Thoughts

[Dusky]

Searching the Attic


You are the bug I crushed underfoot in the fourth grade,


not out of carelessness but after long observation.


You are the fire ant I set on fire; I,


a giant eye in the magnifying glass,


my first instinct on finding a slug


being to get the salt, but


you milk aphids the same way I milk cows.


The only one who will remember you is me, years later,


finding your delicate exoskeleton in an old scrapbook.


Thoughts on Forrest Ave.


I have lived here for years, and today


on the road I have always driven,


I notice the palm fronds dip,


trying to hold my hand,


as the cones point up to heaven,


orangely accusatory, because couldn’t God


have made this paving business so much easier?


A Love Letter From the Surgeon


I put my head to your chest


and listen to the four-chambered organ


rattling against your ribcage,


like a prisoner in the next cell over.


I tap on your shoulder in time


with that beat. I want to break in,


tear down what walls remain between us,


peel back your bones and swim


inside your heart. Give me a scalpel,


and I would cut off the casual


T-shirt, and through the formal


skin, inside to what is alive and pulsing.


I don’t think you understand – I’m symptomatic.


I’m find I'm short of breath, and my fingers


are twitching in the strangest way. I want


to explore you, the ventricles and atria-


I want to run


my hands down your muscle


fibers, I want to go


for your jugulars.


I want


to get inside.


meep.

 

[Dusky]

Thoughts on I-95


we went seventy eighty


ninety five miles an hour


hands rising boldly from the open top like towers against the wind


blonde and brown curls entangling like the strings of my headphones


just as reluctant to disengage themselves


driven by the coffee bittersweet awareness


of only half an hour left


driven by a sense of urgency


to fly off the fast lane


and away from the goodbyes we hurtled towards


Taking the Long Way


My sister had a gravestone.


I had a book of prayer.


I could have asked her the hard questions.


Instead: celebrity gossip.


Indian Giver


I.


Drop the darling daisies you picked in the field


and run. The rain is rushing to greet you.


Those who live under it - the ones


our mothers warned us about


becoming – live without sun


and flowers.


II.


Come gather up the daisies


and dance in the rain.


Give a flower


and a night-light


to all the lonely shadows.


III.


When you are lost in the dark


and all out of flowers,


I will return the one


you tucked behind my ear last summer.

 

[Circus]

Searching the Attic:


Holy moly that first stanza. That could be a whole poem by itself.


A Love Letter From the Surgeon:


"Four-chambered organ" - bloody genius. Good word choice.


Very detailed and graphic. Not bad.


Thoughts on I-95:


My favorite. I like the lack of punctuation. Both stanzas. Beautiful. Excellent use of metaphor.


The first two lines of stanza one in particular are very driving.


Seriously, this one was awesome. Try and get it published or have more people read it. Seriously.

 

[Dusky]

Thank you! I'm glad you thought my poem about being on the interstate was.... driving. -badum tssss-

 

[Grey]

Very bold, very clear. Reminds me of Frost.


The metaphors are mostly elegant and quite subtle - with one obvious exception..


A Love Letter From the Surgeon is masterful. Reminds me of an old friend - who would have been a surgeon - that I'm sure would love it.


I love the brevity of Taking the Long Way. It feels like a bitter laugh.

 

[Dusky]

Thank you! I'm pretty proud of my narrative but not so confident in my extended metaphors, so reading that was really nice.

 

[Dusky]

You Still Wear Bows in Your Hair


I.


This campus has a way


of making us orphans.


II.


Listen to me – you are you. This does not change because


your roommate puts pubic hair on your things,


or because you know you don’t deserve it.


III.


I know you think I owe you nothing, and maybe that’s true, but


it will always be okay to disappear into me,


if you really need to, because


that’s what I was built for.


IV.


I’m more selfish than you think –


I like to feel needed.


I know when things get better, this poem will end up


lost somewhere between the pages of a textbook –


for “safe-keeping.”


The Maid of Honor Raises Her Glass


Some years, you shift around your boyfriends


the way you decided which Jonas Brother was your fave


in middle school – change when you get bored.


