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Literature Text
i.
sometimes when i wake up
before the sun rises, when i’m all alone
and it feels like i might be the only person in the world
i notice that my face is wet
and i wonder if it’s because
i’ve been swimming with you in my dreams
ii.
i remember you
in the summer nights under the corsican stars
and the warmth of your skin in the cold seawater
i remember
how the phosphorescence coated our bodies
as we swam together,
the salty tang of the ocean and your fingers up my spine
and us glowing like soft stars in the night
i remember how i wished it could last forever
iii.
now i wonder if the tides and my tears
were so different after all
sometimes when i wake up
before the sun rises, when i’m all alone
and it feels like i might be the only person in the world
i notice that my face is wet
and i wonder if it’s because
i’ve been swimming with you in my dreams
ii.
i remember you
in the summer nights under the corsican stars
and the warmth of your skin in the cold seawater
i remember
how the phosphorescence coated our bodies
as we swam together,
the salty tang of the ocean and your fingers up my spine
and us glowing like soft stars in the night
i remember how i wished it could last forever
iii.
now i wonder if the tides and my tears
were so different after all
Literature
ocean lungs
you weigh something like gravity
in my tired expanse. you are
sand;
(my once splendid mountain)
my love is the ocean
that has worn you down.
with my monstrous tongue,
i pulled you in.
as you fall,
sweeping peacefully into the depths
and filling each crevice,
i am learning to inhale shores.
some would say i'm suffocating
and bring me buckets of air (only to have it
escape my slippery grip).
no, the tides need something heavy
to make of her
a home.
Literature
Sundiver
i.
When I was six a phoenix
tried to drown me.
Underwater I grabbed for fire.
Like Icarus, I was reaching
towards the sun.
I hope he still has
bald spots. I hope he still
cradles searing scars.
He was death,
I was the bird.
ii.
My uncle knows plastic-
wrapped soaps as well
as he knows fine wines.
If he drinks enough,
he thinks it’s love-
carved names rubbing
the silver drain smooth. Diver: 28 days
sweating, ship black against
sea. Like it had been peeled
from amber tongues.
iii.
On my fifteenth birthday, the boy
with stars on his fists and Saturn’s
rings in his eyes told me I was pretty.
It was the first time
anyone had
Literature
Maps
We marked the deaths on a map in little black tallies,
every day we counted the numbers and they had come to a strong incline.
You sat in the dust by the flames
playing with a cattail
and you asked me
“When will it be over?”
The smoke drifted into open sky above us and I tried to count the stars.
The map was held together by rivers and
railroads
and lakes.
And we were held together by a commonplace drive:
Hope.
The poem in your eyes had no backbone and it was falling apart at the seams and it made you
tired and
sad and
hopeless.
The map is held together by little black tallies on the edges from an old charcoal pencil.
And
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edit 28/12/13: i can't believe i got a DD on this, i'm not sure what to say other than thank you so much!
dedicated to sophia ~nyogu, let's always be mermaids in our dreams.
i actually like the way this turned out!
i've been identifying a lot with mermaids lately. i don't know what it is about them, or me, i guess. pretty inspired by molly bloom's soliloquy from ulysses and stories of nereids in greek myth.
how does this poem make you feel? is there a story behind it? what does the imagery evoke in your mind? how effective is the tides/tears comparison?
© 2013 - 2024 Hildetann
Comments61
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Wonderful!