You had her hands
curled in your lap, keeping them
away from me.
They had pushed a tube
through my throat to stop the buildup
of stories.
But the moon was in another country,
picking the Earth. Knowing
about Spring. He wandered everywhere,
wanting to know
and behind him, animals
began to enjoy the darkness,
sending a forest of moths
and other new creatures up
to wash the face of the moon. The sky
was terrible. I gave up
your name. For so long,
I tried.
Earlier, when he came,
you washed your palms in the light. Ruining them
with colour. He lifted your lifeline
out into the air.
Your eyes broke like emeralds. For so long,
I thought that I
Eira, now that I live in a country without Summer by Gay-Mountain, literature
Literature
Eira, now that I live in a country without Summer
And you are gone.
And the people here
would not recognise you.
You, who simply stood up from the winter ground
and existed.
You, who lived too long
in the countryside
of your body.
One night, you loved me
and your mouth burst like a fruit,
too soon, too soon.
You are gone, but still
deliver the same madness to me
that Spring brings for flowers.
I think about where
you put away your sadness:
a country of snow.
I want to lie down
there, like an animal.
I could live for days
beneath your frozen body
of water.
I told you I can't write poetry anymore by Gay-Mountain, literature
Literature
I told you I can't write poetry anymore
So you asked what I was
writing about and
I could not tell you that
it was other girls.
Girls who never held me
in the palm of their hand;
who could not quiet me
like a violent animal.
I know, I'm full of shit.
But some girls don't see that as an excuse
to treat me like a garden.
I forget the mornings, last winter,
when my 25 year old body was still made of whiskey
and your hands felt like ice, but
you lay me down
like sheet music,
or a menu: you know exactly what you want
and can pronounce every item perfectly.
I wish I could say more.
I often think about the city where you now live.
Do I live there too?
Which alleyways have taken you
away from me?
Which homeless people
do you know
by name?
How much time
wasted, a hemisphere away
from the empty seat
beside you?
How many boys
sit there? How many
spoke? How many kissed?
Tell me where,
Where in this city is your name written?
And how long have I been away?
Often, I speak of you
and the secrets you made
Now, I think of your body
the flesh you hid
like a fruit; the gift
you made of summer
I think of the boys
who died in this woodland
and you, you
were the most natural thing
and I ate just enough of you
not to die
It has been years
and I have forgotten.
You used to visit me;
I know your body
against mine. You drank
the glamour of my skin,
my bones. Now, my name
returns to your throat
as small as a cough,
but I pretend to write love poems
because I've forgotten the secret of fire.
What do I always write about?
Writing.
What do I think about?
Thinking.
What do i love about
loving you?
Why the bridge-like curves
of your shoulders?
Why the holocaustal darkness
of your make up?
Why the small birds
of your hands?
Why is your voice so much
like a cage?
Words escape you.
You had her hands
curled in your lap, keeping them
away from me.
They had pushed a tube
through my throat to stop the buildup
of stories.
But the moon was in another country,
picking the Earth. Knowing
about Spring. He wandered everywhere,
wanting to know
and behind him, animals
began to enjoy the darkness,
sending a forest of moths
and other new creatures up
to wash the face of the moon. The sky
was terrible. I gave up
your name. For so long,
I tried.
Earlier, when he came,
you washed your palms in the light. Ruining them
with colour. He lifted your lifeline
out into the air.
Your eyes broke like emeralds. For so long,
I thought that I
Eira, now that I live in a country without Summer by Gay-Mountain, literature
Literature
Eira, now that I live in a country without Summer
And you are gone.
And the people here
would not recognise you.
You, who simply stood up from the winter ground
and existed.
You, who lived too long
in the countryside
of your body.
One night, you loved me
and your mouth burst like a fruit,
too soon, too soon.
You are gone, but still
deliver the same madness to me
that Spring brings for flowers.
I think about where
you put away your sadness:
a country of snow.
I want to lie down
there, like an animal.
I could live for days
beneath your frozen body
of water.
I told you I can't write poetry anymore by Gay-Mountain, literature
Literature
I told you I can't write poetry anymore
So you asked what I was
writing about and
I could not tell you that
it was other girls.
Girls who never held me
in the palm of their hand;
who could not quiet me
like a violent animal.
