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Literature Text
Happiness is when the door clicks shut
at 3 in the afternoon and sunlight
stalks in uninvited through the blinds,
making a sepia mess of the room, and you
are waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting
in the sunken sofa cushion like a lost
nickel looking to be found. The truth is
you found me, standing just inside
the doorway like a stray animal brought
home for the first time, imbalanced
ragged and confused. I stumbled on myself
that first time, making more contact
with the floor, tables and walls than I
did with you. In some respects, that
hasn't changed. I trip on my feet,
walk into walls and door frames still,
but every now and then I bump into you
and remember what makes this home, what
makes you home.
at 3 in the afternoon and sunlight
stalks in uninvited through the blinds,
making a sepia mess of the room, and you
are waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting
in the sunken sofa cushion like a lost
nickel looking to be found. The truth is
you found me, standing just inside
the doorway like a stray animal brought
home for the first time, imbalanced
ragged and confused. I stumbled on myself
that first time, making more contact
with the floor, tables and walls than I
did with you. In some respects, that
hasn't changed. I trip on my feet,
walk into walls and door frames still,
but every now and then I bump into you
and remember what makes this home, what
makes you home.
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Literature
One Day I Shall Lay Down And Die
one day i shall lay down and die
and so for now here is my kiss, my golden-ness,
my forehead pressed against yours
like two strange animals lost on a plain of
red sand. one day i shall lay down and die so
now here, let these birds pick me apart,
show you it all, the torn underwear
and the girl gazing at the soft glow
on trees, the ferocious lion-love
weeping under the kitchen table. one day
i shall lay down and die
so for now i feast on beaches, your breath,
the flutter of my dress sore against my skin
someday i will find that peace,
plant a spring-flower deep in my heart, land one last cool kiss
on the bow of your mouth and sl
Literature
Bravery
On Saturday the twenty-first of January, Elliot took a gun, pressed it to the strip of bone between his eyes, and shot himself. The bullet shattered the frontal bone of his skull, warping his features past recognition, and burrowed through his pre-frontal cortex into the midbrain. He died before the sound stopped echoing through his empty apartment.
This story isn't about that.
I worked with Elliot for only a little while—less than six months. Most of what I knew about him came from his desk. Unlike the smaller ones the secretaries and other reporters had, it was a stately, imposing thing. It would've been terrifying, especially to a
Literature
Metastasis
98.00
Autumn is the season when everything dies.
The leaves shrivel up and your lungs go with them, tiny dejected organs drying out inside your sternum, crinkling under our footsteps. The doctors pronounce their diagnosis as the leaves fall, listing medical terms and percentages and something about medication options.
The disease is metastatic: it has bored its way out of your lungs and into your bones. Dissatisfied, it's going for your organs, your liver, your heart. The prognosis says Christmas is a pipe dream, likely as the sun ceasing to set.
You promise it anyway.
94.00
November comes and I am a fish, breathing through makeshift gi
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A love poem without snark from the monkey? Who knew. This is...probably the best way I can explain how it feels, though. A home isn't a home until you know it's a home, but once you know it, it can be found anywhere. I found my home.
I'm not sure of the quality of this just yet, but I like it so far. This is for someone important to me, of course, but I'm also making this available for The Great Valentine Exchange, because why not. The event is over so it's been moved to the lit gallery. 
© 2012 - 2024 ikazon
Comments72
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Overall Vision
Originality Technique Impactvision:
Suzanne Vega wrote a song called "Night Vision", based on the poem "Juan Gris". It explores a darker side of hiding in shadow, when the sun is also going away for the night (yes, its a pun). How refreshing to find your happiness, just a few hours earlier in time. I don't for a minute believe you were thinking about Suzanne Vega, or Paul Éluard, but this is the larger image you evoke; meaning, you have not just communicated your own vision, but have also created a context for it that is larger than what you describe seeing. you created subtext. nice.
originality:
I think this is where your confusion about "is this good" comes in. Not every poem has to be based on a unique concept. In fact, by this stage of reality, no poem can be. We have to accept that someone may have written about something we are writing about, and just try to introduce out own perspective into the subject. Which you have done quite well, just stop being tentative.
technique: waiting waiting waiting waiting. it expresses the concept just fine, but even I find it repetitive. There must be another way. In many places, some of your language use convinces me this is an early draft. I've seen you use words more effectively. this doesn't count against actual quality of the work in my mind. I have always been able to say the same thing in different ways to find a rhythm.
impact:
you have created a longing in my heart. or at least woken it back up (no, not for you - )