Napowrimo day 9, poem 10/30. Today's prompt was noir as inspiration. They mentioned a two-timing blonde in the description, so that's what I went with. I picture her as Britney Spears crossed with Meghan Ory (hence "ruby and platinum").
Ruby and Platinum
In her grayscale world
she's ruby and platinum.
She doesn't smoke
but every few minutes
she touches two fingers
to her lips. At dusk
she sets out in her slitted dress
and walks beneath the neon
with perpetual motion eyes.
She nurses her gin
in the nearest dive, sits back
to the wall. She palms
a coaster from the bar
and twirls it in long fingers.
She watches for a stranger
in a trench, a sign,
an anonymous kiss.
A poetry blog about love, loss, sex, sexuality, gender, depression, fantasy, and everything in between.
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
Monday, April 8, 2013
Under
NaPoWriMo day 8, poem 9/30. Today's prompt suggested using ottava rima. I've been fighting with this poem for a while, trying to find the right form for it, so I thought I'd give ottava rima a go. I ignored the meter (for now, at least) and tried to re-cut and re-rhyme my original poem. I'm missing what I took out to make it fit the eight lines, so maybe later I'll try a second stanza.
The original inspiration was a series of photos in Gaga by Terry Richardson which show her getting ready for her "Born This Way" Grammy performance. I started writing it a few weeks after her recent surgery. In the meantime, I think it's taken on a bit of a life of its own.
Under
They cover your black lips and feed you air,
your outlined eyes gauze-veiled.
You sleep before they cut away your hair,
saw flesh and bone to find whatever ails
the girl stripped down, threadbare,
open, broken, under, frail.
Gone the ink flowers that bloomed at your hips.
The surgeon paints your blood upon her lips.
The original inspiration was a series of photos in Gaga by Terry Richardson which show her getting ready for her "Born This Way" Grammy performance. I started writing it a few weeks after her recent surgery. In the meantime, I think it's taken on a bit of a life of its own.
Under
They cover your black lips and feed you air,
your outlined eyes gauze-veiled.
You sleep before they cut away your hair,
saw flesh and bone to find whatever ails
the girl stripped down, threadbare,
open, broken, under, frail.
Gone the ink flowers that bloomed at your hips.
The surgeon paints your blood upon her lips.
Sunday, April 7, 2013
Knight
NaPoWriMo day 7, poem 8/30. For whatever reason I wasn't in a poetry mood today, but I really want to write every day. This poem is last minute, but I think that some other time I might be able to spiff it up. Today's prompt was to write a poem in which every line is a statement, with the last line being a question. It gave me some cool opportunities for repetition but felt really odd to write.
Knight
I just wanted to protect you.
It sounds like what a villain would say.
I promise I'm not a villain.
Don't mind me.
You didn't mind when I opened doors.
You didn't mind my stockinged December legs.
I didn't mind my stockinged December legs.
When you were cold I held your feet.
When you came to me I waited.
When you came to my bed I waited.
I didn't want you to think I was only after one thing.
I was only after one thing.
That one thing wasn't what you think.
That one thing was an antidote.
I wanted to cure loneness.
The cure tasted bitter.
This love tasted cheap in my mouth.
It's never tasted like that before.
I don't know what went wrong.
You never told me what went wrong.
You never told me what I did wrong.
What did I do wrong?
Knight
I just wanted to protect you.
It sounds like what a villain would say.
I promise I'm not a villain.
Don't mind me.
You didn't mind when I opened doors.
You didn't mind my stockinged December legs.
I didn't mind my stockinged December legs.
When you were cold I held your feet.
When you came to me I waited.
When you came to my bed I waited.
I didn't want you to think I was only after one thing.
I was only after one thing.
That one thing wasn't what you think.
That one thing was an antidote.
I wanted to cure loneness.
The cure tasted bitter.
This love tasted cheap in my mouth.
It's never tasted like that before.
I don't know what went wrong.
You never told me what went wrong.
You never told me what I did wrong.
What did I do wrong?
Saturday, April 6, 2013
I Dismiss You
NaPoWriMo day 6, poem 7/30. Today's prompt was to write a valediction, some sort of a goodbye poem. Before I got to writing I saw this lovely poem and decided to take a crack at the song title prompt it was based on. The resulting poem actually works for both prompts in a way.
I have finally given in to my Once Upon a Time obsession, which I've been trying to keep out of my poetry this month. Written from the point of view of my favorite, Evil Queen Regina, as she plans her curse.
I Dismiss You
I sort the cards, match
the fortune to the player,
paint this oil landscape
of my own design.
This one, death will seize.
The day this one will
crumble, spelled
in my hand. Color
my foes in red,
forget them their purpose,
turn life into setback
and ache. In the new
order, I will be your queen,
the only one unscathed.