I know, I'm full of shit.
But some girls don't see that as an excuse
to treat me like a garden.
I forget the mornings, last winter,
when my 25 year old body was still made of whiskey
and your hands felt like ice, but
you lay me down
like sheet music,
or a menu: you know exactly what you want
and can pronounce every item perfectly.
I wish I could say more.
I often think about the city where you now live.
Do I live there too?
Which alleyways have taken you
away from me?
Which homeless people
do you know
by name?
How much time
wasted, a hemisphere away
from the empty seat
beside you?
How many boys
sit there? How many
spoke? How many kissed?
Tell me where,
Where in this city is your name written?
And how long have I been away?
Often, I speak of you
and the secrets you made
Now, I think of your body
the flesh you hid
like a fruit; the gift
you made of summer
I think of the boys
who died in this woodland
and you, you
were the most natural thing
and I ate just enough of you
not to die
It has been years
and I have forgotten.
You used to visit me;
I know your body
against mine. You drank
the glamour of my skin,
my bones. Now, my name
returns to your throat
as small as a cough,
but I pretend to write love poems
because I've forgotten the secret of fire.
What do I always write about?
Writing.
What do I think about?
Thinking.
What do i love about
loving you?
Why the bridge-like curves
of your shoulders?
Why the holocaustal darkness
of your make up?
Why the small birds
of your hands?
Why is your voice so much
like a cage?
Words escape you.
Your Daughter has Sold Hundreds of Local Papers by Gay-Mountain, literature
Literature
Your Daughter has Sold Hundreds of Local Papers
But listen to me: I will tell you
how to love a bedspread;
a car seat; a sun dress
that you cleaned two months ago.
and should they find her
in the breast of a riverbank
or a cabinet,
I will tell you
facts about scavenger birds;
kettles, wakes and how to chair a committee
with a body on your desk,
as scavenger birds do.
So this is the last journal I'll put up for now. It's a handful of quotes that I keep in my poetry folder and a few poems I missed the first time around.
Quotes
http://oofpoetry.tumblr.com/post/29442209493/i-believed-that-i-wanted-to-be-a-poet-but-deep - Jaime Gil De Bieda
http://oofpoetry.tumblr.com/post/27596914597/all-i-ever-really-want-to-know-is-how-other-people - Miranda July
http://oofpoetry.tumblr.com/post/29592405568/the-sun-with-all-the-planets-revolving-around-it - Galileo Galilei
http://fuckyeahliteraryquotes.tumblr.com/post/2956220471/you-can-tell-a-lot-from-a-persons-nails-when-a - Ian McEwan
http://loveyourchaos.tumblr.co
So someone gave me a premium membership which is really awesome and random. So cheers to that anonymous person.
Before I was in my second year of university, I hated poetry. Partly because we hadn't done much of it at school (although I really enjoyed the war poetry in history) but mostly because I equated page poetry with performed poetry and I'd never heard it performed well. James Wright made me love page poetry in my second year but it wasn't until I found Buddy Wakefield's 'Hurling Crowbirds at Mockingbars' after my fourth year that I started to enjoy the work of performance poets.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v
I want to start off saying thank you to everyone who's been commenting and favouriting my work and to !xlntwtch (https://www.deviantart.com/xlntwtch) for the DLD on Marketplace. I am going to get round to replying to everyone this week; I've been super busy the last few days with important things which I'll explain in the next paragraph.
So I meant to do this the other day but I spent the weekend getting drunk and dancing. These are some longer pieces that I've really enjoyed. Not all of them are that long, but that's just me.
Long Poems
http://oofpoetry.tumblr.com/post/29653451372/from-how-to-make-love-to-a-trans-person Gabe Moses - from 'How to Make Love to a Trans Pers
Thank you. And thanks for all your other comments. I worry that a lot of the stuff I write is probably only going to be interesting to me so it's good to know someone else enjoys it.
your poetry definitely deserves at least 10 times the amount of attention it is getting! how about joining a few groups and posting your works with them? that can really help generate more attention and favorites on your poetry?
I dunno, I've kind of dabbled with groups in the past but can never really find the time to get involved with them properly. There's a few I still submit stuff to but tbh I feel bad that I already submit nearly as much poetry as I read on here.