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Literature Text
I left word with God that I'd borrowed a book
off him when he wasn't looking - not one of the big ones,
just a collection of verse by someone small
who never left the mountain and drew water from
a well in the ground. I was afraid he'd say, "Take
the big one, it's got better poetry and more words,"
but it's hard to read, no chronology or timelines, all arrows
through the heart and I'd rather read what a man on a mountain
wrote than what a man on a mountain heard
God say.
I must be a little broken, then. Good folk
read all the books, good books are especial, but I shy
from the heft of prophecy. If I dig through my skin,
will I find my own? I don't think so. When I was 8, I thought
the air, the trees, would speak to me and this would be
the voice they'd all heard. When I was 8 I thought
I was the second that had come. Now there's a couple
of eights more, and no love from Gabriel coming my way.
And I know. This is not our calling.
But I would have it be. What is so little
in me that my skin doesn't ring? I used to be God's favourite
telephone, he called me all the time. They were little conversations,
I let no one's people go, but I would find my own way out of
doors sometimes. Now, a wet paper bag and my lethargy
rules a tiny world. I ball a fist, I let it go, I ball a fist, I...
I read
small poems in the mouths of caves, on short mountains
in warm climates, I let birds ignore me on their way to shit on
half-sunk temples - I walk back down. It takes
ten minutes.
Sad hermitage. Promiscuous nun
with bad sex in her life. Epiphany is just around the corner
and there's a treadmill beneath my feet.
Who put that there?
*
God-love-you, you know not where you turn. You left
word with God you'd be back before supper and now
the sun's risen and it's time to fast again. Have you eaten
anything since you left his side? Don't go hungry.
Gabriel's on his way and it's not prophecy, or manna, it's not
the host,
it's just the bread Escariot couldn't finish because
he had too much on his mind. And the wine they poured
the calf but never drank for wrath of Moses. He would have
send the fruite Eve ate, but as it is you know too much
and your back is curved from knowing. Besides, you've
already seen all your naked parts.
He's got big wings
the size of sky, but he's not looking to edge
you out. Just take of this bread, and this wine, eat
of this fruit, you've got to eat, girl, stand on your own
adoring feet, finally
switch your skin on.
*
I borrowed a heart off you when you weren't
seeing, God - not one of the big ones, just
a collection of verse that never left my mountain
and drew water from your ground. I was afraid
you'd say, "You can't take your own heart away,
you'll break it or something." Now it's got all arrows
through; and I want ot hear other words.
off him when he wasn't looking - not one of the big ones,
just a collection of verse by someone small
who never left the mountain and drew water from
a well in the ground. I was afraid he'd say, "Take
the big one, it's got better poetry and more words,"
but it's hard to read, no chronology or timelines, all arrows
through the heart and I'd rather read what a man on a mountain
wrote than what a man on a mountain heard
God say.
I must be a little broken, then. Good folk
read all the books, good books are especial, but I shy
from the heft of prophecy. If I dig through my skin,
will I find my own? I don't think so. When I was 8, I thought
the air, the trees, would speak to me and this would be
the voice they'd all heard. When I was 8 I thought
I was the second that had come. Now there's a couple
of eights more, and no love from Gabriel coming my way.
And I know. This is not our calling.
But I would have it be. What is so little
in me that my skin doesn't ring? I used to be God's favourite
telephone, he called me all the time. They were little conversations,
I let no one's people go, but I would find my own way out of
doors sometimes. Now, a wet paper bag and my lethargy
rules a tiny world. I ball a fist, I let it go, I ball a fist, I...
I read
small poems in the mouths of caves, on short mountains
in warm climates, I let birds ignore me on their way to shit on
half-sunk temples - I walk back down. It takes
ten minutes.
Sad hermitage. Promiscuous nun
with bad sex in her life. Epiphany is just around the corner
and there's a treadmill beneath my feet.
Who put that there?
*
God-love-you, you know not where you turn. You left
word with God you'd be back before supper and now
the sun's risen and it's time to fast again. Have you eaten
anything since you left his side? Don't go hungry.
Gabriel's on his way and it's not prophecy, or manna, it's not
the host,
it's just the bread Escariot couldn't finish because
he had too much on his mind. And the wine they poured
the calf but never drank for wrath of Moses. He would have
send the fruite Eve ate, but as it is you know too much
and your back is curved from knowing. Besides, you've
already seen all your naked parts.
He's got big wings
the size of sky, but he's not looking to edge
you out. Just take of this bread, and this wine, eat
of this fruit, you've got to eat, girl, stand on your own
adoring feet, finally
switch your skin on.
