...poetry?

Oct. 9th, 2012 11:43 pm
skull_bearer: (Default)
Something I sent to my aunt/psychotherapist after she sent me a poem she'd written, and I gloriously continue expressing my own issues by transposing them onto my characters. Johannes speaking to Mirek, in this case.

Lament for Glass

Fingers touch a pane of glass
Clear to the point of disappearance,
But solid under the hands, cold.

You blink, you smile.
Lashes close and open,
Dark liquid eyes.

You're beautiful to see,
To touch, magical,
But I cannot touch you.

Why are you hidden in plain sight?
Why can you not be touched when my hands
Offer nothing but kindness, softness, love?

What must I do to touch you?
To coax you out from walls of glass
Into the welcoming sun?
skull_bearer: (Default)

 

The Writer
—Sujata Bhatt

 

The best story of course,
is the one you can't write,
you won't write,
It's something that can only live
in your heart,
not on paper.

Paper is dry, flat.
Where is the soil
for the roots, and how do I lift out
entire trees, a whole forest
from the earth of the spirit
and transplant it on paper
without disturbing the birds?

And what about the mountain
on which the forest grows?
The waterfalls
making rivers,
rivers with throngs of trees
elbowing each other aside
to have a look
at the fish.

Beneath the fish
there are clouds.
Here, the sky ripples,
the river thunders.
How would things move on paper?

Now watch the way
the tigers' walking
shreds the paper.

*chews off own fingers. Today is not a good writing day. I've already got all of Present Perfect mapped out so it's no longer interesting. So I'm just writing and fucking up my own plans because I swear my subconscious has better ideas than I do*
skull_bearer: (Default)

 

The Writer
—Sujata Bhatt

 

The best story of course,
is the one you can't write,
you won't write,
It's something that can only live
in your heart,
not on paper.

Paper is dry, flat.
Where is the soil
for the roots, and how do I lift out
entire trees, a whole forest
from the earth of the spirit
and transplant it on paper
without disturbing the birds?

And what about the mountain
on which the forest grows?
The waterfalls
making rivers,
rivers with throngs of trees
elbowing each other aside
to have a look
at the fish.

Beneath the fish
there are clouds.
Here, the sky ripples,
the river thunders.
How would things move on paper?

Now watch the way
the tigers' walking
shreds the paper.

*chews off own fingers. Today is not a good writing day. I've already got all of Present Perfect mapped out so it's no longer interesting. So I'm just writing and fucking up my own plans because I swear my subconscious has better ideas than I do*
skull_bearer: (Default)
If space begins at an indefinite zone
where the chance of two gas molecules colliding
is rarer than a green dog or a blue moon
then that’s as near as we can get to nothing.

Nostalgia for the earth and its atmosphere
weakens the flesh and bones of cosmonauts.
One woke to find his crewmate in a space suit
and asked where he was going. For a walk.

He had to sleep between him and the air-lock.
Another heard a dog bark and a child cry
halfway to the moon. What once had been

where heaven was, is barren beyond imagining,
and never so keenly as from out there can
the lost feel earth’s the only paradise.

Jamie McKendrick (b. 1955)
skull_bearer: (Default)
If space begins at an indefinite zone
where the chance of two gas molecules colliding
is rarer than a green dog or a blue moon
then that’s as near as we can get to nothing.

Nostalgia for the earth and its atmosphere
weakens the flesh and bones of cosmonauts.
One woke to find his crewmate in a space suit
and asked where he was going. For a walk.

He had to sleep between him and the air-lock.
Another heard a dog bark and a child cry
halfway to the moon. What once had been

where heaven was, is barren beyond imagining,
and never so keenly as from out there can
the lost feel earth’s the only paradise.

Jamie McKendrick (b. 1955)
skull_bearer: (Default)
Found this as part of an art piece in the Tate Modern:

What is that object over there?

Search the shores
of an ancient land
under the stars
along the sand
between the pines
the cactus tree
see the stone
where the lizard sleeps

What is that object
over there?
Who is the man
by the orange tree?
The voices calling
in the square?
The lights that flicker
out to sea?


Tells you everything there is to know about me that I walk into an art gallery and the thing I take away with me is a poem. And that room full of USSR propaganda posters. That was awesome.
skull_bearer: (Default)
Found this as part of an art piece in the Tate Modern:

What is that object over there?

