Young Writers Society

Ink runs from the corners of my mouth
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.
~Mark Strand, "Eating Poetry," Reasons for Moving, 1968

I'm pretty sure that's all that needs to be said.

Hopefully I'll get past April 15th this year.

-Kylan

April 1

Timshel -- The Elders

i.

these little mud creatures,
rotting in their sex and their contraband,
their stolen breath, lifted from our pockets:
the sticky-sweet of breath and beat.
they are spinning
a quaint dance, the bend of waist and the grace of an ankle,
twirling little whirligigs, falling and delicate,
their eyes swollen, shiny, like soapbubbles.
they are ravenous, too.
chewing and gutting and burrowing,
alive and squirmy as weevils in the wheat.
they harvest the clouds, and dissect them,
peel away the silver lining, sell the anthems
and the raindrops, saved and hoarded
like petty cash in a jar.
they hunt out the mysteries,
skin them, pluck them, catalogue, analyze,
strip them down like hollow-ribbed prisoners,
experiment, nod, reckon.

(there is an equation for everything.)

they point their postulating fingers heavenward.
there is a spread in the stars, a tease in the constellations.
they lie on their backs.
great ribbons of heat and shudder fan out,
like hair let down in front of a mirror,
and the green, ugly moon
showing its face like a leper:
the older, harder daughter that must be married first.
they can't get their hands on this and they know it.
so they banish it from existence,
scrub it out, censor
the prayers spelled out in the evening stars
and the worship-songs kept loosely in the wind,
faint, rattling.
there is no room for psalms tonight.

April 2

Timshel -- The Dreamer

ii.

beneath my feet, there is a premonition
merely a suggestion of possibilities.
it is buried, with a sucking, mewling voice,
it reaches and squirms,
a newborn in a cradle
with a red face and splotched fever.

there are children in the house,
they feast on ambition and dreams:
a thin fare.
their skin grows loose and they have
cardboard in their shoes, but the sky is so wide,
spreading and pocketed with stars,
like spores nestled in the gills of a mushroom.

drink tonight.
keep warm, and spool out on your daydreams,
an incense of sweat and labor is in the air,
diminished somehow, by thick words, promises.
outside, the sun dies, and the stars draw up blueprints
on the shy land.

there is no rain this year.
the little buildings along the rim of the valley
squat and gander, haggling,
their low brows stumped and cocky,
tin roof hats catching the sun and keeping it
along their veiny ridges and knuckled spines.
you can see your face twisted in their bottleglass windows,
the panes troubled and squirmy
and thin grass grows old, pricking from the cracks in the walk
like tufts of hair flourishing in the ears of old men.

i grow old.
there is an uprooting of my spirit, i can feel it.
the gut under my hands,
pushed and round, dough left to rise.
a restlessness in my feet, the soles plucking,
my footbones working like the innards of a piano.
the strike of a hammer, the toll of a forge
and the blackness that scopes my eyelids.

that's a lot of poem to write in a day! *admiration*

I'm liking these two, Kylan. Although I think sometimes you say too much and could cut down a lot, a lot of the images are great. Keep going.

fghjkl!







Will say something constructive later.

i grow old.
there is an uprooting of my spirit, i can feel it.
the gut under my hands,
pushed and round, dough left to rise.
a restlessness in my feet, the soles plucking,
my footbones working like the innards of a piano.
the strike of a hammer, the toll of a forge
and the blackness that scopes my eyelids.

So-oooh good.

A/N: This one I like.

April 3

Timshel -- The Whore

iii.

here, we deal in soul.
this is our currency.
the register you hear, a ringing up of items bought
with romance and old memories.
we sell them fine things that break easily,
that rot in the heat and fold under the touch,
a greedy scrounge for thigh and breast
and the blunder of engorged mouths.

the darkness begs like a widow
and the orphaned light cringes as the sweaty bodies
plunge and roll.
this one is fat, a father of three children;
watch as he surrenders the warm, milky touch of his wife's skin,
watch as he barters with the mildewed, cracked merchandise
of evenings spent with the fireflies and the family.
it is a fair price.

our hands are crooked and sloughing skin,
like a tree that sheds its blossoms.
we bandage and hide them with gauze and tape.
a swelling of finger, the bags under our eyes
the smell of puss and bad dreams.
we seal our sisterhood.
we count and tabulate our earnings
by the wan, hushed light of candles, the flames
timid, like young people on their wedding nights.
how much for that?
how much for that?

The last stanza of your last poem had such beautifully horrible imagery, and it gave me a chill.

