I don't know if you guys know this, but I'm not a poet. I'm a writer. I'm very good at making up stories, but poetry is something that comes very hard to me. I don't know why. Anyway - I do this thing sometimes where I randomly write down a really intense piece. It's not a poem, but it's not a prose. I've included some pieces. I was wondering if you guys could help me frame these pieces into some poems. Or, who knows, maybe you'll like them just as they are. Thanks. Ash
"O dreary day go away. Wild beasts of remorse, cruel thugs of torutre - come sink your yellow teeth into my paper skin. Feel my vacant space and nestle there. Love me, love me!
I once envisioned a wood covered in silver speckles, immersed in a golden water and flying as one sphere upward into another dimension. It bore through the dome and emerged into a land covered in pyramids. Deep down it sunk its roots...but, hungry still, its fangs ravanged the soil to blood, and still hungry yet, it sucked the red water dry and then dissipated into a brown dust.
Come feel my legs, and kiss me inside.
I think it would be nice to be ridden by a horse, a stallion, or perhaps a Siberien tiger. Black beauty, exotic fur and tongue - come suck the milk from my tender limbs. Take me in your claws. Your silver nails reap a strange karmic ecsatsy in me. Take me with you - to that land of black feathers, and crimson tongues - where the golden light of the esoteric sun melts into a nude frontier. Bare and naked, true and real.
Take me back to my roots, to that world of the bashing of bodies, the penetration of sweats, the exasperated panting of purple lips against orange flesh... the core of my nature is released!"
"Man in the sky, please help me. I see myself always running through an overgrown forest. Run! Run! Run! Oh my feet! My bare, bare feet! No scars, no bruises, no blood. Just wind in my face blowing back my hair. Ah yes - o sweet liberation, please take my tender limbs! This ground holds me no more. Its roots are but loose bones, and I the flesh, shall fall inside my own stomach.
This sky is so sexy. Please come to me. Turn into a black beast and take me inside you. There must be a circus in there - in your stomach. I can see it in your eyes. I can see the lights and the fire busting over itself in your eyes. I also see a gold feather with a very fine point droping down. And then a line of sparrows - each with a busted heart. They have coal eyes, and thick flesh around their ovals, gold beaks.
Please tell me the way to the basement of Heaven. I think I have lost my right hand there, among the papers and cages locking in my lust.
My lips bleed purple weeds. I am knitted inside out. My head shall inflate at any moment into a prune. Please lick me. Open me up and dive in.
I want to be two people in one. My own mind is a gravesite. lonliness is the silver moon, and a million red butterflies collect around the black sphere above. They all see me through their green, crystal eyes. And I am starring back from a barn yard. I am a mistress of Pan. But just then - wait! the ground is turning inside out! I can see a blue light, a flash of lightening piercing the sky into 13 worlds..."
There is a plot of black sutt which covers a layer of violet flowers. Their stems are full of black hollow spots. Please see the eye. I can see the eye in them: a blue, lusty flame. Green lashes- come lash me with your skeleton whip. Do you like it? Do you like the sound of my skin when it aches? Oh please!... touch the tender areas. Nestles there. Help me to remove all needs of torment.
What is this? There is a brown window frame, framing a pink castle. Its walls are shaped in a V - a long, upward, propelling V. I see a star, a radiant blue dot glowing from a red palat brush in my hand. There are feathers sweeping in the wind. A house stands on a plot of water, waiting to be plucked by the wolf harboring in the backyard of this homey palace.
I call it my own: this flame of red fire. It is the face of a man. His hair is smoke. At night he will come into my room and light it up with fright. Place your cool hands on my hot skin - come tempt me into the the arms of horror - let me be devoured by you, you rusty vampire, you handsome lion of beasts - king of beasts - Ruler on High of the Fallen Souls. Who falls into you? Do you really want us to perish on the worn rocks of your shore? But I saw it once - the ocean that lead to you. It flowed inside me. I drank it up. I swallowed it all. My eyes became it. I was a weed buried beneath the shores. And there is a weed... but there is something else too: a mountain like sutt, standing tall. And a pale bird pearched at the top, looking down at an army of frogs. These amphibians ooze desire into the hearts of queens" .
Ash, nobody is in a position to tell you that these aren't poems already--whether we like them or not.
If you want them to "look like poems" on a page, then try just breaking them into short-ish lines wherever you want. E.g.:
O dreary day go away.
Wild beasts of remorse,
cruel thugs of torture -
come sink your yellow teeth
into my paper skin.
Feel my vacant space
and nestle there.
Love me, love me!
Once you've done that, the poem may "read" differently to you. For example, you may see that for the purpose of making an impression (as opposed to telling a story), you can do without certain lines. Reading this one broken into lines, it seems to me that the first and last lines are hokey compared to the rest. I think I would simply DELETE the first line, delete "of torture," and use "Love me! Love me!" as the TITLE. But if you disagree -- YOU ARE RIGHT.
This is some very fascinating stuff.
The way you wrote this down, it seems, is a very good way to free up some images resting inside us.
They may not be a poem on their own or they may be half uncovered experiences; nonetheless, they are excellent starting points for poetry.
I remember reading about one exercise some journalism schools get their student to do.
They have a one-man brainstorm in which they feel free to record every image that comes to mind. One doing this should not hold back anything.
Once your thoughts are released in this manner, you can review the material and expand on each individual fragment.
I have tried this and it works beautifully with poetry.
When I am stuck for inspiration, I always resort to using this method.
I love what you wrote, but I will not add to it. Only you should do that.
Post Edited (12-03-03 00:50)
"I "Love Summer more than I hate Winter"