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poetry_fiction2019-12-31 04:33 pm
pf_mod) wrote in poetry_fiction2019-12-31 04:33 pm
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The Retrospecitve Challenge begins tomorrow!
The first poet we're revisiting this year is Anne Sexton!
If you want a new prompt from her, comment on this post any time in January, and I'll give you a new one.
If you'd rather take a stab at an old prompt, you can take a look at the original sign up post, or the July Challenge prompts from that year.
Let's start the year with some fun!
If you want a new prompt from her, comment on this post any time in January, and I'll give you a new one.
If you'd rather take a stab at an old prompt, you can take a look at the original sign up post, or the July Challenge prompts from that year.
Let's start the year with some fun!
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from Angels of the Love Affair
Your eyes are made of glass. They break. You are not brave.
You are alone like a dog in a kennel. Your hands
break out in boils. Your arms are cut and bound by bands
of wire. Your voice is out there. Your voice is strange.
There are no prayers here. Here there is no change.
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Also, I submitted several works from this past July to the AO3 collection and they're all stuck in moderation. If you get a chance, could you please approve them in?
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I hibernated under the covers
last night, not sleeping until dawn
came up like twilight and the oak leaves
whispered like money, those hangers on.
The hemlocks are the only
young thing left. You are gone.
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We are carved, a pieta
that swings and swings.
Outside, the world is a chilly army.
Outside, the sea is brought to its knees.
Outside, Pakistan is swallowed in a mouthful.
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Here, in front of the summer hotel
the beach waits like an altar.
We are lying on a cloth of sand
white the Atlantic noon stains
the world in light.
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you undid me and then
you placed me in gold light
and then you crowned me,
while snow fell outside
the door in diagonal darts.
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as soft and delicate as
an excess of light,
with nothing dangerous at all,
like a beggar who eats
or a mouse on the rooftop
with no trap doors,
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I'd like a poem, please.
Thanks!
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from Anna Who Was Mad
Speak Mary-words into our pillow.
Take me the gangling twelve-year-old
into your sunken lap.
Whisper like a buttercup.
Eat me. Eat me up like cream pudding.
Take me in.
Take me.
Take.
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The Ambition Bird
It is my immortality box,
my lay-away plan,
my coffin.
All night dark wings
flopping in my heart.
Each an ambition bird.