April 4

electroluminescent

their laughs bleed through the heavy night,
and the trees are light-footed, nightgowned in
moondusted leaves. the electric light hums
and the generator seethes, the gnats and the blueflies
draw close, our hands may touch,
sweaty, and your eyes pixelate, doped up
by incandescence and nonsense.

their little feelers, brushing skin, lifting breath,
thin as babies' hair. the porch groans beneath us,
there are fireflies strung out, trampy as citylights.
our eyes shut, the belly swells, our naked feet in the grass,
resting and white, the cicadas lecture, a head on a shoulder.
the material sucks against my chest like a new skin.

childless moon, wide, chewing, jealous,
there is a snap of bubble gum, sweet and heavy smell
that makes it hard to think:
baseball and bus-stops – the night grows like a fungus,
moist, toadstooled with bodiless wishes,
your eyelids curl like well-read books,
your cheeks dimple, cavernous cisterns,
pooled with good-natured shadows. you look at me.
i am very conscious of this.

the stars are poke-holes and the sky-glass rises around us,
the plinkplink of flies on the panes, tapping, the whisper in my ear
the laughter worming and perforating, glowing abdomens.

we light accordingly.

A/N: Ha. Tried to write a short one. Failed, obviously.

I am in love with the third poem, especially the first stanza.

And this made smile:

the electric light hums
and the generator seethes, the gnats and the blueflies
draw close, our hands may touch,
sweaty, and your eyes pixelate, doped up
by incandescence and nonsense.

Keep truckin'

~Angel

here, we deal in soul.
this is our currency.
the register you hear, a ringing up of items bought
with romance and old memories.

Like WHAT?! Like WHAT!? This is me freaking out because those lines are so amazing.

nightgowned in
moondusted leaves.

And that's just beautiful.

we light accordingly.

But that's just perfect.

Ahhh, I am enjoying this!

April 5

chimneysweep

the chimneysweeps are out tonight,
crawling over the tin towers, the sluggish, toothless grins,
scrubbing, steeling, brushes hairy as insect legs,
the soot disturbed, rising until it covers the sun,
out of respect for the dead, a shawl over embalmed faces.
men and boys, tuning, squeaking, shaking out,
fussy. the sky is red as sleeplessness.

handprints on the glass, the mildewed panes,
little sticky whorls and constellations, pulled away,
a rubbing of tilled skin, ghostly lines, like intestinal worms,
strung out pearlstrings, hot with your chest warmth.
the red, the fever, slips across the glass – rouged, pasty
and the sexed shadows, the incubated strip and tease,
you can feel his hand on your back;
don't go out tonight.

his fingers travel, thick, cankered.
he is hairless and pink, like a hatchling,
mouth disjointed and pried, the earthy tongue,
the squeeze in his smile, the worm tilts, gulps,
slippery segments.

you scrub. your palms are hard.
your breath is full of soap and detergents,
your belly is full of limb and blood. but,
you hold out, grind your teeth, curl your toes, trim coupons –

there is soot under your nails,
the city calls out like a puking baby.

That was deliciously disturbing, Kylan. It got even better at the end:

you scrub. your palms are hard.
your breath is full of soap and detergents,
your belly is full of limb and blood. but,
you hold out, grind your teeth, curl your toes, trim coupons –

there is soot under your nails,
the city calls out like a puking baby.

'trim coupons'. Just in those two words, you know, you just opened it up from where it was rather impersonal to extremely specific and personal. I loved it. -claps-

April 6

paperclip

the numbness of my lips
fringed, cracked,

exit wounds,
the toiling prayers, folded, sarcastic:

a paper crane. dexterous fingers,
outside, the rot of petal and pollen,

the fly-eyes watching, bilged
refracted, suckers plunging like baby fists.

do it like this.

the papercuts and the pecking fingers,
ink stains scuffed, purple

bruise of your eyes,
crackerjack consolation, prize in your handful

popping your empty smiles
like pills.

from under the blinds,
I see the sun – you can't hide it

warmth on the back of my neck,
hairs rising

blossoms shed like sins on the trees;
the new leaves

filed away, along with the manila envelopes
I squeeze myself, crinkling, aging,

among the faces, spider-legged and silent
as a virus.

(staple-tooth, sticker sweet:
punch me another day-stamp, log me another time-card.)

Your last poem actually confuses me, which is sad because I like to think that I get poetry -- though I enjoy how it's different in the way the stanza are shorter, varying from your other poems.