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Literature Text
I was shy at first, timid in my dealings,
I laced the trap against my throat,
sang sparing, tip-toed
around your poems.
The tone, the slow vibrating
from the shoots of my shoulders
to the gleam of polished talons,
it purred around inside me.
Oh the song, Coyote,
the same resigned call, it
paled before you, swallowed down its insides,
wept.
I took your little hand in my big hand,
flew out towards Crow, and for a while
My Love, there were poems
and the world was enough.
I took to howling with you,
down from the branches, safe
womb of the tree, I spread
dirt between my toes, sang happy,
sang the song of free,
your wild howl, your musk,
I lost the language for
the pain of bird calling.
Do you remember when we realized
Crow would no longer sing
her crooning songs beside us, trill
through a night among us?
She had gone, no longer writing
poems for coyotes or exlovers,
no longer touching out for a girl
beyond the mountain,
and we were suddenly alone, Love,
you and I, alone to sing, to warble, to fall,
but, nevermore, you said, nevermore,
things matter not
when I love you, the howl-
I sang with you the howl of leaving,
never leaving, loving, always loving
the bitter sweet notes,
I'll never quiet for you.
I laced the trap against my throat,
sang sparing, tip-toed
around your poems.
The tone, the slow vibrating
from the shoots of my shoulders
to the gleam of polished talons,
it purred around inside me.
Oh the song, Coyote,
the same resigned call, it
paled before you, swallowed down its insides,
wept.
I took your little hand in my big hand,
flew out towards Crow, and for a while
My Love, there were poems
and the world was enough.
I took to howling with you,
down from the branches, safe
womb of the tree, I spread
dirt between my toes, sang happy,
sang the song of free,
your wild howl, your musk,
I lost the language for
the pain of bird calling.
Do you remember when we realized
Crow would no longer sing
her crooning songs beside us, trill
through a night among us?
She had gone, no longer writing
poems for coyotes or exlovers,
no longer touching out for a girl
beyond the mountain,
and we were suddenly alone, Love,
you and I, alone to sing, to warble, to fall,
but, nevermore, you said, nevermore,
things matter not
when I love you, the howl-
I sang with you the howl of leaving,
never leaving, loving, always loving
the bitter sweet notes,
I'll never quiet for you.
Literature
for unseeing eyes
laden with sky
we stumbled
and painted mockingbirds
on loveless branches
folding in our slender limbs
and ducking under our own
voices, fidgety and frail
against the wall of night.
between the dipping blades
and drawn shoulders
we learned to craft our words
steady-soft,
a drumming rain
that carved canyons
in open hearts and
drew the sunshine to
our supping lips.
keen-eyed, we watched
remembering the weight
of unseeing eyes
and scalding remarks
and we learned to slip
the noose-knots and slide
through the soul-cracks
and somehow
build kingdoms under
upturned noses.
with lyrical uncertainty
and tender determinat
Literature
fireflies in training
once upon a time
i met a magpie
hatched in a nest of thieves
you might think this will be a tale
about how she grew up
turning story pages
and realized her brothers and sisters
were villains
as well as herself
and then she shifted
from evil to good
alas, but no
i came to her with a necklace
which she snatched in her beak
not to mention my wallet
and flew away
to share with her mafia family
but when she arrived at the nest
all she knew was
gone
looking for what was lost
she flew across the globe
with jewelry rattling around her neck
she sat on the peak of the eiffel tower
soared together with soap bubbles in poland
was shot by a soft gun in
Literature
October Eyes
Such gentle colors drip across your freckled shoulder blades.
A quilt of puddled watercolors soaked in auburn shades.
Spun of golden rivulets and rinsed in autumn skies,
So many endless currents swimming through your lonesome eyes.
Brushing under fingertips and over shattered songs,
Unraveling like morning glaze against my paling palms.
With beauty like October hills and hollow as the skies,
The water drops against the earth will be our lullaby.
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Accepted to Vox Poetica, to be up on the publication October 17th. (Also accepted, Poem for a Mother [link] to be published on September 23rd)
Read it here: [link]
A love story.
Part 1:
Part 2: Here
Part 3:
Read it here: [link]
A love story.
Part 1:
Before You HowledI had forgotten for so long why I sang,
so many, my song turned into tumbled
bedsheets, bodies strewn,
nectar of a kiss overdone.
The lonely hoot low and languished,
I loved, My Love, I loved strong
and solid, the hollow notes,
the lonesome bones.
Crow, she came and whispered in my ear,
said your song is lovely dear,
take a feather from my wing, we beat
somewhat the same.
But the song, it was the same,
beneath the shadow of the bat, as
the love of a man
I nearly slew.
When she would call, month's later
the chiming at my ear, o' my heart
my little heart,
I heard her and she was me,
and I, without us, her little
black wing
Part 2: Here
Part 3:
Two Lovers Howl the NightYou are in my arms,
but the spirit of Coyote, she is
at my back, laughing hysterically,
the trick
has me set on the spirit path
too early, you are dying,
they tell me- you could be
dying,
the chuckles follow the dry hum
of a city summer night,
the flow past the steeled cage heart,
rings true.
It is the joke of it all,
My Bravest Heart, that jars
the song, that quiets
the howl,
I am learning to paint
the quiet colors of grief,
the insatiable grays and
the black of blues,
the shadow
left in the shallows. Place my bones
back together, clicking joints, skin of
alabaster, the mummy cloth
of memories.
© 2012 - 2024 vespera
Comments85
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Overall Vision Originality Technique ImpactCritique I Took To Howling With You
by vespera
Disclaimer: I am not a trained professional writer. I am not a reader or critic educated in literary or poetic forms. I have read many of vespera’s works since coming to light on dA and have always been both touched and thrilled with each appearance.
This work, the mid-piece of vespera’s “Howling Triad” is a tightly woven movement of air upon my lips. Spoken aloud from written score my breath pauses perfectly with no struggle introduced by staggered questioned placement of word, phrase, or break of quatrain’d thought; as with all of vespera’s works there is an elegance in her application of physicality in unique setting to touch cautiously the reader’s emotions and imagination. Each precise component builds upon its predecessor to accomplish, under her control, her experience with form, function, and desired response a perfect work.
There is that Ginsberg echo to this triad, that explosive element constrained by necessity; but where Ginsberg’s “Howl” was deeper in tonality and political, and his urgency to express prior to explosion, and then again in recovery after, while this urgency in his work was always apparent, with vespera’s conceptions there is a gentle smoothness begun in stark visualizations and then rising to her work’s clutch in completion; in this work most particularly. Vespera’s voice is personal, at times a calmness that is unnatural to what is being addressed, but I find that an escarpment concealing and then once traversed exposing the heart beneath.
Thank you for your triptych vespera, as always it is both deeply moving, inspiring, and constructively instructional.
Amanda © 2012 10.19.2012