Because the Taste of Storms Feeding Tongues and Sparking Word-Lust Is Freaking Irresistible

I tasted the storm
feeding your tongue and my ink
(pure tinder and flint),
screaming, “Let’s spark words of love
hot enough to curl hate’s toes.”

 

the (not so) wee note…
– I wasn’t going to post today because… well, I’m supposed to be resting. I tried resting… but my mind kept on tapping her foot and glaring… You see, last Saturday, over on Instagram, the folks of Blackout_Poetry_Challenges, um… challenged us to blackout a piece from one of our favorite Instagram poets. I’ve always been taken by @ip_writings. So, of course, I asked her if I could. She said, “Yes you can!” And I did. Then, I stopped by the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads and read Sanaa’s prompt. Dear Sanaa invites us to “pick a few words or a short line from a favorite poet” and… well, I’m a sucker for coincidences (which I’m convinced don’t exist). So, I posted the tanka you just read. Yep, that’s how my mind works. Pure madness galore.

my blackout poem

the original yumminess
(and I’m all with her, we should “brag about love… and words” always)
click on the image to delight in her poetry

Chilling Heat

“The only hope, or else despair
Lies in the choice of pyre or pyre-
To be redeemed from fire by fire
[or, at least, to get even more
sizzled by fiery cheekiness]
.”
~ T.S. Eliot [+ a muse gone wild]

 

Our love lies
under snow curtains
warmed by hope,
singing of spring boons
while frost bites on ears.

If your flesh loses all warmth, my girl, I’d want you still.

I hear
you joke about
falling hard for a frigid girl,
and think, Necrophilia
isn’t cool.

To escape your chilling heat, I’d barbecue your bosom.

 

 

the wee notes…
– partly inspired by Fireblossom’s hysterical post, “How Not to Write a Love Poem”, which sardonically says that when poetizing love, a poet should “Use ‘burning’ and all its variations, liberally: Burning lips, fiery fingertips, barbecued bosom…” I’ve been burning to use the phrase “barbecued bosom”, or something like it, ever since. Yes, I cackled (and cringed) after I wrote this.
– this piece contains a tanka, a cinquain, and two self-proclaimed free verses.
– for the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads and Hedgewitch’s Friday 55.

Battling to Birth Wild Balance

“What matters in life is not what happens to you but what you remember and how you remember it [to tell the tale].” ~ Gabriel García Márquez

 

My bit of the North revealed its skull hollow on a mad Tuesday. Mandibles dropped for cover, tongues lashed out in outrage, and no less than 1,001 fists (per nanosecond) pumped towards the heavens in despair—dark clouds and powerful men with darker souls gave exactly zero fucks. But… worry not, my Ink Warrior, today’s babies sharpen their teeth on the neckbone of injustice.

I art my words strange,
fill my tales with blood and feels.
My poetry howls
of love and other demons
battling to birth wild balance.

 

the wee notes…
– If Death had not felt the need for the best of storytellers, my dearest Gabo would’ve turned 91 today. He has been gone for almost 4 years. To celebrate his amazing life, I chose 4 of his quotes, crafted them into a blackout poem, expanded the poem into a tanka, and grew it into the tanka prose you’ve just read. Also, the fourth line of the tanka is the title of one of Márquez’s novels. Feliz cumpleaños, mi Gabo, your words will always live in needed tales.
– I apologize to those of you who were expecting the next bit of “In a Normal (probably-pre-apocalyptic) Reality”. I’ll post it next Tuesday. I just couldn’t skip my Gabo on the anniversary of his birth.
– Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.