some fireflies are caught in palms and they gasp forward yearning outward through baristrarias. these lantern arrows arc like holy sentinels of the mind past curtain walls and moats of sunken sorrows.
from asphyxiation, I escape.
Spoiler! :
@alliyah & @mckaylaam - thank you both. Your comments mean a great deal!
darling, do not let the curl of your cowlick curve into question marks about the dimpled wrinkles of thighs scarred with flowering femininity as a god lays heavy hands gently on the plaster of your skin, his touch a wandering whistle through pliable needles of tamarack trees; let him soothe sorrowful what-ifs like a mother's womb, cradling you upwards to rest on an alabaster pedestal in a museum of doppelgängers ogling without pause for reflection on how they got here in the first place or why they are poised on pedestals too, soft like the shapes of Phidias' genius that bends & refracts from this three-dimensional prison prism, reminding you, darling, of the art of being a woman.
This is lovely, Lavvie. I love the title. I love the title. It makes me think of that quote by Beauvoir, "One is not born, but rather becomes, a woman." I noticed in your bio that you are interested and have a background in existential therapy. This poem definitely gave me existential vibes and Beauvoir vibes, and I love that.
I also love how you write about the body, and your gorgeous imagery you assign to the female body. I especially love the lines "plaster of your skin" "genius that bends and refracts from this three-dimensional prison prism." Love the double meaning and alliteration there. Great poem as always, Lavvie.
"A poet is, before anything else, a person who is passionately in love with language." - W.H. Auden
through the pungent smell of melting snow, white lies of spring bloom like lilies.
Spoiler! :
@bluewaterlily - what an astute comment! <3 de Beauvoir has definitely had a huge influence on me philosophically, ethically and otherwise & while I wasn't really thinking of her while writing that poem, I feel like your comment really speaks to how the subconscious is constantly shaping our poetry.
the bellows of my throat blast gale strength ache through caverns. they speak: men, mind her menaces lest she shred the slippery skin from your bodies that are now impaled by dripping stalactites like martial constellations.
prose poetry? literary nonfic? mystery meat? no one knows
Ode to a Life with a Nancy
my memory is seated at the right hand of a woman who goes by many names: the matriarch of the Rainbow, the flaming grandma, bird whisperer, kneeled in velvet dirt when we come jumping down the quail-burdened driveway in the 2001 red Nissan Sentra, the one with the cigarette burn in the front passenger seat, the one that when I was three, on our way to see her, Mum gave me a slice of extra old Armstrong white cheddar and I stuck it in the nook of the door where it sweated under years of sun-soaked glass and captured pennies like insects in a Venus flytrap -
but you would never find a terrible plant in her garden and she names them all wonderful things in the spirit of Cecily Mary Barker just like she names me in her limericks that conjure nose-tickling images of lime rickies & chicken curry & mango pickle & poppadums that snap under bewildered Burmese heat that we catch like red earth between palms into finger fissures smudging the split between root & blood -
in the vast din of a quietus, her names linger like laundry in her dusty study piled with paper, letters, names for everything & all the names everything had for her -
but I can only think of one that tingles over tastebuds like buttered bread in the weeds on a Tuesday afternoon: whole & long after
this is for @Holysocks, who has never tasted ham before
ham poem
thick pink cleft palms cradle how it feels to smell people stepping into your home that is now humbly theirs as we all sit many peas in many pods listening for the sound of heavy oceans warm on our tongues
Another stunning poem! And congrats on making it almost halfway through NaPo. I love the structure of your poem, especially how you use fragments in the middle stanza and use the advertisement on a box/bottle of medicine to reveal the reality of attempted suicide and how under-the-radar it can be. And I love that the stanza is a fragment, something incomplete, like the speaker's life.
And that last line...just wow. I re-read it several times. In one way it seems straightforward and almost objectively detached when the dose is included, but this is what makes it so chilling and such a powerful and resonating end. Lavvie, you always demonstrate awareness and capability of maintaining a tight poetry form and structure, and that is even more evident here. Each line builds on previous and you landed the line breaks in all the right places (something I struggle with immensely). Simply incredible.
"A poet is, before anything else, a person who is passionately in love with language." - W.H. Auden
in my hands I hold a cloud that is knit together with fragments of dreams that sometimes slice & figments of fears that sometimes smooth the edges round the plush cushions of my face, closely pink because I can read their minds.
Spoiler! :
@bluewaterlily - thank you! your introspectiveness never ceases to amaze & I really appreciate your supportive words <3
on the front page there are four people screaming until the skin of the larynx strips in red ribbons like it's been run through a paper shredder smiling
in my mind there is not a poem that withers like a tower of ash in the wind that scratches words likes razors on blank wrists that strangles sheets into knots for getaway or that splits down my center a border
in my mind there is a poem that flies like a fish to a desert territory no man's land remoulded by calloused hands dropping jade & traced by leftover weeds that sprout into daffodils where I am carried towards revolution
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Reviews: 522