Thread: September 24th (For Neill)

For Neill. I love you.

The 24^th of September

I. The Sponge in the Drawer

This is morning. I stand;
breathe the humming, blank television voice,
light candles because you left the floor tiled with busted lamps.
I almost trip over a dead body as I tiptoe with a broom,
swept up fragments, unwasted, in the cavernous wrinkles
of my palms.

I scrub over petals of dust on the mantle,
blown from too many nights spent watching
the window refract stars. This is morning.
The window is dirty.

Flat pillows in a fort, feathers stuck to the walls.
I climb in for deep cleaning,
wear water and soak for a while.
I pick feathers like flakes of dead skin, watch them plummet
to a plastic bowl, dream about your face burned
in a snowglobe of soap.

II. The Photographs at the End of the Bed

Frames dented at the edges, excreting nothing
but open, breathing mouths. Paperdolls of recitals
and birthday parties drumming on the glass.
I can’t stop looking.

I drag my fingernail across the pictures to remember your face
wrapped like an injury in faded sheets.
You told me once you’d make an album, arrange the pages
in concentric circles. We’d be safe. We’d be forever.

A light shivers from the candle, and the shadows on your smile
remind me of abuse.

III. The Body on the Floor

I am raw in this room,
bare feet pruning against a glossy floor, an eye on the bed—
unexposed, bagged.
I imagine sleeping next to your breath, whispering about waste
and fixing other rooms.

Your fingerprints smeared like mold on my body—
they live in my bones because I always think
about you puncturing yourself
with needles
and falling asleep by the nightstand.

I hold my head on my shoulder, wonder what you would do
with a dead man’s body.
His fingers are like unwrapped coin rolls. He’s stained with a rotten aroma,
and he was holding his breath when he died.

This is mourning with the window spitting a midafternoon sun.
Dirt dribbling from my mouth, I say to you,

I can’t fix this.

WOW! Superb, outstanding, amazing, awesome... must be a better adjective. Forgive me for not finding it, or inventing it. This is one of the best pieces I have read in years. Very powerful words and well-turned phrases for a very tragic topic, handled with great class. Cannot say enough about it. I will seek out your other work.

Oh, thank you so much. This piece is so important to me, and your words mean a lot. With the approach of the day, my head is just caught up in it. I found it hard to focus in class today. Ended up just scribbling down lines. I haven't been able to post most of my most recent works here, but I'm glad I was able to share this one. Thank you again.

Bay

[QUOTE=Angel101;1468345]September 24^th (For Neill)

I. The Sponge in the Drawer

There’s something disturbing this room.
I stand; breathe the humming, blank television voice,
light candles because you left the floor tiled with busted lamps.
I almost trip over a dead body as I tiptoe with a broom,
swept up fragments, unwasted, in the cavernous wrinkles
of my palms.
The first opening lines create a feeling of tension and mystery...
absolutely wonderful! They set the stage for what is to follow...
Now I can't wait to read on...

I scrub over petals of dust on the mantle,
blown from too many nights spent watching
the window refract stars. This is morning.
The window is dirty.

Melancholy...

Flat pillows in a fort, feathers stuck to the walls.
I climb in for deep cleaning,
wear water and soak for a while.
I pick feathers like flakes of dead skin, watch them plummet
to a plastic bowl, dream about your face burned
in a snowglobe of soap.

II. The Photographs at the End of the Bed

Frames dented at the edges, excreting nothing
but open, breathing mouths. Paperdolls of recitals
and birthday parties drumming on the glass. I can’t stop looking.

I

drag my fingernail across the pictures to remember your face
wrapped like an injury in old faded sheets.
You told me once you’d make an album, arrange the pages
in concentric circles. We’d be safe. We’d be forever.


Very poignant----I drag my fingernail across the picture---wonderful vivid imagery---I felt such a strong connection to that image...


A light shivers from the candle, and the shadows on your smile
remind me of abuse.

III. The Body on the Floor

Everything is sanitized. I am raw in this room,
bare feet pruning against a glossy floor, an eye on the bed—
unexposed, bagged.
I imagine sleeping next to your breath, whispering about waste
and fixing other rooms.

Your fingerprints are smeared like mold on my body—

This line is chilling...


they live in my bones because I always think
about you puncturing yourself with needles and falling asleep
by the nightstand.

I hold my head on my shoulder, wonder what you would do
with a dead man’s body.
His fingers are like unwrapped coin rolls. He’s stained with a rotten aroma,
and I can tell he was holding his breath when he died.

This is mourning with the window spitting the midafternoon sun.
Dirt dribbling from my mouth, I say to you,

I can’t fix this.
This final line is so final --and heart breaking.
This is a stunning Poem, One that grabs the reader by the throat and heart..I will be haunted for a long time by the terrible beauty of this well written poem. Peace...Jul

This is poetry at its finest, my dear Bay. One of the most difficult tasks we face as poets is making our readers actually experience situations, and with this piece, you have succeeded beyond measure in that capacity. Your words are beautiful, your imagery is both original and striking, and you deftly manage to dress the reader in your skin and it hurts like hell. For a few moments (thankfully brief) I was you, and the pain was almost unbearable. There is a multitude of fine lines to cite, Jul's hit on some already, but I'll have to return for attempting an in depth with this stupid iPad will drive me batty. Exceptional work, love, I pray you find peace, especially today. This is one of the best pieces I've ever read here, I'll be back with more specifics as soon as I can. Hang in there, Bay.

Hugs,
Lisa

Thank you, Jul and Lisa. Your words mean a lot, especially on this day. I wish I could say more. But know that I so appreciate you both reading it and being so kind with your comments.

I showed your poem to my husband, who is nearly impossible to impress, criticizes everything to its core, and he said he had not one negative thing to say. In fact, he thought it was as good if not better than his very favorite poem, a classic, of many years. You really do have a talent with using words to express feelings and thoughts. Never stop, please.

Well, give him my thanks, though I'm sure I'm not worthy. This piece is my personal favorite, but that's mainly because of what it means to me. I feel like I got things across in this poem that have been trapped for a very long time. Sort of like a breakthrough.

Not meaning to double post; however, I did a pretty significant edit on this piece. I'm working hard on a new piece, but couldn't get my head out of this one, so I knew I needed to spend some time with it. Hope the changes are okay.