EXERCISE National Poetry Month 2016: April 12

Discussion in 'INSPIRING MUSES' started by RiverNotch, Apr 12, 2016.

  1. Again, the rule is you've got to write something on the topic or form described, with yer poems being in different posts. And that month thing -- prompts'll stop by April 30.

    TODAY'S TOPIC: '"Shall I compare you to a summer's day?" Shakespeare asks? Write a poem inspired by comparing something to something completely different.'
    FORM: Any
    LINE REQUIREMENTS: 8 lines or more

    Credit where it's due; the idea and the prompts come from this site:
    Poetry Forum - - Post poetry, get feedback, give critique.

    I love the trembling upon release --
    the tingling up and down the spine
    turned flashes of light, lightning
    pushing down pulling up knees elbows
    whole body pulsing convulsing with
    excitement ah perfect relaxation
    squirts of milk impregnating empty air.

    I wonder what you became
    when I told you about that dream I had
    where I was on top, and you were weeping scratching screaming,
    only -- that was a dream,
    and only a dream, right? No control --

    Now, I enjoy myself alone
    with your picture
    in the hour between Ambien and sleep,
    where the mind reaches heights the waking won't allow
    and lows far below limbo.

    We were never involved, I think,
    not even as friends, I seemed so distant --
    all of you knew me only by reputation,
    that I was a mystic (or maybe just a weirdo),
    and either you were drawn or offended.
    You were offended. At first, you sought to correct me
    like a child, teasing me, disrupting my routines, dissecting my anxieties,
    then you elevated your artform, turned filia into Freud,
    becoming first a tease, then a disruption, then a dissection,
    until you learned the truth, that you could deal the most harm
    simply by ignoring me.

    Of course, I took this
    more like a blessing -- women who were not drawn to me
    would, in going my way, only impede my progress
    in music, painting, language, poetry:
    all the arts with which one draws women.
    Not photography -- I couldn't understand it,
    how one's supposed to celebrate his subject
    without changing them.

    My picture of you -- it's your yearbook photo,
    where you bear your widest most honest smile
    in your slightly upgraded regulars.
    I suppose that was the photographer's advantage,
    that he was new to our crowd
    yet never played the mystery, that he came there
    only to do his job,
    take beautiful portraits
    of beautiful young bitches.

    Nightly, I imagine you
    compelled by some invisible hand
    to slowly remove your clothes,
    first your pants, to leave your greatest treasure the ass exposed,
    then your shoes -- never the socks, which always add texture to these affairs --
    then finally your shirt, though not removed completely,
    just slid up to allow for more vigorous rubbing.
    And then after a minute of touching, feeling, tasting,
    teasing, disrupting, dissecting, I'm in. Occasionally,
    maybe every Monday,
    "slowly" becomes madly,
    the minutes of pleasure are skipped,
    and you weep and scratch and scream along the way.

    This excitement always denies the Ambien
    its true job. As the hours pass, I'm left to think --
    what is real? what is fake?
    She is a victim, in my mind -- of my mind --
    so is she a victim in waking life?
    Or perhaps it's all justice, of a sort --
    whatever the truth.

    And then I rise up sink low to limbo again
    but with the cold fiery hands wrapped around my chest
    grown tighter, heavier.
    #2 RiverNotch, Apr 13, 2016
    Last edited: Apr 16, 2016