Is there a darker side to what I love?

[kohaku]

More poems. Some older ones, some poems I'd like to re-write but won't anytime soon, and some poems that are finished.

vegetariansushi: You are too kind to me. Really. I appreciate this very much. Thanks.

And how much do I *heart* to use lines from my works as subject lines? Teeheehee.

The first one is a sestina, an old French form, which is divided into 6 sestets and one triplet. The end words of each line are repeated according to a certain pattern. The triplet has to include all of the end words. I liked working with such a restrictive form.



Bat Sestina

I wait in my bed for the dream
to arrive. Welcome at this time of night,
even if he's not gentle like love
but full of threat and darkness and wings
trying to encompass my world
on his grisly search for blood.

He's hungry, lusting for blood.
But it's not real. It's just a dream,
I tell myself. Nothing in this world
comes stalking in the night.
Nothing with black leathery wings
to steal my heart, my love.

I can't, won't offer you my love.
It belongs to a man of flesh and blood.
Who will take me under his wings.
Alive, so alive but still a dream
my sisters tell me day and night;
soon he will be the sun of my world.

There has to be more in this world
than marriage and alleged love!
I desire to wander during the night
see everything with different eyes, blood
rushing through my veins. In my dream
I fly, I have silvery wings.

I sail through skies unknown, wings
spread, encircling the common world.
Gyrating faster, further, faster in the dream.
I cannot help but wish for love
dark and thick with the tang of blood.
Only now I can admit it, only at night.

I sit up in bed, the grip of night
apparent on the land outside. Wings
beat against my window, make my blood
rush. Could this be not the only world?
Is there a darker side to what I love?
A fierce red flame of truth in dream?

It is just a dream I tell myself to-night
When your love makes you lose your wings,
Visit my world and let it drown in blood.



Without too much introduction, here are older poems of mine. More tell than show, I'm afraid.



Rotation

By trying to find our way
We ran in circles
Because the other road
Was stony

*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Gyrating

Carefully exploring possibilities
Without moving too far
From the center
That cannot support us

Restless
Like little birds
Now fully fledged
But to afraid
To dare the jump

Life requires courage
From the beginning to the end

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

PG

She takes the child by the hand
Leading it
As always

She guides the child holding his hand
Safely
As always

Not seeing her child has grown up
Turning 19 next week.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Gone Cysa

I see
My face in the painting.
smiling from the edges.
Soft violett
Sparkling silver

I wonder
Who hid it there
Maybe even on purpose?
When I discover
The brush in my hand.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*


More poems of my Summer Portfolio, taken from Home.



Financial District, 3 pm

I saw a man running today
The coat of his suit
Slapping his thighs

Disturbing the peace
Of the financial district

The other bank tellers
Understand the rush; the real revolution
Being his long hair.




Weser

Seagulls circling above the water
Can smell the ocean on its waves
As the river creeps slowly back inland
After his polite visit to the deep blue.




Industrial Restruction

The shipyard is telling its story in steel
Abandoned yet once as busy as bee
Its rusty tears rolling into the river
Where ships were once launched into the sea.

Sun

The aggressive white beams
vaporise my anger.

I stare at the sun
who warms me when

I want to be cold.

I can't be angry anymore
I can't keep the cold from disappearing.

I swallow my pride and
Smiling comes easy.



One more from the Scottish compilation. I thought I had posted all of them.



Fox

I can hear them talking
And slip back into the shade of the tree
My curiosity gets the best of me
And I move.

They see me as soon as
They walk around the street corner
Passing Fir Park, heading for Circus Drive
And stop, surprised.

Their eyes shine, I can tell
Even in the dark. They are excited
To see me. I wonder why.
They came by here two days ago.

I'm here every evening
Every day at dawn I make my round
No matter in what kind of weather
Sun or rain, I will be here.

Spring, summer, autumn, winter
They did notice me before (or my tracks)
Their silly attempts to communicate.
I remember their faces

Bright eyes and a gentle voice
They cannot coax me like a little one
I remain under the fir, wary.
My feet wish to run.

A quick glance-over tells me
That they're no threat
But still I don't want to stay
I don't want to be friendly.

So I run, across the street
Relieved because of the distance
Put between them and me
I can feel their stare.

Halfway home I turn to see
If they have followed my zig zagged
Tracks. Only when I can't
see smell taste them anymore

I slip into my home in the ground.



The next one was written on the train from Stanstead to London City. It's still lacking something, but I'm adding it anyhow.



Approaching Dusk

I can taste the country already
As the train shoots out of the tunnel,
Leaving Stanstead behind with increased momentum
Past brick houses and backyards with torn fences.

'Tony Blair is a cunt'
In bold white letters on a timid wall
the passenger opposite me is nodding
as if in agreement, but maybe just falling asleep.

