Reblogged from miss-poet April 23rd, 2012 2 notes #poetry #prompt #fiction #creative writing #writing #spilled inkI will start a sentence below and begin a poem or a fiction piece. I and hopefully many others can contribute to this and together we can make a complete piece.
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April 29th, 2012 5 notes #question #writing #creative writing #comments #poetry #prose #spilled inkNew Theme. New Links. New Visual Attitude.
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April 29th, 2012 0 notes #comments #constructive criticism #spilled ink #writingLike Kerosene
By Olena Kalytiak Davis
Yes, it’s daily
that we move into each other—but this morning
I was separate even from myself—
my hands were shovels, I had mosquito netting for hair,
and the insect beating against the night
was my heart. My name was hallow
and the sky was made of shale when
I walked into a part of morning
I’ve never seen: the sky still heavy, still
smoldering with the nightmares of others,
the drunkenness and sorrow rising like dew, like fog,
like smoke back into the clouds. Suddenly,
my face was wet with it. I wanted to lie down
with it. To rest against the almost exhausted night.
Uncertain of what to do there
I started dividing the layers, the sediment,
thinking: Usually I sleep through his sadness.
And the morning asking: Why do you keep track
of the middle of the day when you should be
waxing the moon? How can these young fragile branches
be left out in the darkness, and who set that darkness
wandering inside your heart? Who can your love ignite,
like this, like kerosene?
And then the sky lit the morning.
And then I went in to set my own house on fire.
And then I lay down next to you:
a body filling with feathers or with snow
asking: and who are you that my love can light
like this, like kerosene.
University of Wisconsin Press (November 1997)
“The Scaffolding Inside You”
Your thoughts have hung themselves from nails
like workshirts.
The sky has stopped
offering you reasons to live and your heart is the rock
you threw through each window
of what’s deserted you, so you turn
to the burnt out building inside you: the scaffolding
overhead, the fallen beams,
the unsound framework;
according to the blue that’s printed on the inside of your arms
you have no plans, no plans
uncovered, or uncovering: the offing is emptying,
the horizon empty
now that your sanity is
a tarp or a bedsheet
in the rough hands of the wind,
now that everything is hooded
in drop cloth.
It didn’t happen
overnight. Or maybe it did:
your heart, the rock;
your soul, the Gothic barn.
You’ve even started envying the flowers their stems.
Will the Norther let up?
Will the moon ever again be so full of itself
that that ragged barn will fill with light, through its tin-covered roof?
You should bury more than the dead.
You should try harder.
You should give up.
Least Said
by Olena Kalytiak Davis
Maybe we you us But not everyone except Everyone else seemingly set One could romanticize the shipbells Out of somebody else's grocery, sex shopping, life cleaning, bills Of sail. When they had fresh grapefruit it was nothing like you not having Scurvy, with or without the vodka. Your friends Did they still say things (?) and the masses— No, one didn't want to picture that vast Writhing. Self-love is better left to this selective peculiar: One shelf over, top shelf. The yeats, the years, none of it More real than this. The judgment, the particular partings: Reading a new yorker article about you. Reading. An article. A small monster at my toe. There was once a long lusty list but The only thing s/he had on me was feet. I went to course, to game, to College. The epiphany was not worth dwelling (placement word of Your choice here). Not to speak of, or the her, him, him before him, your last Lover but, "seeing someone else right now"? Mostly, the possessive pronoun "Her" in the next clause. Whose unfairness? Be spoken and be longing. (An embarrassment of melons and heavily salted meats.) The thing you will miss was being sexy, you will forget that you went Forgetting all along; the whole ride. Going, going. Not coming. Reading, Too closely, will fail my the measure of some treasure You believe exists, but how? Morning was the only mooring: feeling, Thinking, seeing no one. Right Now. Or now. Barely tolerated, living.May 2nd, 2012 1 note #poetry #spilled ink #writing #creative writing