Your marriage is a sink or swim situation,


but you too often are stagnant, and what


inspiration you gain from me


quickly fades into treading water in the absence of some


kind of motor. My mistake here has been making you


my project. No-one can be shaped into a bottled ship.


Today, I propose a toast to the lovely bride


and the groom I barely know. Your gift is


each other, to have and to mold,


for better or worse, ‘til


irreconcilable differences


do you part.


"Best Vister"


The third grader presses a folded up sticky note


into my hand. In third-grade handwriting


and third grade spelling


is a love that dies with age.


In time, she will learn


I am the new teacher’s aide, and


she will groan when I ask her


to spell “visitor.”


But right now


she will smile


and do her best, so she


can say she’s glad I’m here.

 

[Dusky]

What I Learned This Summer


For Jake


I.


We met at a camp for writers.


I was a resident, you were an intern,


but that didn’t stop us


from exploring each other.


II.


I wore Aries’ dog-tags


like a hydrant wears dog piss.


When the links gave and it fell off my neck,


he looked at me like a broken bauble. His chain


had broken shackles.


III.


In the cramped store that sold precious stones I felt freer


gently pressed into you


than I did at the park with Aries,


but I pretended


I never wanted to touch,


to graze my fingers over so rare a find,


to tear the cheap copper from my throat,


because that was fucking immoral of me.


We left the gems in the shop,


and went to press a penny like travelers.


IV.


Nobody told me about the glances


that stumbled from your eyes –


I could feel them.


An aggravated ego


and a fistful of broken chains


was all I left Aries.

 

[Dusky]

Like a Skyscraper

when i was nine years old i wanted to be everything and i was afraid of the dark and of getting lost. ten years later, little has changed.

when You


speak, every word


is a step to the guillotine.


clockhands spin three quarter time


and the free verse poet begins to rhyme


these things do not permeate my thoughts, nor


can i explain myself to You. i only know that i have died


many times over since late august, and that another girl grows


in the dark and ugly womb of my heart. she is not me, and i am not me.


we are a doll subject to the evils of innocence, curiously torn apart so a child


may find i am hollow. i was magnificent, do You understand? and never once did i


write poems scattered and unhinged. scrape me out, pour into me. it is just too late to be


whole without a core full of You, when i am just an origami girl. build me up, and tear me down…
​

 

[Dusky]

Acumen and Rhetoric


It appears we have obfuscated


That by which we’re motivated,


Ensconced our motifs in a quagmire


Of our acumen and rhetoric, like liars


Who don’t really lie but don’t tell the truth.


In this venue trepidation has developed


And in our ostentation we’ve enveloped


Cantos with cyphers and modulated many


Until I must equitably repudiate that any


Of our words could possibly make sense.


If you, reader, sit down to write a poem


About the way you feel things


See things


Then by all means


Use words like “scintillate” and “approbate,”


“Vitiate” and “celibate,” “ovulate” – not love or hate –


“Coronate” and “ordinate,” no woodland paths less traveled, but


Rather “proletariat,” “glut” and “disrupt” and –stop.


Stop.


That is no poem for old souls. The new and the great


Hide behind their words.

 

[Dusky]

@Grey was probably mostly just joking when he requested "moar poetry pls" but here's one anyway. An old old old one. Used to love it, but now i'm not so sure.


Seven Thoughts of You


I.


I never knew


unrequited love


until you made a fool of me


and yourself. Tonight


I thought, how spoiled


I must be.


I always knew


your heart was


not mine, that it turned


with other gears, but somehow


I never understood until


this night. Summer has come


to a boil.


II.


Because, like my imagination,


I could not keep it in


my head, the steam


floated from my lips;


Yours did not offer


a kiss.


And thank God, for


if they had, I may


have taken it. And then


what would he think of me?


And then what would he think?


III.


Sometimes I picture


those lips with all


the unclear steaminess


of wishful


thinking.


IV.


A tether


lets me wander


just close enough


to touch your hair,


but too far away


to touch your lips.


My only wish is that


the leash was shorter.


V.


The truth is,


it isn’t you.


It was never you.


You were just a wrench


in the gears.