*
I borrowed a heart off you when you weren't
seeing, God - not one of the big ones, just
a collection of verse that never left my mountain
and drew water from your ground. I was afraid
you'd say, "You can't take your own heart away,
you'll break it or something." Now it's got all arrows
through; and I want ot hear other words.
Literature
on not knowing.
this road was ten miles long.
i traveled barefoot.
Literature
She was Beautiful
We have a daughter
called poetry—
quiet with little fuss—
looking up
& molding us as god.
Her small verbs
span indifferent cities,
aloof mountain ranges,
& the hours of
blank faced clocks
between sunrises.
She knows there are
worse things than dark—
the black waters of the mind
are scarier.
We have created her
from love,
pressed & dried bouquets
& willow sticks—
things only we
could make a life from.
One day we'll wake up
as different people
but the magic
of a shared procreation
will keep us tied—
wanting to see each other's
newly patchworked faces.
We have a daughter
called poetry—
Literature
Fugue
I found her in a tree, once.
She was sittin' stuck in the uppermost branches, serene and unsurprised as an angel on Christmas morning. Dappled light inked her pretty with the shadows of leaves, and her fingers faintly tapped the rhythm of a bright hymn on the burdened limb.
"Hello!" she called, miraculously. The sun made a silhouette of her waving arm, and I breathed for the first time in hours. Her face looked so sweet, smilin' and brilliant. Though she was only a few dozen feet up, she looked down at me as though she was ages and miles away.
"Susan, get down from there," I yelled. "Momma's worried," I added in a mutter, my gaze scurr
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© 2006 - 2024 manchaliaina
Comments11
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Oh, this . . . this is beautiful. I read it earlier today, then read it again, and now I've come back to read it again and comment. It's one of those wonderful poems that you just want to marinate in.
This may be nitpicky, but the word "especial" in the second stanza doesn't seem to fit. It works, the meaning is right, but it doesn't mesh with the casual, conversational language of the rest of the piece. And someone else mentioned it, but using the number 8 instead of spelling it out kind of jars the flow of the words.
What is so little
in me that my skin doesn't ring? I used to be God's favourite
telephone, he called me all the time.
Damn, that's brilliant. I'd love to know where you get some of your images - I mean, the body as a telephone . . . where does that kind of beautifulness come from?
God-love-you, you know not where you turn. Echoes of "Father, forgive them, they know not what they do." Nicely done.
it's just the bread Escariot couldn't finish because
he had too much on his mind.
!! I love that. Poor Judas. I've always held some sympathy for the fellow, and imagining that he couldn't finish his meal is just striking.
And the wine they poured
the calf but never drank for wrath of Moses.
There seems to be a word missing there? Poured over the calf, on it? Or maybe I'm reading it wrong? You've got an extra e in fruit in that same stanza, too.
your back is curved from knowing Ooh. There's a one-line poem by someone I can't remember:
Snake
The last time your spine went out alone.
Your line there about the curved back made me think of it, which is perfect considering you'd just mentioned Eve's fruit.
There's a typo in the last line, but someone else pointed that one out.
This is a damn amazing poem, fast becoming one of my favorites. Biblical imagery pleases me, so this whole poem is like a giant chocolate-chip cookie for the little poetry monster that lives in my head. Just . . . please never stop writing. You're fantastic.
This may be nitpicky, but the word "especial" in the second stanza doesn't seem to fit. It works, the meaning is right, but it doesn't mesh with the casual, conversational language of the rest of the piece. And someone else mentioned it, but using the number 8 instead of spelling it out kind of jars the flow of the words.
What is so little
in me that my skin doesn't ring? I used to be God's favourite
telephone, he called me all the time.
Damn, that's brilliant. I'd love to know where you get some of your images - I mean, the body as a telephone . . . where does that kind of beautifulness come from?
God-love-you, you know not where you turn. Echoes of "Father, forgive them, they know not what they do." Nicely done.
it's just the bread Escariot couldn't finish because
he had too much on his mind.
!! I love that. Poor Judas. I've always held some sympathy for the fellow, and imagining that he couldn't finish his meal is just striking.
And the wine they poured
the calf but never drank for wrath of Moses.
There seems to be a word missing there? Poured over the calf, on it? Or maybe I'm reading it wrong? You've got an extra e in fruit in that same stanza, too.
your back is curved from knowing Ooh. There's a one-line poem by someone I can't remember:
Snake
The last time your spine went out alone.
Your line there about the curved back made me think of it, which is perfect considering you'd just mentioned Eve's fruit.
There's a typo in the last line, but someone else pointed that one out.
This is a damn amazing poem, fast becoming one of my favorites. Biblical imagery pleases me, so this whole poem is like a giant chocolate-chip cookie for the little poetry monster that lives in my head. Just . . . please never stop writing. You're fantastic.