FOR ME

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Suicide is suicide.

I’ve contemplated suicide for weeks.

But suicide is suicide.

Poetry is what my poetry seeks.

Clean is clean.

Ignorance is not only ignorance, it reeks.

Socrates is Socrates.

Poetry is what my poetry seeks.

The unsayable is unsayable.

So says the silence, but it leaks.

I will say something now.

Poetry is what my poetry seeks.

 

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5 Comments

  1. J said,

    May 29, 2016 at 2:41 am

    Bravely spoken. The helpers are out here, composing their poems, and preparing to share.
    We love Scarriet! Viva!

    • Desdi said,

      May 29, 2016 at 3:52 am

      Amen. We DO love Scarriet.
      And may the already condemned, the doomed and damned who do NOT love Scarriet now be warned. We will crush you after draining you of your so-called life. We are many. We are waiting, and ready to write. Poetry will no longer tolerate the long-obsolete and impotent orthodoxies that would contaminate our lyric souls and attempt to subjugate our poetic power. Blogs shall soon run with blood, for righteous retribution has now sharpened her claws, her quills, her fangs, and her poetic perceptions. You will flee to your literary workshops in vain; you may cower in the classrooms of tenured traitors, seeking grants from the Dullsville of the Academy – but know that you shall be found and then liquidated without mercy. Your coffins shall be lined with your own chapbooks which were unworthy of lining proverbial birdcages. Even as your cadavers are defiled, your works shall be reviled and a new poetic sun shall rise to scorch the remains in a solar blaze, flooding new horizons with illumination. And in the fierce light of that unsparing dawn, we shall sate our souls drinking your fresh blood. Even now, the first rays of that dread awakening have cracked the thresholds of the sacred crypts and a terrible prophecy shall indeed be fulfilled. Tremble and mourn, YOU who do NOT LOVE SCARRIET. It is too late for you.

  2. J said,

    May 29, 2016 at 3:33 am

    Hello again–
    I am taking this post seriously, Tom. I hope you are not in too much trouble. Would you really like more poetry here? Please accept this heartfelt contribution:

    28 May 2016

    28

    Glee Where Song Clings

    All hands and feet in a whirl, and the weather all round them as glad and relentless as glee,
    we were the swans who most swam in an ocean of rivers of tears formed as blood-warm as we
    who sprang from the broad brow of true inspiration when deities lay in embrace and dreamed—us—
    then led us offstage with a kind outheld hand, and made us wait longer than long to discuss

    the issue: We seem to have strayed from the path where old trust runs the deepest, and now we must wait.
    Outside, the world is so green with sweet spring; the halo-mosquitios crowd early and late
    where my soul’s signal warmth lets her small window open without a fine screen. Please don’t let them all bite.
    I’m so in love that the least loss of blood will recall me to death, having died half of fright,

    half of mortal imagining: Someone beheld her within a black mirror, and chose her hear
    the glee his bright notice cast into a lyrical future where vultures desire to come near,
    and we are so wise with the ancientness promised when we turned aside from our own fleshly ways—
    as black wings are beautiful, higher than kites, ceaseless magic on pinions sought out for our praise—

    and please, holy child, who accompanies every engagement with anyone wanting more time,
    tell me you knew when I first held the mirror toward you that you would shine best on the climb
    to this meeting of angels: Deliver this message, small slip of fine paper I’ve left in love’s hand—
    and understand all that goes dancing by twilight comes home, having woken too high on dry sand,

    too burned by the Sun for the new Moon to heal—unless patience arrives in the form of new song.
    Lead us to learn the next pattern of seasons within which we’ll wheel and love never go wrong.
    Swans ride the river, their wide wings so fanning live waters our way—I don’t know how they sing,
    but here we are, sharing their magic together, as if we were winged—the glee where songs cling.

  3. thomasbrady said,

    May 29, 2016 at 9:43 am

    J,

    Glee Where Song Clings is a wonderful poem! Thank you. I want to note the long lines are fitting for its aspiring optimism and joy. Bravo.

    “Suicide” is only a word I used. I’m fine. Sweet of you to ask.

    Tom

    • J said,

      May 29, 2016 at 6:22 pm

      Thanks! It’s part of the work I’ve been doing so much for so long, I think I’ve reconfigured my brain. All paronomasia all the time!
      Glad you’re well.


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