May 23, 2013
May 22, 2013

Another NY divergence, back-dated. Tomorrow I go back north, to Maine! We’ll see what comes of that. Hopefully more writing than this time

Red Brick

Sometimes
I wish
that I could
rupture
my mouth
and let the birds
of paradise out,
frolicking
manifold
tithe to oil
this glum warren

they would
dance, children
through this gallery
of shadows
and hollow points
projecting back
onto them
the fire of
a thousand fan
blades and we
could all burn in
red brick byres
through our city
offerings
to its endless
expanse of gods

10:11pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZnM7QylhTEKT
(Notes: 2)
  
Filed under: poetry poem original content written by Conor Craig Harris 
May 20, 2013
May 20, 2013

Another in the NY divergence

Rattle the Eaves

Being here
again
is like
a bad version
of war-
no one dies
or has to
except everyone
already
has to

the wind blows
the same
the ships
all show it
I’m still salty
hammers still
rattle
the eaves,
the water
still looms

but I just
can’t shake
the feeling
that
I’m not
here anymore

6:56pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZnM7QylSNTyQ
(Notes: 4)
  
Filed under: original content poetry written by Conor Craig Harris poem 
May 20, 2013
May 19/20, 2013

I’m in NY and it felt like a good reason to break from the prose poems a touch

Tessellation

My dialogue with
The asphalt ends
In fog and Lebanon

Striking hard at
The glass before
My breaking point

Cloud towers over
Load bearing branches
Obscuring their roots

I pass by them
Over and over and
Can’t get past by

Trapped in a triangle
Jungle of low hanging
Partite caterpillars

I howl tile patterns
As visual dissonance
Succumbs to cigarettes

Insects skittering by
Parallel tracks a ways
Outside of our candle

Wax labyrinth minotaur,
Embossed, avenged, break
Silence, child’s adobe

Now carry me off Minos
From Lebanon in wax
And rupture asphalt whims

12:08am  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZnM7QylOtmZr
Filed under: original content written by Conor Craig Harris poetry poem 
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013

Another suggestion. An unintentional one, at that

Fire across the room

    I strive to maintain the impeccable ability
of finesse. I delicate each fallen flower like a heron
opening a tulip blossom. Blue is befitting though
turquoise, specifically, a bit trite. And involuntarily
I seem to howl others’ triumphs. And unwittingly I am
the sorrow of pine needles and a murder of nightfall
in light.

     Yet ennui falls heavy on me like ash. I cannot
avoid a certain smokey smell. I cannot avoid the flames.

    All this rustling through the breeze, burning
away shame’s leaves. All this a vice for the wind to speak
to desertion. All this me whispering so you can hear
fire across the room.

1:36pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZnM7QylGUfdn
(Notes: 1)
  
Filed under: poetry original content written by Conor Craig Harris poem 
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013

From an indirect suggestion, no less appreciated for its obliquely inspiring delivery

And I dance

    The buzzing circles tireless through the limbs
as the voice of the wind howls through the void
where you would be.

As husks push up from the ground to litter our walls.
As these new shingles brown with our lacquer desert.
As these crisped memories speckle the hull
     of our time worn galleon.
As a nesting crow I seek glimpse of land,
     of just, of past.

And the horizon glimmers in hope.
And the sun taunts with mirage.
And the trickling seawater confronts our ship
     decorously, its spray outlining the shape of you. 
And I dance with your ghost.

I dance  with your ghost, the sunset.
I dance the orange away.

7:32pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZnM7QylD6BXK
(Notes: 3)
  
Filed under: original content written by Conor Craig Harris poem poetry 
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013

Another in the prose poem series. I like this! It’s different problems to solve. And to all the new souls out there, hello! I was well freaked out when you all appeared in my little notifications until I figured out what that blue tag meant. Anywho, go back a couple posts (or do it here) and suggest me things to write prose poems about! It’s more fun when I have to work with others’ suggestions

Spring Lingers


    And what of us, the apples sang to the moon
hung low in the sky. Are we to stay here, overshadowed
by your glow, your radiant complexity, demanding glory?
Fall from the sky! You vainglorious pebble, spread
your lunar aspic cross the table of the world. We, too,
then shall tumble and candy in shared aspiration, sweet
glow of hungry years. We are the autumn in the trees,
the sweet planets on through their boughs. But with
your fall we will be the winter of the ground, cider
in the soil.
             Come to us moon, oh, come to us! They sing
on and on. And I laying there, I hear it all, smiling,
waiting for the spring. And I laying there, dreaming
fire cider for my soul. As fir needles tickle my nostrils,
spring lingers distant in the trees.