You are the very last,


the bottom of my wish-list and he


is at the top, so why,


when I am so decided,


do I care?


VI.


It isn’t that I wanted us


to love and be loved, but


that I wanted your love


for my pride and foolish fantasy.


VII.


The rose was tinted


pink. Tonight I’m not sure


what I wanted to see; that it


had become yellow


or grown red.


What I saw


was white.


When the first


bud unfurled the first


petal, I should


have cut the weed.

 

[Dusky]

Thoughts While Tending to a Bonfire


This is common habit, bending over the dying fire,


giving my breath to the coals and wood tendrils, watching


as they curl and glow in something resembling orgasm. They keep saying


“The fire will not come back, it is just embers,”


but they don’t understand there is a beauty in the smolder.


There is a beauty in the way something survived a flame that ravaged it.


If you put enough on top of an ember it will burn, roar, eat itself alive,


it will tear away pieces of itself and throw them into the air as ashes.


If you put enough on top of an ember it will burn.


Top and bottom, big and little,


Dominant and submissive, everything and nothing at all. This poem


was almost written without using the word “i”


because i am not sure i can handle the way i write i


and i wish i had the strength i needed to say


I matter.


You know this. Your reassurances are sweet nothings, and this is common habit.


Bending over a dying fire, giving my breath to the coals and wood tendrils.


Giving my heart, giving my body, giving my sleepless nights and hours spent in the corner


and trembling outstretched hands searching for crumbs like a starving child


because they will take what they can get and leaves and apples and branches and trunk


and parts of me I needed,


until nothing is left but a stump to sit on.


And the tree was happy. But not really.


You told me they’d grown old together.


But more years is not the same as less tree,


and a charred stump is not really alive this


is common habit.


Giving my breath turns so easily into giving threads pulled from my coat.


Giving strands of hair, the belt-loops of my jeans, the elastic of my underwear,


but somehow I am surprised when I find myself naked.


If you put enough on top of an ember it will burn;


all that I gave sends the fire clawing up into the air, over my body,


where it can no longer be controlled, where fanning does not make a dent in its light,


where I am burning, eating myself alive, until writing this poem becomes difficult.


That first night that I started crying, you did not notice, which is just as well


because you get off on my tears and what does it say that I love a man who wants to hurt me?


Love is like staring too closely at the fire, it blinds you,


but there is beauty in the way something survived a flame that ravaged it,


there is beauty in me, with or without you, covered in a layer of soot. I just


don’t know where to find it.

 

[Ashurbanipal]

Pretty poem.

 

[Dusky]

Dirge of an Out-of-Season Dandelion


She stands by the trash can,


breathing deeply because she’s been holding her breath.


She isn’t dressed to be outside long,


but neither is the dandelion.


She regards the white fuzz carefully.


It was easier, she muses,


when she was ten and it was summer,


and these things had been everywhere.


But she is eighteen and January


is giving her its dying breaths.


To wish for happiness is


a cop-out, she decides.


She wishes instead to know


what to wish for, and blows hard.


One small seed remains in the aftermath,


waving at her in the breeze like the arm of a friend.

 

[Wreck]

This thread is hella rad.

 

[Dusky]

An old one... I never understood why, but this one seems particularly popular with readers.


Burn


The last time


I held a man


in a bed


or lived


in the bones


and the blood


of another human being,


I thought it was necessary.


I know if I push on your shoulders,


you’ll stop.


I don’t want you to.


I wanted to push him away,


tell him to stop, but-


but- I did not. And


those gestures are fire


and so he consumed me,


and while you only try to warm,


fire will always have the potential


to burn.


But this


is tame,


and it


is innocent


your hands are gentler


than his ever could be, more


respectful than his ever were,


but - you must hate


that word by now-


like the dark side


of a flickering light,


there are instances


in which your hands


are his hands and


the cool gentle fingers


on the skin of my back


burn.

 

[Dusky]

Dealan Dhé

"Tá féileacáin anamacha na marbh feithimh agus a théann trí choinníoll pionós ama."

​

Translation: butterflies


are the souls of the dead, waiting


to pass through Purgatory.


Waiting to wait – these tender wings


cannot cross an ocean, and spirits


cannot be held anyhow.


