2headedsnake:

andifitsreal.com

Emma McNally

(via clarabotox)

Was thinking about posting a newer thing. Thought again.

“Pretty Blue Dress’s Girl”

I.

Oh, pretty blue dress, cling so sinuously
Who lends definition, you or who you define?

II.

Rumpled azul lining, pleated ocean swells
Moved by ocean breezes, attracting to repel and

Gold kingdoms part waters, gold on top of mother’s
Land to glisten glib, and sky repelled from

Sand, its own gold, that tops it all despite
Being under it all and, after all, running through my fingers.

III.

If a bit of blue is pulled away, don’t wipe off the paint
Still fresh on the canvas, glistening with changing ink

As the frame curves and dips, canvas too willingly warps
Sending paint to fresh curves, redipping the blue stroke

Dripping to cover parts in the frame, redolent warmth
That as much shapes the paint, though the color also hides

The frame and canvas divide, breaking with form
Letting acrylic cover both, implying what isn’t,

And drape frilly over warmth, longing to encircle it
and frame its curve, as I long to be encircled myself.

IV.

…

Wouldn’t do to move through my archives too quickly, now would it

Spring Eternal!

Spring eternal!
rainin down on us

Spring Eternal!
Colouring our days

Spring Eternal!
howlin at the cars

Spring Eternal!
Bringin us to rise

Spring Eternal!
livenin our being

Spring Eternal!
Bringin us together

Spring Eternal!
Darkenin our deeds

Spring Eternal!
Soilin the evenings

Spring Eternal!
Don’t weigh my thoughts
with such burdens

Spring Eternal!
Blossom cleanly,
Spring Eternal,
and do not burden us
with your petty things

I have a translation but pish posh, figure it out. But I have been digging through my old store place for my poetry and will be posting some older ones for a bit

“abajo la luna”

Doy fuego

a mi cigarillo y

se fuma

abajo la luna.

-

Doy sonido

a mi camina y

se oye

abajo la luna.

-

Doy voz

a mi boca y

se habla

abajo la luna.

-

Doy silencio

a mi mente y

me muero,

abajo la luna.

“Ad ventura”

Like coming in from the snow and,
Shaking off your jacket, finding

A warm glow to the air as though
There were a fire in the corner but

Forgetting to notice if there were
While you sink, overwhelmed, into a couch.

—

It’s seeing yourself at a new place
You remember from the heroes of your

Past, though gone, that whispers to you
All the steps so you will feel a hero

To know the way through, too,
Despite the unfamiliar ground, the way

Shadowed by strange trees whose leaves
Wag at this hero’s passage beneath their head.

—

It will be these trees teaching you of darkness
And terror if you will sit quietly within

There where you cannot disturb their vine-
Ridden court; where you cannot see beyond

The jurors stand that fends away the light,
Intruder, from injuring your repose; wherein

No thought breaks through your forest’s order
As the trees order your thoughts on time and scale-
                                                    on death.

(via rabbitfurhabits)

So at the suggestion (encouragement?) of dear Jabberwocky, I am intending to revamp this into something more oriented around my writing (though also featuring writing that I sincerely enjoy). In the spirit of that:

I.

Storm clouds

flash

in the distance

but that is not

the drum I hear

II.

If the wind blew

my bottle away

I cannot blame

the wind, nor the

                   bottle

III.

Shouting may win

attention your way

but, for me, the chimes

do all the talking

IV.

If the porch collapsed,

today or another,

would we still stand-

would it disrupt our stride?

V.

This pen, does it

hold me?

Does the paper bear

already the mark

or do I scar it now?

VI.

Lift your hands, pull!

Lift your hands, pull!

Lift your hands! Pull

down the word.

VII.

You have lost. Your

eyes continue to mind

you, poorly, and you

lose continuously to read

VIII.

Stop.

You cannot part

from the stick the bowl;

nor from the bowl

the din.

(via clarabotox)

marsiouxpial:

1964. United States.