I am Son of Hot Poetry!

[Aaron]

Since I think Steve was wanting to keep this setup similar to the one I set up at the other site, I guess I'll begin this thread as my catalog thread for poetry.

This was from a long narrative poem I was working on years ago.

From Symphony of the Wolf


Aghast, late in the even, aseat alone in shadow,
I brood alone in silence, with hours till the morrow.
And in my hands I hold a dead, antique victrola,
Found next to a menorah I’ve never known to cast its glow:
Treasures of the attic milieu, cherished friends I long to know.
I greet them kind, and make it so.

I set down the music box before me, wipe its dust away,
Regretting as I touch it, certain it will never play
The arias and joyous tunes that its cone would call and croon
To dancers in the light of moon, children in the light of day—
Specters that shall n’er again find that sun’s sweet golden rays,
The moonlight also cast away.

But still I grasp the rusted crank, and turn with all my might,
Forcing the old victrola’s gears their verdigris to fight.
At first, they will not turn a bit, but then finally submit,
And now I sit and stare at it, seized by uninvited fright,
Swallowing my newfound dread, wishing that it were not night,
Wondering how to take my flight.

Then, from the ancient gramophone, emits a quiet euphony,
That languidly becomes a truly eerie harmony
Of strings and drums and horns, whose descants cry forlorn,
Of woodwind whistles torn—a pleading strident melody,
A philharmonic of the lost, preparing for a symphony;
An awful, baneful symphony.

The volume swells within my ears, What does it mean? I wish to know.
Who is the wicked parent of this hymn of guilty sorrow?
So, thus determined, I resign to discover its design.
Yes, its purpose I’ll define, I’ll hunt and find the source of woe!
And then I saw the culprit, a conductor’s stick in tow;
He introduced himself as Maestro…

[The_Nameless]

Nice.

I love the flow and pattern of the poem. It practically rolls off of the tongue.

[Brice]

I've loved your poetry ever sense you linked a couple of us to some in IRC Aaron. I hope there will be more.

[John Blaze]

nice stuff, now post the rest!

[parsnip]

I agree about more more MORE!!!!!

I'm curious, as well, do you tend to write more in form or free verse? And do you tend to gravitate to one form over others?

[Frunobulax]

I'm hoping that the rest of Symphony... will be put up here soon, Aaron!

[Aaron]

Wow...I totally forgot that I even started this thread. 'Twas ages ago.

So all righty---let's post some poetry!

Here is one of the last poems that I wrote. Sadly, that was quite some time ago.

Dance


Closing eyes, she knows this song.
Pursing lips, now wait…just wait.
Feel that. Kiss the empty air.
And now a laugh that sings the verse;
she falters, but won’t let it go.
The music still enchants and haunts her,
but she never dances anymore.

Eyelids flutter, gaze far off
into the clouds, the smoke cavorting
at a shadow’s threshold, searching
for that faded little girl
who dreamed of more than whiskey and fear.
Lipstick marks the empty glass,
another one and she’ll forget.

Fingers tremble, calmed in grasping
the crucifix between her breasts.
Faith in ashes at the pyre
of yesterday, tonight, tomorrow.
A sigh and hope will fight the fire.
She finds my stare, she knows I know;
still her fingers stroke her savior.

My eyes are mirrors to her yearning,
a face familiar in lost illusion.
We know the dreams; they still are hiding:
her little girl lost, my little boy crying.
Sing it again. We both turn away.
The music still enchants and haunts me,
but, baby, I don’t dance no more.

[Aaron]

And another...this was written based on a nightmare I had about a female friend of mine being assaulted. Still chills me to remember it.

echoes


breathing
silence, breathing, silence…heartbeat
seclusion, away from the ears of others
far too far
intensity, anger, illusions dying…He’s suspicious.
vehemence—Don’t yell.

seething
emotion, seething, emotion…weeping
mistake, china masks, cracking egg shells
wrong, so wrong
obsession, need, psychosis surrender—Please stop
goddamnit Stop; No—STOP IT!

screaming
laughing, screaming, laughing…echoes
betrayal—friendship fantasy and bloody thighs
torn, heart torn
powerlessness, fear, hopeless numb…I love you
the screams—I LOVED YOU!

broken dove in palms of hands,
pleading echoes do not exist.

[The Lady of Shadows]

wow.

this one actually made me cry just reading it aaron. you write very well from a woman's point of view, not many men can do that effectively.

[Aaron]

Well thank you.

[flaggwalkstheline]

hmm interesting stuff, r u a big fan of keats? some of ur stuff reminds me of him (thats a compliment in case u werent sure)

[Aaron]

I am pretty sure that I have read some Keats at some point, but nothing comes to mind at this moment. But I definitely know that it is a compliment. Thanks

[Aaron]

ha! I know Ode. I don't recall ever having read the other.