I can only ghost through your opened arms,


only give you the shudders of a haunting.


I understand your fascination with horror –


with the shivers that linger and the emotion that grips


your amygdala. It goes away, eventually.


There are women


who can hold a man’s heart without breaking it.


I crush like a windshield crushes a butterfly,


like a butterfly crushes its chrysalis,


I crush things the way spiracles expand and contract – souls


are fragile things. I crush myself in the process. You


would be well-advised to flutter by.

 

[Dusky]

Not in keeping with all the trappings of Haiku, but here ya go.


For the Mountain that Moved


First it was scraping


joints, fascinated probing.


Then, the avalanche.


In Which I Become a Farmer


Roses are not red.


Poetry is too damn hard.


I grow eggplants now.


Instinct





Finding the corner,


where the walls hug me the way


my mother doesn't.


But Eighteen


Seventeen syllables


is not enough to tell you


how much I love you.

 

[Dusky]

Another old one... Sister piece to Seven Thoughts of You, as title would suggest. My feelings about it... are very much the same as my feelings about 7. xD

Five More Thoughts of You

I.

“And… how would I do that?”


“With bravery.”


I thought that maybe


you knew something.


But it seems you’re a fool


after all. So instead,


let’s talk about politics.


Let’s talk about our favorite


foods. Let’s talk about


anything, as long as it’s not


about her.


II.


"Pretty" is a word


few take seriously.


It's an off-hand comment,


the sale at the corner-store.


So


The question


was a joke,


but the answer


was a poem.


“Beautiful,” you said.


III.


We are beautiful.


We are kind.


We would stay up with you


until 3 AM, just


to play video games.


We're usually found reading.


We write poems.


I suppose, if I was made


of enough mettle and


a certain detachment,


I’d ask you


what the difference was.


I’m sure you’d say,


“She’s here,


and you’re there."


IV.


You said she was you,


only female, and I


thought of your feminine side.


It reminded you of another.


Of course, I'd thought


we had a thing or two in common


as well. There are three


or four of you, it seems.


V.


“But I digress; enough of my self-pity.


Go on now, tell me more."


Did she smile at you like


I sometimes do? Of course, you


aren’t around to see that.


"I’m sure you had a lovely time.


I’m glad you have her. I know


you wanted her so long. I’ll


leave you to enjoy yourself.


No, no, I know where the door is.


I’ll just let myself out."

by Anomaly

​

 

[Grey]

Today is a day without oversight.


So here's all that feedback I promised. It'll be a bit light because these are mostly really fucking good.


Brace yourself.

• You Still Wear Bows in Your Hair
• The Maid of Honor Raises Her Glass
• Best Vister
• What I Learned This Summer
• Like a Skyscraper
• Acumen and Rhetoric
• Seven Thoughts of You
• Thoughts While Tending to a Bonfire
• Dirge of an Out-of-Season Dandelion
• Burn
• Dealan Dhé
• Haiku
• Five More Thoughts of You

• 
  
  
  Odd one, this - I wonder about the structure, but the content is really elegantly conveyed. I almost feel like it could be shorter, tauter. One of the ones that says a lot about you, and there's power in that.
  
  
  
• 
  
  
  Bitter. I feel like this is one to burn down and start over. That last stanza has a great kick to it, though.
  
  
  
• 
  
  
  Cute. Probably as it needs to be. Wouldn't suggest a thing, really.
  
  
  
• 
  
  
  Very punchy. I think you could strip it down a little for more impact, though. Feels like there's a tad much repetition, but on the other hand, that feels like the recurrence of a guilty conscience.
  
  
  
• 
  
  
  Shivers. This one has disturbed me since I first read it. Structurally, I can't help but be reminded of an hourglass running out. A victim over a medieval torture device. There's a fury and desperation to it that underlines the capitalization - or not - of You and I.
  
  
  It's probably a point in this ones favour that lingering on it too long makes me feel sick.
  
  
  
• 
  
  
  This is just fun. Don't change a thing.
  
  
  It's a bit flirty, actually.
  
