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Literature Text
The once sanguine walls—
broken and collapsed into wings
—have become grey, pinned still, within a desolate birdcage.
Migratory birdsong hatched from our birth place, from
scuff marks and peeled paint, where cross-legged lovers once sat,
where lips fed souls, and fingers clasped time tightly.
Time escaped on the winds we breathed;
its cold chill upon our cheeks,
our eyes closed to the changing seasons.
But lights shine through to eyes pressed closed,
and hearts know what we wish they didn't.
I carved your name along my rib, an epitaph,
and whispered safe journeys to you, weeping
your departure from winter grounds.
--
5/1/2012
Copyright © 2012 Jen Fowler
All Rights Reserved.
broken and collapsed into wings
—have become grey, pinned still, within a desolate birdcage.
Migratory birdsong hatched from our birth place, from
scuff marks and peeled paint, where cross-legged lovers once sat,
where lips fed souls, and fingers clasped time tightly.
Time escaped on the winds we breathed;
its cold chill upon our cheeks,
our eyes closed to the changing seasons.
But lights shine through to eyes pressed closed,
and hearts know what we wish they didn't.
I carved your name along my rib, an epitaph,
and whispered safe journeys to you, weeping
your departure from winter grounds.
--
5/1/2012
Copyright © 2012 Jen Fowler
All Rights Reserved.
Literature
Transient
if I went searching I'd find you in the sky,
again, inebriated and make-believing you
can really breathe stars.
if I tried to take you back, you'd weep
your glass tears and slur together the
meanings of "wait" and "I know"
(no weight, hollow)
you'd try to paint your mind
on the wall, always the misunderstood
artist- maybe in a divine exposition,
people could finally hear you and
that little world would writhe in your hands,
barbed and entwined; the currents carry
your whispers (but no one ever hears)
you're choking on the remorse lodged in
between the vertebrae of your throat,
the people who were never real, the
letters to
Literature
Zemi
Things having to be returned to their transparency:
i.
/ green mist-earth / knit
atmosphere / fathomless
blue-lavender / lights
spun out from light
ii.
are recalcitrance / and you
are convergence
& - a fingernail of summer
- a melting of rain
- a crown of flowers
- a priest of sunsets
(beautiful? I love you, because. Zemi.
Zemi. are you beautiful because I love
you? Zemi? )
iii.
I imagine this is what it's like to breathe sea foam
over the Cliffs of Moher: hydration. absolution.
Literature
Reddist
Before you, there were women
with full breasts,
breasts with perk tips and beneath them:
hips wide as my hand spread,
but never love.
Athenas before you,
my eyes only followed the apples;
and then, suddenly:
A wild brook unleashed
and I never knew I was a basin
meant to be filled.
A woman sewn
from the smile of Coyote,
from the same hands that bent time
and created life for a laugh-
Apples became
the sweetest fruit; be my reddist-
I will love you madder
than a hatter and brasher than a miner.
Wilder for a gypsy.
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Just something that occurred a long while ago.
Thought I'd write about it from the longtime-healed perspective.
From the: "Winter was [never] our season" files.
Thought I'd write about it from the longtime-healed perspective.
From the: "Winter was [never] our season" files.
© 2012 - 2024 BeyondJen
Comments42
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Overall
Vision
Originality Technique ImpactOk .... The style of the poem is a wonderfully delicate art, the verse feels spontaneous and free whilst maintaing a disciplined structure - which is all too rare. Certainly the descriptive passages seem to be derived of emotion and memory, using wonderful metaphors and allogories along the way. However, personally I couldn't help but see a picture, a tangible setting. On a formal level it almost feels anti-pastoral (if there is such a thing) ....
The poem appears to be concerned with time and flight, how things change and what becomes of those who are left behind. Such two contrasting perspectives..... To leave or to be left, that is the question??? (Inspired by your contemporary Shakespeare qoute by the way)..... For the migrator, it is a new experience, a new dawn, allowing that perhaps somewhere this poem exists in opposite, and those memories are to be looked upon fondly. But for those that are left behind the setting transforms into a bitter memory, the loss is all too great and eventually it becomes over-bearing.
One of the best deviants I've ever read, and an absolute pleasure to critique.