Poem 1 Revised

 

I’m not promising
I’ll ever write anything to touch you
But I’m willing to try.
I’m willing to drag my fingers
across these sticky keys and
Come up with something stark…
Something true

I want you to know the truth,
That death is a cruel lover…

That she would have cannibalized you:
That her insides are soot-sour and soiled.
That you put too much stock in everyone
and not enough in yourself.
We: a room full of strangers
Clawing at your memory,
Strangers who didn’t know you well enough
To see when you broke.
When you were broken.
When you took a bullet
Set in motion the truth.

I’m done fighting truth.
As I move through the calendar,
since you fell from this earth,
I’ve found there are only versions, and no
Truth.

The frame of your face falls
From its perch on occasion
As if from behind the tracing-paper walls
You leap to catch me, to save me
From life’s triviality.

A shadow man with the upmost intentions.
Watchdog wanderer from the other side.
But you gave up your voice, brother.
You handed it to me when you picked up the gun.
Perhaps, it was a fair trade.

Truth:
All our decisions are bullets.
The real tragedy:
We will survive them.
–ECW
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Poem 58

we might have had a conversation about it, and i never even knew it
Some days I awake to the sound of my breath and remember
so vividly a nightmare–one year’s past–of a boy with a bottle
of rum hum drumming against a summer sky.
These are the buds that would grow amongst the bones.
These are the petal faces, purse lipped around pretense
This was is the proper way to grieve:
A man with a camera in his hand; all irises on me….
these are the bones, I told them, we are the bones.
If defeat came in lollipop flavors it might resemble
a regretful bled of cherry and grape; some medicine
we feed our psyche night following night
with robust hopes of satisfaction through masochism.
These are the bones, I told them, we are the
candy wrapper crustaceans foraging the ocean floor;
 the pastel public painting clown faces on our cheeks.
In my sleep-voice we still speak of ambitions:
I would write your name across the water if
I could spin webs from my fingers; I would
Speak my mind to the middle night if I did not
Fear his reply; knowing still what he’ll say to me:
We are the bones, darling, these are the bones.
–ECW

Poem 1

Hello Poets,


I will begin this project by posting several poems to be critiqued. Feel free to do your worst, this is a working space for opinions and impressions, and no comment will be ignored. Please post your own poetry in the comment space and I will copy it to its own page where others can critique it as well. Try too to post photos or images that relate to how you feel about what you read here. These poems should inspire other feelings and senses that can be better described through imagery and sound. Poetry traverses all planes of emotion and as the internet generation, we finally have the means to bring that all together.


–keep writing


I’m not promising 
I’ll ever write anything that will touch you
But I’m willing to try.
I’m willing to try to put my fingers 
across these sticky keys and 
Come up with something chill-spurring
Something that strokes your skin.
Even though it’s not skin anymore.
I want to…

I want you to know the truth,
That she would have cannibalized you:
That her insides are soot-oozed 
And rotten. Moving her marionette face.
That you put too much faith in everyone and not 
Enough in yourself.
We’re a room full of strangers 
Clinging to your memory,
Strangers who didn’t know you well enough
To see when you broke. 
When you were broken.
When you took a bullet
Set into motion by your tremor-ed hand.
Or maybe it didn’t tremble at all.
I apologize. I don’t know you well enough
To guess that detail. 

I’m done guessing. 
I’m done fighting. 
What’s mine is mine whether I don
That armor, or if naked I wander 
Wine-inspired into the colleceum. 
Spectators to my demise
They judge from behind glowing screens
With bloated egos and well masticated versions of 
Truth.
But since I move through the calendar, 
since you fell from this earth,
I’ve found there are only versions, and no
Truth. 
But that doesn’t bother me too much. 
I’ll still try.
And I’ll never be worthy.

The frame of your face falls
From the wall each time he wanders
Nude in the low light
Into my sheets and over my body,
As if from behind the tracing-paper walls
You leap to catch me, to save me
From heartache.
But you gave up your voice, brother.
They all get to have opinions.
But you handed yours to me 
When you picked up the gun.
Perhaps, it was a fair trade.

All our decisions are bullets.
The real tragedy:
We will survive them.



–ECW
 Poem 1 Editing Poem 1 Revised