Search the shores
of an ancient land
under the stars
along the sand
between the pines
the cactus tree
see the stone
where the lizard sleeps

What is that object
over there?
Who is the man
by the orange tree?
The voices calling
in the square?
The lights that flicker
out to sea?


Tells you everything there is to know about me that I walk into an art gallery and the thing I take away with me is a poem. And that room full of USSR propaganda posters. That was awesome.
skull_bearer: (Default)

So here are two poems from Mirek and Johannes.
In other news, I marched on the Royal Bank of Scotland and lost a kneecap, and next month I will be responsible for sheparding the Nazi contingent through modern Berlin.
I will got in a corner and die now.

Aquarius

Tip the tumbler for water

You hold it out to me

To take from your hands.

You sip and swallow and sip again

And lean over for me

To take from your lips.

Hold the water, for when I kiss you

And taste it on your lips

Instead of the ash that chokes me.

-By Mirek.

 

Aquarius

Cradle a bowl of water

Your hands frail as twigs

Brittle bones bowing beneath

But holding high the gift

Sweet water to parched mouths

Of your Broken People

Pour down a waterfall of plenty

To cracked and parted lips

Glory and exhaustion on giving

And giving. The water bowl is empty

But you stand full and tall.

-By Johannes.

skull_bearer: (Default)

So here are two poems from Mirek and Johannes.
In other news, I marched on the Royal Bank of Scotland and lost a kneecap, and next month I will be responsible for sheparding the Nazi contingent through modern Berlin.
I will got in a corner and die now.

Aquarius

Tip the tumbler for water

You hold it out to me

To take from your hands.

You sip and swallow and sip again

And lean over for me

To take from your lips.

Hold the water, for when I kiss you

And taste it on your lips

Instead of the ash that chokes me.

-By Mirek.

 

Aquarius

Cradle a bowl of water

Your hands frail as twigs

Brittle bones bowing beneath

But holding high the gift

Sweet water to parched mouths

Of your Broken People

Pour down a waterfall of plenty

To cracked and parted lips

Glory and exhaustion on giving

And giving. The water bowl is empty

But you stand full and tall.

-By Johannes.

skull_bearer: (Default)
Skull Bearer is going to read some of her poems as part of the Middlesex University Literary Festival, poems chosen are one of Mirek's later ones, and one I wrote about Kristalnacht. This is probably public suicide but they are good poems and I love them dearly. I've edited the Kristalnacht poem so it sounds better read out. It's ironic, but most of the poems I've done on the Third Reich can almost be seen as preformance poetry. They're almost like marching songs.
Which is, of course, pretty damn good. If a tad problematic.
Mirek's, on the other hand, are very structural, and look beautiful. I've picked this one to read out because It Is Awesome and sounds very lyrical. And sad. Oh, Mirek's cornered the matter in sad the way Johannes had cornered it in mental acrobatics.

Anyway. I'll be there, anyone London based who actually likes my poetry- or even if they don't, it's a great festival and they've got Ian Banks there- please come down. I need moral support. Or eggs thrown at me. I like eggs.

skull_bearer: (Default)
Skull Bearer is going to read some of her poems as part of the Middlesex University Literary Festival, poems chosen are one of Mirek's later ones, and one I wrote about Kristalnacht. This is probably public suicide but they are good poems and I love them dearly. I've edited the Kristalnacht poem so it sounds better read out. It's ironic, but most of the poems I've done on the Third Reich can almost be seen as preformance poetry. They're almost like marching songs.
Which is, of course, pretty damn good. If a tad problematic.
Mirek's, on the other hand, are very structural, and look beautiful. I've picked this one to read out because It Is Awesome and sounds very lyrical. And sad. Oh, Mirek's cornered the matter in sad the way Johannes had cornered it in mental acrobatics.

Anyway. I'll be there, anyone London based who actually likes my poetry- or even if they don't, it's a great festival and they've got Ian Banks there- please come down. I need moral support. Or eggs thrown at me. I like eggs.

skull_bearer: (Default)
Going to the Holocaust section of the Imperial War Museum while having a psychic day has been established as a bad idea, will add to this 'going ANYWHERE near the Reichstag eagle in the basement on a psychic day'. It's not as nasty as the Holocaust section, it's just... noisy. And doesn't like being kept in a basement.

