Poetry Time

[Lilitu]

Remember that storytime thread that died (and I was hoping it would last forever T.T)

Well I noticed alot of people don't feel comfortable posting creative things on the site, especially in their own thread, so I thought a whole thread for poetry might make it easier, so that you can post in a thread without feeling like you're being the centre of attention (which is uncomfortable for many)

Pleaaase make this thread last, if it does let's do another short story thread.

Don't be shy, what's the difference between stuff like this and the dream thread? This is just refining thoughts that come into your head

one two three GO~

[Lilitu]

Crossfingers (and toes)


The unbreeding and unbraiding of the seas and trees began on a Sunday. Not a start, not a beginning, not an end, not a close. Somethinginbetween.

Sunday’s prayers ended with ‘amen’ and then everybody left, shouting nema in their heads and thinking I had my fingers crossed.

Sunday’s funerals and weddings ended the same way, with something given, and something lost.
One was black the other white, made no difference, neither were real colours anyway.

Wayside building swayswing, swaysing soft on the rotting breezes, as if they were mother Jocheved (the buildings here were always pompous blasphemers), whisperingpraying to baby Moses across the streamandreeds.

Swimandread, swimandread.

It really did not matter anymore, anymore. The dark of the lightnow the darknow of the light crept like baby spiders in the air, with parachute gliders and safety nets, Nobody noticed and it would not care. It would not say a thing. Nobody is something very silent. It’s not sensitive, it really does not care.

Swimmoses, to the palace, to the priests who turn blood into dye.

To the gods and goddesses that flicker between obscenity and worship, depending on the flickering child at the switch.
Imagine how everyone would have felt, seeing the babymoses on a stream. Floating away on a stream. Rocked by the waves on a stream.
Abandoned by Jocheved, to fly on a stream.

It did not matter, nobody cared. It told everybody that it did not care, ironically confirming its existence and crediting its relevance. Nobody knew, deep down, it did care a little bit. Just enough to register. Just enough to stain the bedsheet. Just enough to poison the well.

It was strange how the whole world (excluding nobody) thought of the historylists. The historystories. The great ones, the old ones and small ones. The sung ones, the read ones.
Even before everybody forgot, they were hermetic. Like jewels that stayed in boxes lest they are scratched.

But Nobody would know. Nobody, the silent one who sat near the crazy man who smelt like dogs’hair. Nobody, the one who neither spoke nor danced, nor sang, but came to the party anyway. Not for the food, or the company. Just came for Nobody (itself).

When Nobody saw the sun drawing twiddling ribbons in heaven, in fact above heaven (because that’s something that exists, that Nobody knows about. It’s one of those things.), like a ballerina-cum-gymnast exerting herself in her art. In her twin disciplines sublimated to heavenly heights. She flails her flamestringsflamesstringsflames, and chainstrings. But they’re not for keeping people inside. They’re for herding people out.

Out of the caves, and the mirror-smooth bubbledomes. Hollow sphere caves painted bright, with a glowing glowing flowering paint that doesn’t grow flowers. In fact kills flowers, the rotting smell is what drives people out. They bring flowers hoping to grow into a harmonic rhythm with nature, in the sealed cave, living on light and soil. Light and mould.

Inside the caves, it was like light bulbs with no bulbs. Just a twirling tungsten coil, drawing flamestringsflames in Nobody’s land. It’s all right, Nobody cares, and there is a flickering child at the switch.

Quite a sight, I must say. I enjoyed my visit. I’ll write of it, and bury the words to be burnt in the sun’s senescence.
It’s something I believe everybody should experience, young and old, god or mortal.
Lightnow or darknow. Or heartnow, heavenlate.

Nema.

[Vigilias]

Not much good at poetry but I'll give it a try...

Hey diddle, diddle.
The Cat had a piddle,
All over the kitchen floor.
The little dog laughed to see such fun,
So the cat did a little bit more!

Hey diddle, diddle.
The dog had a piddle.
All over the living room mat.
The little cat laughed to see such fun,
So the dog piddled over that cat!

Mary had a bicycle.
She rode it back to front,
And every time the wheel went round,
A spoke flew up her saddle bag!

Mary had a little lamb,
She called it Sunny-Jim.
She took it to the wash house to see if could swim.
It swam to the bottom,
It swam to the top,
Mary got exited a pulled it by the cock!

That, I'm afraid is about as good (or crap) as I get.

I'm not a poet by any stretch of the imagination and I don't understand this business of the correct way to even write the thing.

Still, if I'm ever in a survival situation there are a few useful skills I have that will fare me and anyone I'm with better than the ability to wax lyrical about the fact that pretty soon, when we've finished baking from the desert sun, the temperature will drop to below freezing and we'll chill our nadds off. I can light a fire without setting light to an entire farmer's crop (I'm told they don't like that!) but then, if there was a farmer's crop, there'd be a farmer, a farm house and civilization beyond that.

In those circumstances I guess I could see the poetry in the situation and have a stab at setting it to paper... no matter how badly. :-P

[Lilitu]

Bump with a poem


A day, a day, after day, after eve, after morning,
Somewhere, there is another one, waiting, in his
Chair, wavering in the sunbreeze. In his chair quivering
In the sunrays (actually, still in the watermoss).
I went for a walk one day, past the street I once distributed
Newspapers, now motorbikes roared leaving ash-trails indistinguishable
From those of the train, forming an amorphous cloud
Of noxious fog (all just for blinding me of course).
On the railings, a picture and flowers wilted in the
Cold rain, were tied with strings as a memorial
To one, not another one, the only one.
Who disappeared.
Something trivial and intimate.
I went down into a tunnel with writing on the walls,
And lighting in the corners , in boxes, as if one
Were trying to catch it.
The silly ones.

I touched some vines in the dark, with leaves that oozed white
Goo.
Semen, cream, paint, grease.
But nameless, and shapeless shapechanging.
I wonder if I come back, will I remember it.
I promised the vine I would, to be trivial and intimate.
The mind is for lying, to be trivial and intimate.

The tunnel sloped downwards, in such a way that,
From whatever angle one looks back, it gives the impression
That someone is around the bend.
Coming for one. Another coming. Another returning.

Then there is the sound of tyres clicking on partitions in bridges.
And all others draw back, drop down.
I listen for the future, and then I listen for the past
Just time’s senescence flitting by, butterfly.

Disgraceful, I think. Disgraceful, and shameful for me.

The face I cannot bear to see, so I don’t ever I be.
Ever was, a man, a man,
Another man.
I believed there was, and the fool was me all along,
Along along, strung along.

The sound of one coming around the bend haunts the ground I tread on
Even the softest footprint is traceable.