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Literature Text
The world
Your dusty palette,
The pen
Your muddied paintbrush:
Dip into
The impossible
Colour
Of imagination
And stain
The pristine slate
With an
Image distilled.
Your dusty palette,
The pen
Your muddied paintbrush:
Dip into
The impossible
Colour
Of imagination
And stain
The pristine slate
With an
Image distilled.
Literature
Summer Love
When I was eight I hated summer
It was juice-box sticky
and every day I scraped myself
off my sheets
and poured my body into a glass.
At twenty-two,
I don't remember peeling my legs
off a wooden chair come June,
but how our hands were damp with nerves
when we held them,
how the AC on the bus was too much
so my scarf became your blanket and
we ate curry with my parents
before I fell asleep on your shoulder.
Or when you told me not to swim too far out
and the ocean was too cold,
how you got sunburned and I bit my tongue
so hard holding back
"I told you so"
that I swear I bled,
your eyes reflecting the fish at the aquarium,
how you teased
Literature
the arsonist
it is what it is.
I want to set that phrase on fire.
Pour some gasoline on each letter
till they reek of volatility
till they are itching for ignition, for agency
to burn and lick and singe.
I want to catch her mind alight,
each redwood-high issue to smolder
and I want each eye to brighten
like a freshly-stoked furnace
her words to be shot-off sparks
glowing in the night.
for every shrug
I want dynamite to liven
up the shoulders that have
lowered with the eyelids
till the whole body is a half-vision,
my kindle, these half-dreams
and one day I’ll find the match
to set the mind to passion
and she’ll wake up with a woosh,
a wild won
Literature
Passion
For when the daughter experiences a first
it is the passion she feels in the night.
For when the innocent is murdered against reason
it is the cry of a nation that can’t understand.
For when the son disturbs the peace of a day
it is the rage of parents that calm his youth.
For when the music carries upon the floor
it is the color of the dress the darling wears.
For when the veil drops and all is revealed
it is the pain of truth that becomes clear.
For when the last moment is seen
it is the suffering in the eyes that shows all.
For when the child breaks the toys they cherish so
it is the shade their face turns in anger.
For when
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Just a little something. It all started during a particularly boring lecture, and rather than fall asleep...
© 2013 - 2024 BlakeCurran
Comments32
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Overall
Vision Originality Technique ImpactFirst of all... I want to say I love this piece. It may have impacted me harder because I am both a poet and a painter so it's easy for me to understand and appreciate this particular writing.
The few words said was probably what impacted me the most. I applaud you on getting out what you wanted to say in less than thirty words. The phrase short and simple and to the point come to mind when I think of this...poem shall I call it? The only thing that really got to me was that I had wished it was longer, going into the fabricated detail of the writer's and painter's world. It was so lovely at the beginning that I was expecting this LONG brilliant piece that left me in tears or something but... that's obviously not what I got. You had the brilliant down, just not the length. *sighs* Why couldn't you be more alert during your lecture? If this piece could be just extended a few more stanzas I might find peace.
Other than that your technique was, in my very opinion, beautiful. Although I just got done complaining about how short your poem was I enjoyed its simple revere and style immensely. This poem is definitely going into the favorite pocket, for sure. Excellent job, my friend.