain.
For what else could be given
in exchange for temporary numbness
than parcels of personality (important, but
apparently not important enough)?
It will wrap its tendrils slowly enough to numb.
As you hack and hack, so it will hack away
at your memories -- they will peel away.
The floor against your wrinkled, abused feet
cannot be colder than my heart is to you.
I dare you to cough one more time,
and send yourself shattering into pieces of
dirty, worthless dust, to be forgotten,
surrounded not by friends, love, family,
but by the hovering cloud of smoke --
of a waste of time.

Bravo Madam Hannah!

I love both three and four equally. You are terribly good with words and the subjects in which you choose to write about are elegant and I'm sure you could write about an ant crossing the street and make it unbelievably breathtaking.

And in their absence, how my heart aches,
my fingers clenched like dying leaves.
My eyes spill wine and whiskey ashes,
and only sin this pain relieves.

^_^

~Angel

I'm sure you could write about an ant crossing the street and make it unbelievably breathtaking.

April 4th, 2009;

To Eden

river of sin and river of doubt,
peopled with cold machinations
flying past between walls of pure, verdant peace,
where colonies send forth expectations.

forgotten are safer, sweet paths to the end:
glory's begotten by terror,
thus only a straight, narrow path will suffice
to test worth of the segmented bearer.

sinful lights now send beams of their evil ahead,
not as warning, but claiming their trail.
step by step, inch by inch, under cloak of the night.
and the watchers may faint -- he may fail.

he sprints faster than ever his kinsman could do,
but seems wading compared to the steel,
as a friendship seems dwarfed when compared to true love,
as reality, when met by ideal.

all speeds by in a blur: his life and his love,
his goals and his dreams and his pain.
and once in the midst of the perilous trek
he stumbles, then footing regains.

to those on the edges, his journey takes years
and so slow is his progress to bliss,
but to him, he is there before love can be lost,
faster than affections are missed.

across the river of sin and of doubt:
he has won. no longer he yearns.
he avoided the whip of the sin on his back,
but now, can the poor ant return?

Huzzah! I hast read all thine fair poems, m'lady! My favourite thus far is Daybreak because it's simple and full of loveliness. And To Eden. As I already told you, I love how you took such a silly topic and made it into such a serious poem.

May thine NaPoWriMo excellency last until April 31st!
-Holly

I absolutely love "Addiction" <3

I am so glad you are writing more than one a day because it means I will get more than 30 enjoyable, beautiful, wonderful, wonderful poems. Yes. I said wonderful twice.

{Eep! I love you all.}

April 5th, 2009;

i should have left my number

map drawn on the back of the napkin,
with a borrowed pen, across the water stain.

first, draw korea:
draw the heart first. draw the goal first.
and, for clarity, for perception,
draw the other side (hawaii),
so you can draw the middle
without giving it away.
it can't be too obvious.
"here is the middle." no. draw the sides.

then the focus:
draw the arrow. draw the line.
it's not the goal -- it can't be.
the goal was already drawn.
this is the end. this is the place where
it will all stagnate.

what does it lead to?
what gets hidden between the folds of
the napkin that once lay beneath
my raspberry iced tea?

of course, it can't be love.
of course, it can't be hope.
it can't be purity or light or laughter.
it will be money. it is payment.

it should be something useful:
a telephone number, a kiss, a hint,
but it is not. it's just a map.
after all, no map ever leads anywhere.



April 5th, 2009;

we wrote it

"I understand."
"I know you do."

no purer poetry was ever created
by force: spewing out words
by candlelight, by flashlight.
no stronger imagery can be found
within tangles of words
too long to fit in every day,
strands twisted in a chokehold
around sanity and dignity.
no sweeter assonance was ever heard:
no words work quite as well together.

we wrote this poem together:
it's a bestseller.