Image and text
Ekphrasis based on Max Klinger's 10 drawings The Glove. i will include a link to the images, i think it's best to read the poems before you see them.
They are not finished, but I felt okay enough to hand them in.
And the formatting on this blog is totally off, I don't know how to change that...?
Feed back is appreciated.
These are the first poems/creative writing peices I have done in...years. its like air and the waterfall coming back to me. Meaning and overwhelming breath I am hungry for words and perhaps. Perhaps. Where before I lost them...perhaps they are coming back?
1"Ort" (Place)
Every time her mouth opens to speak, the words are swept, though it beats against the glass
At the same time each evening, the sun stops,
flares against panes
blinding nearby beholders,
freezing the time wearers.
Still frames their bodies, cardboard reminders of form.
A barrier between the time before, and the movement supposed next, the windows grasp at the faces and hands of those near, reflecting their cheeks, their eyes and shoulders in grotesque proportions, their mouths caught in still, unspoken consideration.
The stage, dark and flat is set, the windows, reflect only the might have been. And tell of the will to be.
2. "Handlung" (Action)
Forgotten Reflections(Excuse me, seems to have left your)
If.
For that moment caught.
If for that moment caught in an eternal bow… I’d have
Well I accept. I accept the stillness beneath my wheels, if the space between is filled with your shadows.
I accept.
The gap between my arms and your trail.
You leave. You leave behind. You left behind.
Your shadow.
I shall wear it around my neck, so that some may inquire and the answer, my answer will include your(your)name.
My shadow,
I will pin to the ground, a forgotten, disregarded artifact of a one I once was.
A silent such a silent of a told story, left empty pages.
I’ll open the book and flip page after page of pure iced nothing
As I grew near, I moved over. As close to you I grew, into you I went. Entrenched in your feet, on the ground, the curve of your back to the earth; the sole receiver of your silent cry and each storm.
The over, the air, the movement behind your rescue.
I am the handed road to you. Over your downturned heart unseeing of me.
We join, us in our sorrow, we in our roots, our clear eyed stretch magic.
Too obvious, obliquely finding a meaning in size and distance.
Body held body holding
The plane being too small for my too large shadow.
We’ll rule, you and I, we’ll rule as mountain king, and root memory,
A tear and a ghost and the ever-growing grass on our feet marking time.
The sea lapping at our domain, carrying its wonders as whispers to our time unbound erosion.
Salted and waiting to hear your tale, am I.
Rocked and stretched to hear your tale, am I.
A gift of it I’d gladly make if only to crack the fleshy appearance foretelling,
yet stalling the secrets.
I can reach and free away.
I will sleep the faced hunted role, but play, a moment to catch you off your guard, when you’re too tired, so that I could sink in.
Set me hunted.
And eh, never let me down to clothe myself in the hints of worth and murky particled wet you offer.
Float on top and off the face you give.
But let me not be hunted.
My calling card, I’ll leave at the door, as well as my longest reaching arm and entrails, heart liver spleen.
The foolish inquiries the surface distracts me with are just as the reflections of beating glass.
Hooking with the barest words of pleasures and content placement.
Of falsities for the sort of movement I could find
But to reach for stillness!
I want only yours.
5. "Triumph"
More greater, More greater and increasingly this cage you found so cunningly for me, sent me, made, bewitched to me. A knot a slash and the softest words are what truly hung about my neck.
So dragged and changed we somehow exited that last stage.
The trail set is neither yours nor mine. Any forward movement for me is a farce, any direction from you is a lie. Your image is merely the old, a reflection of mine.
How could you follow and I would never lead.
For here the sun reaches barely with silent arms. Silent for their burn results in purities lacking and gaining nothing.
The bent and the pull and the tear of whatever darkness is thought to come from what I know is not dark. For your inner side is impenetrable and yet there is no darkness in it.
So the cage is less then a bed, the trace sheets, the sheets that catch and tangle to realize stones spikes warring words and disdain are all that covered you through the night.
I’m writhing in the writhing path.
A million spectacled laughter,
seems the morning remains of a path last night tread.
Moved upon through, over, a nonexistent purchase of space.
Towards a goal only visible during the full of the month. Like full ribcages and full mouths, now emptied and pulsing, urging out of themselves hearted life.
(seepage)
Up turned wet walkway, now littered with too many expressions.
Graces, words (words words!) of what can be easily seen through with the friend sun showing clearly what remained too opaque in the dark.
Garbage (point heeled shoe, lavender, and light blue lace, torn from legs and the sharpest teeth of an albino crocodile, bearing marks of the prey they made of latter mentioned, too easily, broken) and tossed shells, cracked wearing, broken pikes and remains of warred evenings,
not a dream,
not a note left from the previous midnights howl.
7. "Ängste" (Anxieties)
Alone?
The lack of light comes each evening, inevitable. I wait for it with equal immobility, occasionally reaching out to enquire as to the texture of some near object, to remember sensation as colors dim, sound becomes muffled, and my skin raw as the jagged edges of a new wound, red and distorted, rippled, spotted, purple, and dripping.
Wax down the brass candleholder, but (yet?) no flame flickers or sputters in reassurance. The moon is but a flat memory of a spent beat.
Alone?
Hands flat on sheets, skin to smooth hardly perceptible grains, the accumulated work of millions, hair wool and bark, twisted together till snapped to clothe my bed tonight.
Alone?
If occasionally a strange hand meets mine I kick my heart out from missing a beat and accept the strange caress, as the air grows more curious and my eyes refuse to grow heavy.
Alone?
Each night they come and the desperation grows as nails rip out my mind and replace it glowing.
I see it soft and desperate and embrace the fear which gravity draws me away with, unable to change it, adjust, flip create anew, alone I am not and each night never will be too many bedmates tied into these sheets, spreading out, over out, back into the night, to m dream.
A dream you refuse to enter, and it circles about you dizzyingly, never finding nor holding but knowing and sensing.
There over there.
Always .just .beyond .there .
So. (almost) (never)
Alone.
8. "Ruhe" (Repose)
Gone is, and Worse then the drenched wrestling
Caught in the suns many fingered rays, my eyes shut, to no avail against the yellow probe, deeper, hotter, redder to blue, a pearl of blue, to nothing. To white. Too bright is this space and when I open my eyes again it’s to the prints left by sharpness.
Split through, split through the middle, bursting at the seams, yet ironed to the bone, the rays surround me like a wall of yes and no, kiss me be gone.
Caught. Caught to tell and with none of what I meant to take.
I do not belong in this room and I feel myself on the verge, the in between neither a comer nor goer, never belonging, impossibly un-intrenched.
Waiting is every rumor and memory in the continuously echoed tale of failure
Mute reaching. Hushed waiting
Pedestal for the Dead.
9. "Entführung" (Abduction)(make last)
The desirable unending
Barred.
Spar.
Departing. Hovering gap.
The serene wait, taunting with vicious laps, haunts and steps. I waited behind you as the great white teeth swept you away, to see how far you’d float with their help. Without my help.
With the slow paper choreograph of an angered fall, leaving empty now knowing, and the bitter embodiment of the passive horrors that fluttered,
permitted passage,
attained,
and seeing the little that couldn’t have been breached anyway.
Behind with a sleepwalkers gasp I caught the taste of air behind.
Unmoving out, out of hands, stabbed.
Point.
Hollowed a place in the sand for the fit of you, grasped the slick walls to climb, and beings to burrow beneath.
Point.
To the memory of breaking through what once held us both where only I remain.
Stunted and seized.
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