As I walk down the street on my way to school I like the snap of my flat-soled shoes that will wreck my feet with time. I listen to cars' engines whine. I'm wearing a leather jacket; hear it squeak as it rubs against itself with every snap of my feet. I feel killer, bomber, all edges, like lightning. I walk with a gait that sends the world cowering. My outfit today is so well-matched that to love me or fear me is quite a catch- 22, but what's it to you? As I breeze like some famous star down the street. With my tough-girl looks, it's plain to see: yesterday I finally did my laundry.
Instead, he said, Brother! I know your hunger. To this, the Wolf answered, Lo!
I ripple-dwell in my core and there are fathoms between the stars in the cavity in my chest. Someone left a light on in there a ghost light so I don't tumble and split my shins open on black-painted sets.
You talk about tea sets and avoid the core of conversations. Open your heart up to me and fathom what it would be like to tumble between the stars in a land with no light. We'd be able to talk there, and you look x-rays through my chest.
I catch bullets in my chest and I've ordered them in sets of twelve, organized by pain.There's an ammunitions factory nestled by my core. Before it grew, I was light as a breeze, and the sky was open wide enough that I could see all the stars, more than I could fathom. But I grew heavy, began to tumble.
You ran me through the wash and tumble dry, cycles spinning until my chest is made of more spirals than you can fathom. I find the sun never sets because that old star never rises, so there's nothing that'll dry your laundry out in the open, and wet clothes will chill you to the core, so pray for light.
They call you a light- weight, but you run and tumble and raise yourself from the dead to work your core. You strain until you feel like your chest will burst open, spilling blood to measure fathoms deep. There, you will ready and mark and set the directive charts, freckled with stars.
You said you'd never seen a shooting star, I said I'd never seen the light. All it takes is your hand, set on my shoulder to make me tumble into myself. There's a bird in my chest whose name I cannot fathom. When it sings, does its mouth ever open?
My wrist has fallen open, spilling the iron from stars that burned out longer ago than I can fathom. They bled out all their light (like a spilling golden chest) till they were left with nothing but their core: dwarf stars set my teeth on edge. They're so used up, yet still they tumble.
Tumble open while you pray for things you never had. There are no stars that can guide you. Set your course, travel sixty fathoms. Work your core with rowing, or learn to travel light. Earn a barrel-chest.
A sudden echo in my chest, and I know that the ghost-light has tumbled over. Fear of dark shoots through my core, and I feel blind, wandering out in the open. The darkness fathomless, and there, your star starts to set.
There is a light in my chest where your fathomless stars tumble. When they set, I'm cut open at the core.
Instead, he said, Brother! I know your hunger. To this, the Wolf answered, Lo!
This one isn't great but whatever. Less of a poem and more of just me writing down words, but that's how napo goes, right?
I can tell it's spring again because the white flowering trees (that someone told me once were pears) are taunting me again with the smell of fish. Must be nice to be so confident that you shamelessly vie for flies' attentions, proclaiming it proudly enough to see (and smell) from miles around. I close my eyes and try to pretend the desert around me is a bucking ocean. There's limestone in those mountains, and my geology 102 prof told me that the calcium in it is made up of the skeletons of tiny, ancient organisms. But my geology major friend says the majority of the mass is just poop. Towering mounds of fossilized crap that strikes a line across the sky, a raised horizon.
Instead, he said, Brother! I know your hunger. To this, the Wolf answered, Lo!
I’m loving these poems so far. Your rhyming was really good in the sonnet. The second one was pretty cool too, but I don’t know what structure you were going for, sorry. The star metaphor was carried really well through that one, and the third one made me laugh XD. I liked the mix of the more personal thoughts with figurative language.
name: key/string/perks pronouns: she/her/hers and they/them/theirs
novel: the clocktower (camp nano apr 24) poetry: the beauty of the untold (napo 2024)
fortis - I'm a big fan of your second poem here! The repetitious structure was great for a poem about tumbling-stars because the words literally tumbled around [in a good way]! So the mix of the chaotic topic, yet with more formal structure was a great contrast. And the structure didn't seem forced or stale, but really enhanced the story you told through the poem.
There were a bunch of places in there, where I just paused and said, "man that's a great line/turn of phrase".
Here's some of the really good stuff:
"You said you'd never seen a shooting star, I said I'd never seen the light."
and the end!
"There is a light in my chest where your fathomless stars tumble. When they set, I'm cut open at the core."
you should know i am a time traveler & there is no season as achingly temporary as now
Misty cities / 'neath your feet stretch and spread / like faded blankets. Shrouded mountains / reach to meet your high and giant / bouldered shoulders. Distant hills / of scrub brush shrubs, resemble velvet / to the touch. Lakes, the barely / silver slicks of blinding light. / The chill wind licks through you: / you quake.
Instead, he said, Brother! I know your hunger. To this, the Wolf answered, Lo!
#5 has a great rhythm to it, and I love the bits of rhyme you've scattered through it. I particularly love:
Lakes, the barely / silver slicks of blinding light. / The chill wind licks through you:
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In the winter months, gale storms in Svalbard can reach wind speeds of 130 km/h. Accompanied by or following snowfall, such storms can reduce visibility dramatically, more so in the winter months of the polar night. During these storms, travel is not advised. — The Documentarian
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