From 04c2db82e6ecf7de011ec466a73bd226f43078f6 Mon Sep 17 00:00:00 2001 From: Madison Scott-Clary Date: Fri, 24 Apr 2020 00:55:03 -0700 Subject: [PATCH] update from sparkleup --- writing/poetry/misc.md | 72 ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ 1 file changed, 72 insertions(+) create mode 100644 writing/poetry/misc.md diff --git a/writing/poetry/misc.md b/writing/poetry/misc.md new file mode 100644 index 00000000..196c6365 --- /dev/null +++ b/writing/poetry/misc.md @@ -0,0 +1,72 @@ +%title Miscellany + +!{In *Civilized Beasts 2016 Edition*}!{In *Eigengrau*} + +''' +The dogs assure me: +There are volumes of meaning — +Life and death — +And time; +Past, present, future — +In the scent of a rotting fish left after the flood, +Or a trace of scat, +Or the coyote, long passed, +But not everyone reads poetry. + +I’m not so lucky, all told: +The rich scent of meaning — +Heady, intoxicating — +Rises only from words +And the way you rest your hands on the table. +''' + +----- + +!{In *Eigengrau*} + +''' +The eighteenth whisker on the left is brown. + I know this after countless nights awake +beside you, watching every quiet breath. + You puff your whiskers out on every yawn. +On longer work-filled days, your whiskers wilt, + exhaustion softening your features, sleep +exerting subtle gravities to lead + you to oneiric seas and dreamlike sands. +I know this after countless nights awake. + I know, I know, it's strange to watch you sleep, +but when I can't, to know that someone can... + at least it somehow lets me rest in turn. +When I lay beside your sleeping form + I know there's rest to still be had for me. +''' + +--- + +## Liminality +!{In *Eigengrau*} + +''' +A year starts not on January first. + The days may hunder but the seasons speak +of time's long march, of fast time, slow time. Thirst + for "start" and "end" neglects the limen sleek. +So, why do some unsubtle sciences + forget about the in-betweens? Those pure +uncolored dreams made mere contrivances; + "between the years" now simply: "year, then year". +These rough mechanics, held unseen, can spoil + the beauty of our silent spaces, take +from us the liminality, embroil + our lives in cold and tired minutiae. + Come sit with me, come stay with me inside + this place between where strange new loves abide +''' + +"So, what does it mean?" + +She shrugged and sipped her tea. They sat together in silence for a while. + +"There's something about the liminal that terrifies me." + +

"Me too," she said...