As for the song titles, I shuffled the playlist that I made last year around this time to help me through a heartbreak. Song title one tells you your subject. Number two tells you something to hide (however you want to interpret that). Within the text of the poem, include the other three titles—word for word.
"I Dismiss You" from The Pirate Queen
"King of Anything" by Sara Bareilles
"Seize the Day" from Newsies
"Purpose" from Avenue Q
"Setback" by Scott Alan
I have finally given in to my Once Upon a Time obsession, which I've been trying to keep out of my poetry this month. Written from the point of view of my favorite, Evil Queen Regina, as she plans her curse.
I Dismiss You
I sort the cards, match
the fortune to the player,
paint this oil landscape
of my own design.
This one, death will seize.
The day this one will
crumble, spelled
in my hand. Color
my foes in red,
forget them their purpose,
turn life into setback
and ache. In the new
order, I will be your queen,
the only one unscathed.
As for the song titles, I shuffled the playlist that I made last year around this time to help me through a heartbreak. Song title one tells you your subject. Number two tells you something to hide (however you want to interpret that). Within the text of the poem, include the other three titles—word for word.
"I Dismiss You" from The Pirate Queen
"King of Anything" by Sara Bareilles
"Seize the Day" from Newsies
"Purpose" from Avenue Q
"Setback" by Scott Alan
Friday, April 5, 2013
More Than One Way to End a Siege
NaPoWriMo day 5, poem 6/30. I tried my hand at a cinquain, but I really don't like working with meter. I feel too constrained when I have to count my syllables. So I'm leaving the cinquain behind and doing one more spaceship poem. This is the last name that really grabbed me (like the others, from the Twitter account). The metaphor is troubling me but I like the idea.
Also, in reaction to the cinquain, this ended up being a prose poem.
More Than One Way to End a Siege
Leave me under cover of night. When my troops awake they find the gates open, sentries disappeared. Some blame witchcraft but if I find you I won't tie you to the stake.
Break me, take a blade to my armor. Just as I think I'm free, you slam the portcullis between our bodies. You hold my helmet up so I can see myself distorted.
Deny me and it won't be long before I run out of bread and water. Denial was our game once, your hand around my neck, wicked lips counting down the seconds I had to wait. Now no matter how sluttish my begging, you never reach one.
Also, in reaction to the cinquain, this ended up being a prose poem.
More Than One Way to End a Siege
Leave me under cover of night. When my troops awake they find the gates open, sentries disappeared. Some blame witchcraft but if I find you I won't tie you to the stake.
Break me, take a blade to my armor. Just as I think I'm free, you slam the portcullis between our bodies. You hold my helmet up so I can see myself distorted.
Deny me and it won't be long before I run out of bread and water. Denial was our game once, your hand around my neck, wicked lips counting down the seconds I had to wait. Now no matter how sluttish my begging, you never reach one.
Thursday, April 4, 2013
Sorry About the Black Swan
Napowrimo day 4, poem 5/30. Couldn't resist going back to the list of spaceship names. I might need to do more of these.
Sorry About the Black Swan
for Carolina
Sorry about midnight
when I didn't kiss you
since you were drunk.
We slept on the floor
apart. Sorry about the thong
I wore, the presumption.
Sorry about the book
of fairytales on your birthday
and a notebook, about
thinking us the same.
Sorry about seeking you
after just one sight.
Sorry about my vow
to do something each day
that scared me. Sorry
about the Black Swan
and the gumption it gave
me, the confession
I pulled from my skin
like feathers. Alone
that night I arabesqued
to your favorite song.
A Terrible Thing to Do to a Flower
Napowrimo day 4, poem 4/30. Today's prompt is to write a poem based on one of Iain M. Banks' spaceship names. I started with "Preposterous Appendage" from the @cultureshipname Twitter account but ended up changing it to a title from Jeanette Winterson's The Powerbook. Poem based on Lady Gaga's "You & I" video. Still figuring out what to do with the pronouns, but hopefully it isn't too confusing.
A Terrible Thing to Do to a Flower
She's never kissed herself before,
never knew her lips
to be so yielding. She feels
the inertia between her legs,
smiles lewdly at the girl
she's kissed, the painted girl
who looks like her. Her palms
itch for contact, to slap
the imposter and leave
a bruise. Bitch.
The packing tape digs
into her breast, the prosthetic
craning for light,
wanting.
A Terrible Thing to Do to a Flower
She's never kissed herself before,
never knew her lips
to be so yielding. She feels
the inertia between her legs,
smiles lewdly at the girl
she's kissed, the painted girl
who looks like her. Her palms
itch for contact, to slap
the imposter and leave
a bruise. Bitch.
The packing tape digs
into her breast, the prosthetic
craning for light,
wanting.
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