Island of Pain

I never planned
for their cracks in my bones,
for their poison in my blood,
for their teeth
gnawing at my gut.

I was born of Aries—
surfing fiery waves,
dancing to the moon
in darkness
and bright.

Then the Nosoi warped
my course, and took me
(kicking and swimming)
into their Island of Pain.

“I won’t suffer your whims,”
I said, crafting it up as I went.
“I will feed on all the hurts
you birth, and morph
your island into my home.”

I never planned
for their warping ropes
(I was born of Aries),
I will fight them
with what comes
out of the blood
and the bone
and soul.

Process Note: on his first contribution to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads’ Sunday Mini-Challenge, Brendan decided to go big and asked us for a piece “about a situation or time or relationship… as if it were an island encountered on the wide wild sea.” My poem glimpses into what happens in the island I found. It also dances with the theme of Sanaa’s Prompt Nights: Are you “Spontaneous or Not?” And lastly, I wanted to continued Rereading My Pratchett, so I invited the Muse to keep in mind the following quote, from Lords and Ladies, while we birthed today’s piece: “…if you stay here and keep trying to call the Lords and Ladies, then you’ll be up against me again. Not playing stupid games in the daylight, but real witchcraft. Not messing around with moon circles, but the true stuff, out of the blood and the bone and out of the head.”

Nosoi – in Greek mythology, “spirits (daimones) of illness, plague and disease.”

Ixchel (Mayan Rainbow Goddess), by SunshineShelle
“Ixchel”, by SunshineShelle
(She looks like she’s ready for anything… and everything.)

In Mazes, Create

The pain-shroud spilled over her all, day and night… blackening her dreams, drowning her living in the bitter-salt that had to be wept, if cleansing was to be had. Hurt cries scarred her heart’s skin, blemished the veil that separated her mind’s eye from the world, and named her existence eternally dark. “I’m walled in a door-less pit that overflows with black, black, pitch-black stagnation that’s penumbra over my Self,” she said. “No flesh, no bone, no soul could survive this. How could I!”

black flowers
in mazes, create—
ink treasure

Process Note: I’ve linked this poem to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads’ “Micro Poetry” prompt. Since the word “Micro” seemed to be glaring at the prose section of my poem, I was only going to link the haiku bit of this haibun. Then I got curious about how one might count the lines that compose a haibun (my poetry forms knowledge is rather limited). I read this article on Haibun Today, and it shed little light onto my line division issue. So I visited the word jungle (Wikipedia) and found this wee bit: “Prose poetry is poetry without line breaks in accordance to paragraph structure as opposed to stanza.”

Out of deliciously selfish convenience (I really wanted to share the haibun *cough*), I interpreted the quote to mean that there aren’t any real line breaks in the paragraphs of prose poetry. If this is true (and I have no idea if it is), then “In Mazes, Create” contains only four lines. Micro and the Muse are aiming some seriously suspicious looks my way; and somehow, I doubt that I can fault them for it. What do you think, my Wicked Luvs?

In Mazes, Createblacked out from Johanna Basford’s
Secret Garden: an Inky Treasure Hunt and Coloring Book