Anyway, here's poetry Mirek's written during internet shutdown:

A Poem Written in Chalk
If by this stone my father sleeps
And lives were droped like autumn rain,
If this is where my mother weeps
And many others did the same,
If those I lost died here indeed
Why then these words will not be lost;
The dying grass shall spread its seed
And life will bloom despite the frost,
But if this stone has never caught
The blood of friends and those I loved;
Then let this land be sown with salt,
The sun to die, the sky to fold,
The world turn black with bitter song:
For they are dead, their names are gone.

Sometimes I swear my characters are better poets than I am.

skull_bearer: (Default)
Going to the Holocaust section of the Imperial War Museum while having a psychic day has been established as a bad idea, will add to this 'going ANYWHERE near the Reichstag eagle in the basement on a psychic day'. It's not as nasty as the Holocaust section, it's just... noisy. And doesn't like being kept in a basement.

Anyway, here's poetry Mirek's written during internet shutdown:

A Poem Written in Chalk
If by this stone my father sleeps
And lives were droped like autumn rain,
If this is where my mother weeps
And many others did the same,
If those I lost died here indeed
Why then these words will not be lost;
The dying grass shall spread its seed
And life will bloom despite the frost,
But if this stone has never caught
The blood of friends and those I loved;
Then let this land be sown with salt,
The sun to die, the sky to fold,
The world turn black with bitter song:
For they are dead, their names are gone.

Sometimes I swear my characters are better poets than I am.

skull_bearer: (Default)
I want to cry but it feels as though the tears are trapped somewhere that is not my eyes, under my collarbone maybe. I wonder if I smashed my collarbone I'd be able to cry? Ah well.
On a more upbeat note, coming back to London tomorrow, so should be there for NYE rave. Epic Win aunt has bought me a rich burgundy wizard's robe. It's a tad too big but that doesn't really matter. The baggieness of the sleeves just makes it exta-sorcerous and while it's not so cool at the waist I also now have a gold shawl to wrap around it. I look like something out of the Arabian Nights. I just need curly shoes.
Hmm, [livejournal.com profile] waset got me an arabian dagger from Egypt. Tucked into the shawl it would be beyond awesome. I'll also need to bring back my wizard's staff from my mother's house. Hell bells, I practically am a sorcerer, complete with hopelessly unreliable invisible servants consisting of the dead and never-to-be-born (yes, I'm talking about you lot).
Heh.

And a final little thank you to someone who has been very nice and helpful recently but needs to leave me the fuck alone because he is now giving me a headache.

 

Really problematic poem about this Christmas and the fact that I had to rely on Herr Doktor to get through it )
Thank you. Really. Now go away and kill people somewhere else. I can't write you.
That place was so poisonous Mengele was the only character who could stand it, all the others are still woozy. Gods. No wonder I ended up with Kuthgar. Gods. For all the general fail of living alone at least it make for good character cultivation. Christmas was like dunking them all in a vat a sulphuric acid. Prussic acid. Whatever.
Anyway. Hopefully the new year will be better. Better be better. Dear Gods, I swear.

 


skull_bearer: (Default)
I want to cry but it feels as though the tears are trapped somewhere that is not my eyes, under my collarbone maybe. I wonder if I smashed my collarbone I'd be able to cry? Ah well.
On a more upbeat note, coming back to London tomorrow, so should be there for NYE rave. Epic Win aunt has bought me a rich burgundy wizard's robe. It's a tad too big but that doesn't really matter. The baggieness of the sleeves just makes it exta-sorcerous and while it's not so cool at the waist I also now have a gold shawl to wrap around it. I look like something out of the Arabian Nights. I just need curly shoes.
Hmm, [livejournal.com profile] waset got me an arabian dagger from Egypt. Tucked into the shawl it would be beyond awesome. I'll also need to bring back my wizard's staff from my mother's house. Hell bells, I practically am a sorcerer, complete with hopelessly unreliable invisible servants consisting of the dead and never-to-be-born (yes, I'm talking about you lot).
Heh.

And a final little thank you to someone who has been very nice and helpful recently but needs to leave me the fuck alone because he is now giving me a headache.

 

Really problematic poem about this Christmas and the fact that I had to rely on Herr Doktor to get through it )
Thank you. Really. Now go away and kill people somewhere else. I can't write you.
That place was so poisonous Mengele was the only character who could stand it, all the others are still woozy. Gods. No wonder I ended up with Kuthgar. Gods. For all the general fail of living alone at least it make for good character cultivation. Christmas was like dunking them all in a vat a sulphuric acid. Prussic acid. Whatever.
Anyway. Hopefully the new year will be better. Better be better. Dear Gods, I swear.

