anonymous singer

{This is a poem inspired by something that happened this evening as my brothers and I were walking our neighbour's dog.}

as we walked the neighbour's dog
a song breathed through
the darkness

faint at first
like a figment of our imagination
but then stronger
unable to be ignored

some boy
some anonymous boy
in an anonymous room
poured his soul into the night
to the beat of his
own drum

did he suspect he would have an audience
of three people
and one apathetic dog?

had i been alone
i would have stayed to listen
to his pulsing rawness

but reality pulled at the leash;
i moved on with my
unsentimental brothers

but something in me wished
i could've stayed or
even followed the sound

something in me wished
life could be like
a book or movie
so i could have stayed,
joined his anonymity
to make music with him

(don't we all want to be
anonymous, alive?)

Brave New Voices

A few of my favorite performances from the HBO series Brave New Voices. I do not own these videos and the poetry is all theirs, hope you all enjoy!! (PS: please excuse the quality of some of the videos, It's the best I could find on youtube)

You know, I think more and more often.

by Tadeusz Borowski

You know, I think more and more often

that I should go back.

Maybe I’ll meet you. And happiness?

Happiness is being sad together.

So I look through the moonlit window

and listen.

Nothing. A breeze stirs somewhere.

Alone among the leaves - the moon.

Like a golden wheel it rolls

above the windblown leaves.

Such moons, only paler,

shone over the Wisla.

Even the Big Dipper on its course

stops in a tree at midnight,

just like at home. But why here?

Truly, I don’t know.

What’s here? Longing and sleepless nights,

unknown streets and somebody’s verse.

I live here as a nobody:

a Displaced Person.

I think of you. I know I must leave.

Perhaps we can return to our past,

but I know neither what youth will be like

nor where you are.

But I’m yours or no one’s

forever. Listen,

listen, read this poem

if somewhere you are alive.

The Moon and The Yew Tree

by the wonderful Sylvia Plath


This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God
Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility
Fumy, spiritous mists inhabit this place.
Separated from my house by a row of headstones.
I simply cannot see where there is to get to.

The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,
White as a knuckle and terribly upset.
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet
With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.
Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky --
Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection
At the end, they soberly bong out their names.

The yew tree points up, it has a Gothic shape.
The eyes lift after it and find the moon.
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.
Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.
How I would like to believe in tenderness -
The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,
Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.

I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering
Blue and mystical over the face of the stars
Inside the church, the saints will all be blue,
Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews,
Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.
The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.
And the message of the yew tree is blackness - blackness and silence.

My eyes are knives

they hit my lungs and puncture

I am balloon splinters:

Rotate, turn, and break.

I am film covered and bubbling

don't you see?

We smile through the churning

the clattering spines

We line up and bellow

one
by
one

Hair flipped examinations

yellow pearly daggers

popping holes inside my mind.

(Hello my fellow writers :) Just a reminder to any new followers that if you would like to become an author you can post your email in a comment or send it to me at sernityr101@sbcglobal.net and I'll add you ASAP. Also, I was wondering if anyone would like to start doing something new like posting writing prompts and seeing what we can come up with. It's fantastic excersise and I haven't thought through how we would do it, but I was wondering if anyone would be interested in that? Let me know!

Love you all,

Ever

Black Wedding

Drowning. In layers of me.
In folds, and crinkles, and pores, and holes, and wrinkly-dots, of me.
In heaviness, and weightiness, and spacey-ness, and in square-meters, of me.
In fucking pools of black poison, inky, staining, poisonous, pools, of me.

Stains.
I'm a stain.
I'm a fucking blackberry stain, bitter-sweet and toxic-touch on your lips; lingering there for half a second too long; just half a second.
And then it's too late.
I'm within you, part of you; spreading through the cracks in your lips, the holes in your pores, the veins in your heart.
Pumping through your coronaries and pumping through your pulse.

Toxins, bursting into the air; an invisible, slippery, slimey, clear-black, toxin.

And I live in you.



Kill me;
it's the only way out.

In Broken Images.

He is quick, thinking in clear images;
I am slow, thinking in broken images.

He becomes dull, trusting to his clear images;
I become sharp, mistrusting my broken images,
 
Trusting his images, he assumes their relevance;
Mistrusting my images, I question their relevance.
 
Assuming their relevance, he assumes the fact,
Questioning their relevance, I question the fact.
 
When the fact fails him, he questions his senses;
When the fact fails me, I approve my senses.
 
He continues quick and dull in his clear images;
I continue slow and sharp in my broken images.
 
He in a new confusion of his understanding;
I in a new understanding of my confusion.

Robert Graves