In Her Bones, a Storm

“…those move easiest who have learn’d to dance.” ~ An Essay on Criticism, by Alexander Pope

The quivering of his knees, the clenching of her fist, the darkening of their eyes… tell my spine their bones feel the urge to break in classic agony dance. The brown keeping my skull from the bleaching kiss of the sun has met no homelessness, but my brain knows of being unwanted. My heart feels their feels—We must be human together, or we will be nothing.

My soul echoes the Colossus wail: “The ‘tempest-tossed’ can’t breathe with stone walling their throats, with water drowning the life out of truth.” The quivering of his knees, the clenching of her fist, the darkening of their eyes… My heart breaks.

in her bones, a storm
howls of broken dawns and shame,
of hearts bought and sold

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the
(not so) wee notes…
– A friend said she felt terrible to see how my physical “pain has worsen” these days. It really hasn’t, so I asked what made her think so. She told me, “I can always see your pain in your poetry.” To her, and to anyone who is feeling bad for me—thinking that my Crohn’s and my other chronic illnesses have gotten worse—I want to say that they haven’t. My body hasn’t made any leaps towards full recovery, but things are stable. The pain, outrage, tiredness… you have been reading in my poetry and prose are reflections of the current socio-political state of affairs. Pain is contagious… for people with feeling hearts, working minds, seeing eyeballs…

– Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads (Tuesday Platform), and to Prompt Nights Writing is both mask and unveiling… Battle of the Bards: Choose a famous bard—William Shakespeare, Robert Burns, William Cowper, William Wordsworth, Alexander Pope—and pick out a poem or quote (that inspires you best) from their works and prepare to launch into battle! I chose to dance with a bit of Pope. And yes, I also borrowed a few words (and sentiments) from “The New Colossus”, by Emma Lazarus.

Created out of words from Edgar Allan Poe and Sigmund Freud magnetic poetry kits poems. The background is a detail from “Blooming Howls”, a painting by Gina Morley, inspired by my short story collection of the same name. When I placed the Poem Bit over it, I thought of the Statue of Liberty. Partly because of the color, mostly because of the agony I see on her face. It looks as if she feels the pain of the entire world, and the horror turns her insides into screams.

A Forest of His Screams

I fell in love with Jorge Luis Borges’ writing when I was twelve, and a brilliant Muse (who moonlighted as a small town librarian) gave me a copy of “The Circular Ruins”. I remember thinking, This is magic! After that, I read all the Borges I could get my hands on. So, when Kerry asked us for a poem that used “the final twilight”, from Borges’ “A Wolf”, as a frame of reference, I didn’t say yes… I screamed, “Heck, yeah!” right before I ran to find my old copy of Collected Fictions.

“A Forest of His Screams”

Raven and Wolf psycho-
analyze woman and man.

“He repressed her pleasure
and mourned his penis,”
quoth the raven. “It’s obvious,
to anyone listening to his trap.”

“Human talk can be empty,
a pale echo of love…
or a midnight of meaning,”
said the wolf. “To be cruel
isn’t enough. She needed him
to be a taker. He took.”

“He took,” said the raven.
“Now, on the final twilight,
his flesh, blood (and eyeballs)
wish he could give it back.”

“The joys of dawn come
for us all,” said the wolf.

“Not for him,” said the raven.
“Her bones flower at dusk.
And she’ll dance, dance, dance…
(deliciously mad) in a forest
of his screams.”

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the wee notes…
– I borrowed the phrases “to be cruel isn’t enough” and “the final twilight” from Borges’ poem, “A Wolf”. And, of course, I had quite the blast expanding some of my Poe and Freud magnetic Poem Bits. Seriously, how can one not have a blast and then some with wolves and ravens and eyeballs? Oh my!
– linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads (The Final Twilight ~ Micro Poetry)
– and to Poets United (Poetry Pantry, 333)
* this one is dedicated to my dearest friend, who has been in serious need of a mean cackle.

Here are the Poem Bits… in all their original glory. 😉

repressed
empty
her-bones