nine lives & the lottery of dreams

It's April 1st in Sydney, so I guess I have to start now.

Watch this space.

P.S I apologise in advance for the sucktacular nature of the so-called poetry I produce and yes, you probably won't be getting the same bang for your buck as you would with other prolific poets -- my work is generally short, I'm afraid.

#1

I dream of ordinary things -
chairs, lamps, rugs and doors;
small nothings to furnish this
great space. Anything of consequence
would bear too great a weight,
this fragile construct could not
hold.

my work is generally short, I'm afraid.

And I love you for it.

I dream of ordinary things -
chairs, lamps, rugs and doors;
small nothings to furnish this
great space. Anything of consequence
would bear too great a weight,
this fragile construct could not
hold.

Made me smile. The syntax and line arrangement is perfect. You remind me of Ted Kooser (like, the grandfather I never had [sorry, Kylan]).

Succinct; I like it. Maybe consider removing the last comma?

I did consider that; the last comma irks me something fierce.

I will review it at the end of the month. Thanks for the comments

#2

Nonsense words tremble on your lips
paper-thin, falling to the ground
soft as snowflakes crystal-edged
ready to cut my feet to ribbons.
Wait,
for the frostmelt and the delicious
absence of form; my reflection is running
too fast along the stream. I'm afraid
to stand still, lest hesitation cost me
too dearly for words.

#2.1

If I had only one life to live,
would I live it like this? I wish
I knew the answer, but silence
mocks in the lull between thought
and memory, a forlorn witness
to this lingering doubt brimming in flesh-
shaped holes left for too long untouched;
you cannot plug the absence of meaning
with words far flung. Keep your baubles,
they can only reflect the light, never
hold it.

This is the 3rd attempt for the 3rd entry, and it's all been a bit shit. This will have to do.

#3

I would cast you away,
have done
with these red chains, this ugly
rusting metal that binds
the key is an umbilical cord made
of forgotten promises and neglected
beginnings; I wish I had been less free
with my disappointment, there is none
left in this fertile womb, but weeds
and idle truths remain.

Spoiler

Honestly, I forget where I was going after the first stanza, total blank - woke up toward the end thinking, this is why I don't write long[er] poetry.

#4 Stolen

Do you know her name? It's slipped
my mind one too many times, edges
worn soft and pliable from too much
handling; I can't seem to grasp it
anymore.

Autumn fades in winter shade, and
night returns to familiar haunts long
since used to darkness. Tiptoe down
these halls and hope and dream
that she lies behind any one door
[named in months, years, and days]
not already cracked and broken beyond
repair

Do you recall her face? My hands seek
those contours, my fingers remember
her lips, plump and tender to the touch;
no image comes to mind. Time
covets more than memory's fragile
casket could hope to deny; it leaks
pilfered thoughts greedy for release

still I walk these halls trusting, waiting
for an accidental tumble
in which we can meet

I seem to be experimenting today. Here's another.

#4.1

It's funny how you talk
when you have nothing to say
but hold still, trapped
words fluttering madcap
against the door burning
with the need to open -

I'm trying to:
stop reading between the lines
you're missing the point -

You look everywhere, anywhere
but here and I can't bring myself
to look away; how fucked up is that?
It's okay, so long
as I can hold your hand

Spoiler

Is it just me or are these actually getting worse? Last one for today. Maybe tomorrow will be better.

#4.2

How do you tell a person
devoted to dreaming,
in every moment -
between coffee breaks,
in transit
on buses shuffling sleepless
drones, mid-fuck with arching
gasps
and a far away look in their eyes,
to wake up?

Spoiler

I've only read your latest, so I can't tell if they're getting worse, but if they are I need to go back and read from the start because I really enjoyed 4.2

4.2


I love the echo of the "o" between "devoted" and "moment".I love the list, and the shock of the last line. I think I'd shuffle the structure a little. Maybe:


How do you tell a person
devoted to dreaming,
in every moment -
between coffee breaks,
in transit
on buses shuffling sleepless
drones, mid-fuck with arching
gasps
and a far away look in their eyes,
to wake up?


I think something like that would make it flow more smoothly. Really enjoyed it.

Jas

I absolutely agree. Thanks Jasmine!

Spoiler

I think I'd like to reconstruct this, later when I have more time.

#5 Summer Reverie

Patches of blue sewn
through the tattered
tapestry
of yesterday's storm
blink
through splayed fingers
veiling a child's reverie
blind
to the destruction of
reason.

Hi,

I enjoyed this. It flows nicely and I thought "through the tattered
tapestry
of yesterday's storm".

I'd change "child's innocence" because it's a little predictable, and if I'm being finicky I'd change "Patches" because patches of sky is a relatively common image, but I think you'd get away with that one.

Jas