Strange Saint

crucified by the night,
my mother's bones ossify
within me.

Dragged along on the brink
by my bloodied palms I am
born again

of my mother. I rise
by my mother; no holy
conception.

I am only martyred
for myself, so that I may
sin and smile

but judge you all the same,
until from your own ashes
you start anew.

Comments & reviews · 3
Note: You are not logged in, but you can still leave a comment or review. Before it shows up, a moderator will need to approve your comment (this is only a safeguard against spambots). Leave your email if you would like to be notified when your message is approved.

User avatar
Baesch
Review
Baesch wrote a review · Fri Jun 27, 2014 10:48 pm

This was beautiful, and I can't criticise it. I generally doubt whether poetry should be given the same scrutiny as narrative literature.

I have one question. When you say ossify, do you mean that in a way your mother's essence is transferred to you, where it hardens and becomes elemental to your being? Because ossify generally means "to turn into bone or bony tissue".

Yes, that's exactly what I meant. It was supposed to represent me hardening and becoming like her. I thought that it would fit, since I said "reborn", and newborns bones have to ossify. I'm glad you noticed that :)

User avatar
Pinkiegirl13
Review

Hi, rhiasofia. This is pinkie here for a review. Excuse me as I put my glasses on? *puts my glasses on* Okay, let's get started.

I like the poem. It is very good and lovely to read. I enjoyed read this poem very much. Like KatyaElefant said, it should be like a short story. It will be very interesting as the poem. However, you have errors on here. Well, KatyaElefant did point them out so I will not do the same thing. Anyway, I hope to read more from you. See you soon and have a nice day.

Good job and Keep on writing! :D

Cheers

Your reviewer, Pinkiegirl13

P.S: I am not really a poet. I am just a reader.

User avatar
AdmiralKat
Review

Hello! KatyaElefant here to review! Just came from lunch so I am nice and charged up!

I feel like in this poem, you didn't place the stanzas correctly. They don't all have to be 3 lines long. The sentences kind off branch off and don't go to the correct place. It feels wrong. So you may have to improve your organization for this poem. If you did this for another reason(other than having 3 lines), please let me know because I want to know everyone's techniques for stuff. (Like I learned in the UK, they spell realized like realised. They use a s).

I like this poem. It's unique. (Hey Uni! You heard that?) I could like to know more about this martyr. Maybe you could do a short story on it. Where did they come from? What did they do become a martyr? Stuff like that. I would read that! Anyways. I think this is a good poem. I really like it and I think you should write more about this martyr. Thanks for letting me review this! Keep Writing! :D

Thanks! I didn't originally plan on each stanza being three lines, but the first six lines happened to match with syllable length (7-6-3), and so I went with it to see if it played out. I agree that there's some disjointedness, but I almost like it that way as far as the subject matter being kind of disjointed.

Maybe I will write a short story. Hmm. Possibility.

It could be something new. I have never seen a short story like that.

I'd have to be really creative, cause I honestly know nothing abaout said Saint XD. The words just came to me. But I would love to try it out. It'd be out of my comfort zone, but it'd be cool to have more than just a poem. I'll let you know if it happens :)



It had a perfectly round door like a porthole, painted green, with a shiny yellow brass knob in the exact middle. The door opened on to a tube-shaped hall like a tunnel: a very comfortable tunnel without smoke, with panelled walls, and floors tiled and carpeted, provided with polished chairs, and lots and lots of pegs for hats and coats—the hobbit was fond of visitors. The tunnel wound on and on, going fairly but not quite straight into the side of the hill —The Hill, as all the people for many miles round called it—and many little round doors opened out of it, first on one side and then on another.
— JRR Tolkien