  
  
• 
  
  
  Too long. Some good images, some potent repeated ideas, but I think it outstays its welcome.
  
  
  
• 
  
  
  This one almost feels like two poems - the beginning and ending are one, the midpoint another. It segues from something classic to something like slam poetry, much like it segues from metaphor to very bald statements. And back again. I fancy it might work better with one or the other cut, then expanded on its own. Or if you can find a way to extend the metaphor... Hm. Tricky. Quite unambiguous, anyway.
  
  
  
• 
  
  
  Oddly, I think I like this one least - or I do when it starts. By the time it ends I really like it again. No real criticism for this one, honestly - it does what it is meant to do and well.
  
  
  
• 
  
  
  I can see why this appeals. It's... potent. Pensive, and almost apologetic. Almost. Feels like a slight tune-up, in terms of structure, wouldn't hurt. Some lines could be cut, or condensed. I'd readily describe this one as haunting.
  
  
  
• 
  
  
  Ambiguous, but that might be in its favour. It has the character of a coded message. You can take enough from it.
  
  
  I feel like the last two stanzas and the line which leads into them are a bit... melodramatic? Maybe that's personal experience talking; we all hurt people, all take the risk of hurting or being hurt, when we allow ourselves to love.
  
  
  Not to invalidate the sentiment, of course.
  
  
  
• 
  
  
  Mountain That Moved is interesting. I wonder what it means?
  
  
  In Which I Become A Farmer made me chuckle.
  
  
  Instinct still a neat little gut punch.
  
  
  But Eighteen is a nice little subversion. I'm sure the subject is touched.
  
  
  
• 
  
  
  I think I like this better than its companion. It's like slipping into bad old habits.
  
  
  

 

[Dusky]

I 100% agree with you on... well, all of this. xD Spectacular advice it is. Though I'm surprised Dirge was your least favorite, as I can't decide whether to cringe or chuckle at Best Vister and Seven Thoughts and Five More just make me roll my eyes. As for But Eighteen - eh, less so now than he was a year or so ago I imagine. Nonetheless.

 

[Dusky]

Check Engine

The womb of the van smells like dust and I sometimes see spiders,

but there’s a breeze blowing through the open window,


and it’s quiet since it’s not running. The Check Engine light


was on just a moment ago, and I should really


do that, but I can’t seem to unfold


from this embrace – forehead


on the steering wheel, seatbelt strapping me in with


reassuring pressure, so unlike the kind I find


elsewhere. How do I explain to you


that I have not applied to Subway or written a book,


but I got out of the car, and that that in itself


was a victory?

by Anomaly

​

 

[Dusky]

What Once Was Mine

You matched my humor, when

we did manage to speak. I could not keep up with


how closely each Romantic language recalls Latin, so


I let my quiet place beside you as you strummed


suffice.


I had filled a role once: the writer,


all pen elitism and 4.2 GPA, but then I dropped out of college.


I still had my ink stains until you


fired the gun for a race I didn’t know I was in


and at a place I didn’t know was in danger. Still, timelines are funny;


your beginning began long before mine, so


you deserve to be the poet aunts and uncles coo over on Facebook.


But I am so tired of family reunions.


I fill a role now: the fuck up.


I hid in your glow - I had only wanted some small share.


Of course you left early, taking your acoustic guitar


and your intelligent conversation


and your publishings


and your grace


with you.

by Anomaly

​

 

[Dusky]

Thoughts While Helping My Brother With Homework

Math has never been my thing, but this

is all quantity, no quality. My date last week


went well, fractionally


representing the greater area of this function


over the one I have broken, but the ratio feels off.


I try doing the math - 1 ocean, 2 countries, 3 hearts,


4 thousand miles, and infinities


within every moment I am yours. Yeah,


I can't figure out y either.


There must be a formula for this; loss of momentum plus


a growing need for attention plus


the wrenching pull of the void between us.


Such detached measurements have never filled me


like empty shelves or your rare smile could, but detached


fits, at least. I drift a path no equation could define,


looking for the intersection.

by

@Anomaly
​

 

[Dusky]

Hey! Where'd the poetry go?! If you're looking for a thread that I still update, you can find that here. Cheers!