[Lady_Macbeth]

Holy shit. You are AMAZING. Reading "Echoes" gave me chills. I don't know fist hand (thank God) but you truly captured the terror of what it must be like to be sexually assaulted. You need to publish these NAO!

[Aaron]

Thanks

Here is one more; another oldie

Ragdoll

I see you, little ragdoll,
Lonesome lifeless on the dirty
Wooden stairs—so very sad—
And think of tragic Anna,
Who mothered you so well, each day
that she died.

The slashes on your cotton
Face, your disemboweled stuffing—
Oh yes, I still remember. Her screams
Are still resounding in the cruelty
Of your torture, her tears still sparkling
in your red-yarn hair.

The pleas you witnessed, little ragdoll,
The sights beheld by your black
Plastic eyes; you remember too. You held
Her hand, and loved her without pain.
Anna, dear…Would you come in here, please?
Papa’s home.

[Aaron]

Thanks for the big props. I have considered publishing, but havent really sought it out. Just don't have the time.

Now I haven't really looked around in this area in a bit. Are there separate threads for prose bits/vignettes, or should I just post them here?

[The Lady of Shadows]

make a new thread of your own for them i'd say

[Aaron]

Hmm, I'm not sure. Now that I think of it, I am not sure that I have enough I would be willing to post to even warrant a full thread.

[The Lady of Shadows]

[Lady_Macbeth]

Hmm, I'm not sure. Now that I think of it, I am not sure that I have enough I would be willing to post to even warrant a full thread.

Why not? Your writing intrigues me, and I'd love to hear what you have in prose. DO IT!

[Aaron]

No worries, turtlesong. I'll just go ahead and post them here; might as well keep all my stuff together. We're a one-stop shop and all that jazz.

So, this will be the last piece that I'll post tonight. No sense in overdoing it. It is a short vignette based on a conversation that I had. A slightly altered version appears in my graphic novel in progress, broken up over a series of panels.


The Wind

I did not speak as she showed me her scars. Her words, as she displayed them, were lambent in the darkness of the club, in the ambience of despair. No shaking in her voice; no reticence recounting the days she almost died. The wind—I could think nothing more. Her breath was warm on my cheek, as she leaned closer to my ear. She wanted to be heard, and I wanted to hear. The music was deafening.

A straw-haired girl danced naked on the stage. She stroked herself and begged for dollars, and might as well have been invisible. We both had no regard to spare.

I asked too many questions, but she didn’t seem to mind. She thought before speaking, gave power to her answers. Spiderweb cracks in the hard glass of her ambivalence. She had a son once. No more…so lost. And her favorite time was with grandpa in the snow. But this was white noise, the iron from which her steel was forged.

Our words were lost. The song changed, and another dancer took stage to pander. I sipped my drink, considered another, and lit a cigarette instead. She lit her own. Shift in the chair. Re-cross the legs. Search the unclothed bodies in the room for anything but the taunting draw of the silence between us. I struggled to endure. She stared far off, at nothing and everything at once—the horrible, paradoxical union so natural and familiar to me. Our smoke entombed us, silence nailing the coffin shut. The wind.

“Happiness, to me, is my daughter playing and laughing in the yard. Having my boy back and watching them both. But she’s so sick…”—trailing off. “I’m sorry; you probably don’t want to hear all this—”

The wind.

No. Go on.

She did, and I felt terrible. What do you say to something like that? How do you respond to what cannot be helped?

Her eyes were glass, but she held true. No shaking in her voice. Not now. The wind.

I told her time was never right, but wouldn’t always be so wrong. She would have more days like ones with grandpa in the snow. I stood and embraced her, and whispered goodbyes into her ear. She walked away, to take the stage herself, and I left the darkness once again.

[Jean]

Now I haven't really looked around in this area in a bit. Are there separate threads for prose bits/vignettes, or should I just post them here?

You have a short story, Writer's Block and River Gods, posted separately; now the options are:

1. Make the present thread your catalogue and merge Writer's Block here
2. Make the present thread your poetry thread (which it was when it was called Smooth Chocolate Lies), and make a separate thread for your prose, merging The Wind with Writer's Block and giving that thread another name;
3. Leave everything as it is until we have more material to go by.

(I would strongly suggest Option 2)

[Aaron]

Yeah, I'm down with option 2.

[Jean]

What would you call your Short Stories thread, then?

[Aaron]

We can just leave the title as Writer's Block and River Gods for now. If I think of something I like I can always change it later.