9:33pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZnM7Qyl9AAuX
(Notes: 2)
  
Filed under: poetry poem original content written by Conor Craig Harris 
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013

Well poo on suggestions then

Only then

           As babies cry out for the kiss of cypress
and klaxons sound to warn falcons of our retreat.
As the hills roll toward the fall and grass gropes
to fill a page. As the fence stands to ward off new
growth so do I stand agape, waiting for the summer
to fall. Sticky and loud, the hours of this heyday
toll happily for life’s spiny cacophony. They drill
into me hunger, taut and expectant as a weaver’s loom,
and lead me home from the sun.
                                                      And it is only then,
as the tears of family wet my face and the storms of
home embrace me, that I understand the luck that has
rained down on me day after day after day.

5:19pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZnM7Qyl3HeIH
(Notes: 8)
  
Filed under: original content written by Conor Craig Harris poem poetry 
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013

Hey! If you can reply to this (you can I hope) and you see it (eh, who knows) I want to segue into some short prose poems/shortshort prose about whatever. Suggest some stuff to me for writing about, please! Objects, ideas, anything really. I wanna practice just working with ideas in this form (I’ve been inspired by some stuff I’ve been rereading, including an awesome book of shortshort prose (flash fiction, I guess? That’s a thing, right?) by W.S. Merwin called “Houses and Travellers”) Anyway, here’s a piece about a perennial favorite of mine, sunflowers. (hah! flower puns! I promise there are none in the piece.)

“…And a sun bloomed there”

Be born of my pen, my dear, spoke the lonely
paper to the empty sky. I have known such existence,
barred as I am. Please breeze, blow in in your arms
a wealth of hasty children, hungry for apples. Let them
climb and turn their necks to the sun. I plead with you.
I would see your visage filled with clouds at least once
before my turning.
   
And hearing this cry, the sky rained down its hopes-
I will fill your sight with creeping, slithering life
fit for grandest imaginations. The fruit will litter
the world and rot to grow again at your feet. Your fondest
memories, yet to be made, will romp cheerfully through rows
of your healthy wheat, crying.
   
Thus the world filled the pen
and it danced lightly cross the page
and a sun bloomed there.

11:02pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZnM7Qyl0II9J
Filed under: original content written by Conor Craig Harris poetry 
May 14, 2013
May 13/14, 2013

The final cardinal poem, an epilogue of sorts

Memories of a Cardinal

My eyes remain as empty
As my unclenched hands

Cruel as once inevitable
Desire being riven of boughs by

Wind’s sharp coming, itself
Seeming written as reddened

Hands against the encumbrance
Of beltane’s burning expectation.

I must relive now turning back
A question of knowing fate

As reddened hands in the sun,
Asked of the nearest red to me-

Knowing perhaps I had asked poorly
Of poorly chosen sage, unaware 

Of losing my words and myself
In their dark avian eyes

Unaware that, in my stormy haste
To have my question answered

I confused as crimson dactyls,
Reaching cross the clouds,

The sunset’s springing onto day
A cardinal’s flight home to nest.

1:17pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZnM7Qykzpnu5
(Notes: 1)
  
Filed under: original content written by Conor Craig Harris poem poetry 
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013, part 2

I wrapped up the Cardinal sequence today, for now at least. One more after this

Tears for a Cardinal

I still fixate on the lifeless
Cardinal’s face, moist and sudden,
Staring starry at the bark
Of its tangled home, quavering
With sibilant voracity,
Though both are gone now
And the parents hum a dirge
Between the delicate fallen
Petals of mid-May’s promise
Of flowers. I still dance here,
Still with my poisonous tail
Poised to stain this page with
Blood made of my calloused
Hands, made soft of tears
Sullen of india ink and smooth
Of a pen’s abrupt body. Dreaming,
Perhaps, elsewhere, of frothing
Discontent in a sea’s sullen
Lunar tugging there
Is a cardinal, or a pair,
Burdened only by injurious hunger,
Which cares not for fate nor chance
Nor for envious cats, once
Its familiars. I might ask
If it cares that I hunger
Always in a monotone, boring
Even solitude to death
In the cat’s open maw, rose
Floating in a raven sea
Illumined by twin amber suns,
Pricking gently at the world’s
Lost sailors, stealing away souls
To bar them in wood and brass
And sink them distant, deep.
I might ask the dubious wind,
Sated with the weight of twin
Lives, if it carried off expectancy
In the bellies of two unwitting
Cardinals, who once wore residence
As being the bush beside the window
Out which I gaze. I might
Ask the soil of who stole up to them,
Padding their steps on down
Of absent parents and fall unmitigated,
To creak with the branch by my window,
Striking as quickly, with that same reach.
I might ask the sun through the boughs
If it shone upon an unforgivable
Turning of the leaves away
So as not to watch the act of swift
Adjudication of the natural. I
Might ask the rain, cool companion
Of secretive winds, if it washed
Crimson tears from the roots of that
Home that was ceased as quickly
As I turn my head at an errant chirp
Signaling cloudy change. I might
Ask many things of the outside
Were I not here bound, scuttling
The steps of my dark dance, unconsciously
Poisoning these wells, the font
From which I draw my cardinals

7:12pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZnM7Qykwdz61
(Notes: 1)
  
Filed under: original content written by Conor Craig Harris poem poetry 
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