Outside, two boys in blue are not waving
But holding out two fingers
The backs of their hands turned towards me.
Grinning devils without the 'dare-' they crave.

I remember when the gesture didn't offend me
When it had just meant 'two.' But
I have inhaled too much of this city already
Its coal and grime passed my lungs

Heading for my heart.



The portfolio I wrote for my writting class contained a third part which I called oddities. Here are some of them. They're mostly short stories or "cameos" as Ian likes to call them.

The first one started out as an Elijah/ Dom, but I liked it so much that I merely changed the name and tiny bits. It now stands on it's own, while the Elijah version still demands a sequel. We'll see.



Desert

On one of his lonely trips around California Zeke had found a small piece of dead wood. First he had thought it was a broken bone, splintered, maybe from an unfortunate animal. Traffic was pretty rough out here. Hardly anyone stopped if they didn´t necessarily have to. Outside the towns California was something you watch passing by your windows, from within the cooling interior of your car. There wasn't anything interesting out there anyway. No buildings, no air conditioning, no pool, no nothing. And that was why Zeke liked to stop in the middle of nowhere. Out here in this deserted place he found solitude whenever he sought it.

He took comfort in the odd deafening silence that rose from the heated sands after he had turned the engine off. He climbed out of the car, squinting his eyes even on cloudy days. The light was so much brighter once you left the City. The sun bit into his skin, tearing at it with small jagged teeth. Angry at a paleness which mirrored his resistance, the rays would redden his skin, but never succeed in tanning it. He stared up into the sky, imagining seeing it like this from the City, without the dust and fumes and their colours. His gaze still fixed on infinity, he almost stumbled over the strangely shaped wood. It took him a while to realise what it was. Wood from the desert normally became grey with age, not white. Zeke turned it in his hands, over and over. Smoothed by the hot sand, bleached by the sun, it had turned light grey, so light it seemed white. But the smoothness was deceptive, the velvetness just pretended. Zeke almost dropped the piece when he caught the splinter. The tiny bit stood out dark against his all too pale skin, and he tried to pull it out with his teeth. It broke, a tiny piece remaining. The wood grew soft under the sun, snapping without a sound, like everything else out here. Yet there remained some of its old fighting spirit, enough to tear his skin and embed itself deeply. Zeke closed his fist around his attacker, lifting his arm in a pitchers move. He looked out into the desert, trying to find a target. Sand. More sand. Some stones aching under the heat. Everything eroded, withered, faded away. Even the air became stale out here, old and unused, with no one to breathe it, no one that needed it. Everything bent in time. What did not bend broke. He pocketed the piece although he felt a bit cheated by it. But he knew that was the way things were. Things seemed smooth, easy and pleasant, lucid somehow. When time passed, they lost their glow. Sometimes it started to hurt.

He left the desert without haste, taking a small piece with him. Somehow, it reminded him of home.




My attempt at being cryptic. *laughs* This is what you get when I roll all seven sins into one story.



7DS

Miss Universe 2002 - that had been the year in which you were beautiful. But after that? All those years that followed the Sparkling One where dull, gray compared to what you had back then. You had reached your peak. After you had climbed a mountain all paths lead into the valley again. Beauty is fleeting, and success, like wine, becomes stale after a while.
You crave being smart. If you were a mastermind, you could write a theory. Another one would follow, because a single thesis would disappear on the shelves in the library, where hundreds of academic lives, thousands of works, millions of brilliant ideas stood back to back. A single one would disappear just like you disappeared. So you would write a hundred books, each one getting praised after publication. But it wouldn't be enough, now would it? It wouldn't suffice. Nothing would ever do.
New success, fresh and crisp, made your heart flutter like a peacock during mating. Proud, so proud you pranced around, an every man's fantasy. But then suspicion joined you at the table and the peacock lost its feathers.
You envy those who can write or act or sing. You envy the famous. Every week another celebrity fuels your newfound hatred for perfection, while you lay on your love-seat, plotting your comeback. Those with talent make your heart turn chapped, and your insides turn to a rather ugly green, unhealthy, you just wait for it to seep through the pores of your skin, like poison from a plant leaf. You can feel it boiling up inside yourself, dreading the day when it becomes visible to others. It churnes your stomach, burns it up until it is nothing more than a bleeding skin flap, blackened by your anger. It is impossible to eat now. You ate yourself up a long time ago. Every attempt to ingest carbohydrates, no matter how small the piece you chew on, is rewarded with aggressive retching. Convulsions shake your body, a vehicle that refuses to be nourished anymore. You try not to gain weight but you're not twenty anymore. Approaching twentyeight, you feel old, seeking admiration in short aquaintances with many men. None of which can satisfy the craving so deep inside yourself that you don't know where it originated. Without understanding why, you give into it, hoping something would stop your yearning. You buy new clothes every week. You have to be pretty again, that is all you ever were.


