The Room Elsewhere In Another Town Across The Border So Very Far Away If you roll a postcard landscape, it will fit inside a bottle. I discovered this when I held everything I wanted to tell you between my palms, and worried it so much it shriveled to a cylinder so thin it fit inside the empty coke bottle you left on the windowsill. I used cork to keep the second thoughts from escaping. Coke bottles are surprisingly soundproof. Even the apologies find it hard to rattle the glass enough for me to want to turn and look. With all the silence that is left inside this house I sometimes wonder if I should pour out the content for something other than quiet. So far I’ve kept that bottle closed. I guess I’m stronger than I feel. I tossed all those words into the sea yesterday. The water wasn’t deep enough and the tide brought you back each time I tried until eventually my arms turned to lead and I could throw just as well …
Fingers like twigs, they rustle when she reaches for the stack of tarot cards clustered center in a dogeared pile of past lives laid out before ghosts who sat where I sit hands tucked beneath my knees as if that will keep darkness from turning to face me.
Memories arrive like choke chains. That smell curled inside your nostrils that sort of seems like Christmas but you can’t remember why. It can be summer, sweat sliding into the creases behind your knees, shoulders tight, and prickled, where you know they’ve been caught because you left the house too soon without sunscreen of glasses to keep your forehead from crumpling into frown lines against the sun, blinking away the green dancers flashing into view when the lights dim. Even with the sound of children, crashing through the shallows and pedalos cutting through the lake, one smell can spring you into winter. Make you shudder and wish that the name you’re thinking of was a little closer than the tip of your tongue.
If you run your hands along my sides you can feel the ridges beneath my skin, the raised lines of glass, an old pharmacy trick, so those who could not read their words wouldn’t pick up the poison by accident. When you have peeled my clothes away, they will still be there. The final line of defence when all the labels have been cast off and you could be forgiven to think I was medicine instead of arsenic wrapped in curves.
I’ve caught your words in my mouth once or twice since you’ve been gone. They fall like sugar, dissolving into conversation, stirred past, almost before I have time to notice that I said them instead of you. Even past death you voice lives on.
The crack makes me jump, the sharp, snap sound of plastic pressed too far, finally splitting, shards splintering a firework of spiderweb lines scrabbling to saftey from the fresh edge still clutched in your hand. Then you look at me, like I’ve gone mad.
A mouse can’t eat an elephant, not in one sitting at least. That’s what we can boil it down to, the basics of possibility in that everything becomes an eventuality eventually. When you learn to scuff the corners off time, it becomes something else. I like to shake it out as if it were a tablecloth on the front steps. Free the crumbs into the wind and see what grows when the tides settle enough for things to find a place. When I’m done I use the same folds to pack it away. No harm in that. Better than bending time into shapes it won’t understand. Hidden, it can’t do much but carry on as it was, idling the hours away, the minutes, the moments, the breathes. I wonder if time can waste itself? Perhaps the dark ages were teenage years, where getting out of bed seemed pointless. It was easier to let things muddle by without any real effort. Asteroids were an eraser but like any chalk board a few ghosts get left behind. …
Love is a dangerous serpent, if you learn how to knot it how to twist it back on itself until it resembles nothing of love at all, then you can weave a noose from the stands cut from your own heart and choke the life out of those who refused to take it when love was first offered. And now for our (optional) prompt. In her interview, Brim provides us with several suggestions for generative writing exercises, and we’d like to challenge to today to tackle her third one, which is based in the myth of Narcissus. After reading the myth, try writing a poem that plays with the myth in some way. There is something in this myth that has rubbed me the wrong way today. I think it’s the parallel between Narcissus being cursed for not returning another’s love, and the current climate where women are sometimes thrown into toxic situations where rejecting an advance is seen as an insult that should be punished.
With enough feet marching you can shake a city from its bed, rattle the window frames until they pop loose and let the noise in. There are thunderstorms softer than your rumble, I’ve watched them shiver quake at the sound of you roaring for the world to roar right back. My own politics pass on splinters, from all the fences I’ve perched myself on carefully, certain not to teeter too far over on either side. My love of balance looks more like apathy in honesty. I think that’s why I want you and not in a way where I lay claim or bed down or burn my taste onto your mouth, I want you like a life raft, because drowning can seem like swimming if you don’t notice the water rising. write a poem that involves rebellion in some way
Version One: Version Two: I’m still playing catch up with NaPoWriMo so here is my response for Day Nineteen’s prompt. It’s a similar technique to found poetry but instead of using a page from a book you salvage from a second hand shop, you write your own paragraph and then turn it into a poem. If you want to see the original paragraph it’s included below. The only issue I have with this prompt is that it doesn’t have much in the way of contrast as the prose I based the poem off uses quite poetic language. Part of the uniqueness of found poetry is that you sometimes have to work quite hard for the lines. As you can see by the first piece, it would be quite easy just to add line breaks and blank out minimal amounts of the prose to create a poem out of this. That’s why I had two attempts at it. The second being more vicious with the black lines. The blossom from the plum tree has melted …