 


Poetry

Dec. 21st, 2008 07:03 pm
skull_bearer: (Default)
Dedication

My fingers skin across the keys like a heartbeat.
The clicking tones of line on line
and tale upon tale through other's eyes
I write. The hungry hook of longing for you
my friend. I write that the call of the keys
will reach across earth and sea to you
and you'll think of me.

And I wonder if the click of the keys
are the same as the tick of the clock?
That the faster I type the faster they'll go.
The hour hand spiunning through the days
as the sun rises and sets within this world
and it turns, and you'll return all the faster.
My heart scrapes in pain against my ribs,
but I'll not feel it, and pull it close;
to let it out between the keys,
to pool and slip between the words,
to wait for you to read it.

Poetry

Dec. 21st, 2008 07:03 pm
skull_bearer: (Default)
Dedication

My fingers skin across the keys like a heartbeat.
The clicking tones of line on line
and tale upon tale through other's eyes
I write. The hungry hook of longing for you
my friend. I write that the call of the keys
will reach across earth and sea to you
and you'll think of me.

And I wonder if the click of the keys
are the same as the tick of the clock?
That the faster I type the faster they'll go.
The hour hand spiunning through the days
as the sun rises and sets within this world
and it turns, and you'll return all the faster.
My heart scrapes in pain against my ribs,
but I'll not feel it, and pull it close;
to let it out between the keys,
to pool and slip between the words,
to wait for you to read it.

skull_bearer: (Default)

Karl and Johannes

I watch you take off and rise far above

Cradled up safe in the machine you fly.

You are so frail, among the clouds you love,

But fast and joyful, not afraid to die.

And I of stone, I walk below and see

You ride away a paper trail to chase.

And when we meet you laugh and run, still free

I love you so that after you I’ll race.

I’ll watch you go; I’ll watch you fly away

Your heart as high as mine is low. You know

I will chase you; I know you’ll never stay.

You know you’ll leave. I know you always do.

All I can do is hope and wait for you.

From Johannes to his ex-lover Karl Schwartz the Stuka pilot ;). Ex because he and Karl got caught. Johannes' family had enough influence to get him out of the court-martial. Karl wasn't so lucky. I don't know what happened to him, Johannes doesn't know so he hasn't been able to tell me, but if he's not dead by now he will be soon. Very sad story :( Not much in All Instruments of Measurement that isn't, in fact.

skull_bearer: (Default)

Karl and Johannes

I watch you take off and rise far above

Cradled up safe in the machine you fly.

You are so frail, among the clouds you love,

But fast and joyful, not afraid to die.

And I of stone, I walk below and see

You ride away a paper trail to chase.

And when we meet you laugh and run, still free

I love you so that after you I’ll race.

I’ll watch you go; I’ll watch you fly away

Your heart as high as mine is low. You know

I will chase you; I know you’ll never stay.

You know you’ll leave. I know you always do.

All I can do is hope and wait for you.

From Johannes to his ex-lover Karl Schwartz the Stuka pilot ;). Ex because he and Karl got caught. Johannes' family had enough influence to get him out of the court-martial. Karl wasn't so lucky. I don't know what happened to him, Johannes doesn't know so he hasn't been able to tell me, but if he's not dead by now he will be soon. Very sad story :( Not much in All Instruments of Measurement that isn't, in fact.

skull_bearer: (Default)
Dreamcatcher

He speaks, I throw you out to him again
A bound up goat to bait the tiger away
A fair young maid offered up in chains.
I cower behind your grim-set sheild and stay
far out of reach from cold and cutting words
Meant kind and light and not aware they cut.
You take the blows, the harsh cruel verbal swords
While I just duck and hide unscathed, yet but
The slice in still, behind your guard the steel
Goes deep. He turns away, a father free
From his child's clutching hands. He does not feel
Their touch. His eyes closed so as not so see
My tears. He walks away, his heart is light
While I am left with you against the night.

I is me. You is Mirek. He is my father.
Inspired by my father's wish to move to South America with his new wife. I don't think it's occured to him that I will miss him horribly. Considering that I've asked him if I can come more times than I can count and he has always refused, I don't have high hopes of ever seeing him again after he moves.

And yes, I do like sonnets.

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