(Yet another sestina. Enjoy!)
(I know, I know, I said I’d post this one on Valentine’s Day. Well, Valentine’s Day turned a bit messy. So, here it is, in all it’s splendor: My first full sestina in years.)
(There is an outside chance that I am posting an awful lot now, while I have free time, to make up for all the days I missed in January.
Also, as both the title and the tritina itself indicate, I was not feeling in the best of moods when I wrote this poem. CW: lots of talk of death and morbid imagery.)
(You know, when I’m not being lovey-dovey, I really do dive headfirst into frankly fucked-up imagery, don’t I…?)
(Had another seizure this morning; don’t worry, I have a neuro appointment tomorrow, but most of the day was spent in bed, so you’re getting one from the vaults today: the first tritina I ever wrote. Don’t fret too much over the subject matter, I’m still happily dating my boy, but this was written when I was grumpy over a breakup, as I think is pretty clear from the choices I made in writing it.)
(Quick one for you today, put behind a cut because I’m not too proud of it. Written on a whim, mostly because I liked the word ‘sacrament’. Almost turned into a love poem (again) but took it in a different direction. After seeing how this one went, think I might stick with love poetry. Seems to be doing something for me, while writing about the act of writing seems to be going nowhere for me. Then again, the only way to improve is to keep writing…)
(This is kind of a combined ‘From The Vaults’ and ‘2016’ post; bear with me. Remember how last post I mentioned how criminally easy tritinas are to write? I didn’t always find them this way. So here are two tritinas on the same subject, written within a few weeks of each other, just to demonstrate how far I’ve come.)
(Gotta be honest, tritinas are, at this point, almost criminally easy to write.
Also gotta be honest, although this poem is inspired by an actual event, it’s more inspired by my love of dark love poems and dark love stories: Angela Carter’s Bloody Chamber and Other Stories, Neil Gaiman’s Snow, Glass and Apples; that general oevre. I love the conceptualization of love as a drug, or as something dark and terrible, something we must be careful with. I find it a fascinating concept for writing, especially when it comes to poetry, because so much of our imagery for love crosses boundaries with our imagery for violence.
But that is, possibly, a journal entry (or maybe even a thesis?) for another time.)
The sky is brushed with stormy lavender clouds high above
And your skin is sweet and cool beneath my fingertips;
I mumble something; it is unimportant beneath your dark gaze.
The grass is damp and prickly, the lights bright as we laze
Redolent and full, idly letting our lips meet between words. We recover
Stolen words and sentences mumbled in the dark at each other’s hips
And wrists and gasping mouths and teeth and trailed fingertips.
You smile, beatific as a saint, but you’ve the laugh and dark gaze
Of a demon. I giggle madly, and fall backwards, willingly, into my own love.
Above us, the sky dips and swirls into a cloudy haze; we’re too far gone to notice.