Another sad one. You can tell which stories I wrote on the same day.



The Widower

His bones ache from sitting in the shade for too long. Darkness does not become him. He cannot remember why he had come here, why he had locked the door and decided to sit here, in the blackness that had become his home. His memory had become a fickle friend. It blurred and left soft edges, like a newspaper article torn in haste. He had the distinct feeling that memories should be clear and crisp, like photographs, freshly taken.
Some days ago he noticed he could not even remember his wife's face. He has difficulty remembering her name (Susan? Sarah? Carrie?), but remembers his nickname for her clearly. Her face still comes to him in dreams, and she still talkes to him during that brief period of time between dream and waking. She was so beautiful, so full of light that he thought more than once he can see heaven shining through her eyes. But her face fled, along with heaven, when he awoke. The dream disappeared like morning mist in the sun, leaving only his racing heart, beating against his ribs, like a frightened bird in a cage that had grown too small. He makes up names for her now, names that would have fitted her personality. Grace. Rose. May. He calls himself sad, for that's all that he is right now.


The last one is simply called Bedtime Story. It's the kind of story I used to make up when I was a kid.



Bedtime Story

She craved storms.

On a sunny day she would sit at her window, staring into the blue, and wish for some grey, or clouds at least. Something to molest the endless perfection.

Dark clouds were her favorites, especially those who stretched themselves until they swallowed the horizon. She would run outside whenever they gathered - a meeting that soon would end in a fight. Their argument irritated the trees, who would rise from their stupor. First they'd shake their leaves and then their branches, ranting and raving. They don't like being disturbed. Bees fly, trying to hide under bushes like children under a table, waiting for the downpour.

The beating does not start as long as wind is there, who runs from cloud to tree and back. He is trying to calm both, but enrages them more. Wind rushes, talks, whispers, but to no avail. Finally he sighs. His long sigh travels around corners, and scares the dandelion into shedding their seeds. Naked they await what is about to come.

In a flash, lightning joins and everyone falls dead silent. The trees stop their rustling in quiet fear. Even the clouds hold their breath. Lightning's entry sends Wind flying. They don't like each other much. Lightning enjoys his brief moment of authority, but then Thunder arrives, grumbling at being too late again.

She enjoys it when Wind rushes past her. There is no anger in his exit. Just a sad breeze tousling her hair as she watches.

Rain comes in a rush. With a whoosh it shoves past her 8 year old body, almost making her trip and fall. His anger seems endless. He beats down on the trees until they bow their heads and scream. The flowers avert their faces, rather staring at the ground than looking at rain. Rain drums on the roof of her house, a madman's melody. She looks up, calm as the day was before the meeting. She is not afraid. Agression never scared her. When rain reaches her, his touch is soft. His long fingers tickle her face, promising the tandrum she had been waiting for.

Then he starts his play. As if rehearsed, it seems always the same. He dances around with lightning, until thunder grows jealous and does not seem to ever stop grumbling. Rain chases lightning in a silly attempt, and she laughs until her body shakes so hard she can't remember if it's from the cold or rain. Lightning finally rushes of, blushed, flustered, followed by an angry thunder. He always follows lightning. Like a dog, she muses.
Rain makes the streets sing, the canals gurgle, and splatters on the roofs of the houses. He drums on cars, chases fallen leaves around, and finally comes back to her. She looks at him, and he falls silent. They stare at each other, rain and the girl, for what seemed to be a very long time.

"Thank you," she then says, reaching out her hand to catch some raindrops.

He smiles and races off, his splishing splattering melody echoing softly through the street until he passed the corner and is out of sight. The clouds nodd to each other, and then, one after the other they leave.

She waves and catches their reflexing in the hundred puddles rain had left. And she wishes, oh how she wishes, she could take one back in.



That's it. Phew.

Comments

[llanowar1977.livejournal.com]

Ahhh Fox is bringing back some very nice memories!
It was so exciting to watch him move and staring at us.

I love your Poem about this encounter!

But for me the most impressive work is your bedtime story.
I was again astounded how you chose the right word so easily it seems.
As I read it I realized that it is exactly as I experience a thunder storm.
I'm not afraid of it. I like it very much. All the flashing and rolling thunder and not to forget the wind who is chasing the rain.

You described it so lovingly, so as a child would encounter such a happening.
Most adults don't think about it in this way when they think about it anyway. All they see is the physical happening.

As you can see I'm very impressed once more of your work.
You reached deep inside me with this story.

*huggles*

your LL

[kohaku1977.livejournal.com]

Thanks for posting about Bedtime Story. :D It was inspired, title-wise, but something Viggo wrote. He called it Bedtime Story for Henry and it was a wild story about encounters never made before. It always stayed at the back of my mind, and this one summer evening when the storm was approaching it felt right to write about it.

*huggles*

It's good to know that it touched you.