Wordle #82 and Firepower

Week 82

What is written here

Must never get out.

These poems are my laotang,

My vacillating,

Weather-beaten placenta.

With my blood,

With the fire in my belly,

My anemic pencil plows

Through beds of fallow ground.

Melancholy scars assist

Their own alphabets.

And I, a melody, a shriek,

A sheet of metal beaten.

The katydids sing

Outside my window

Twitching, impartial

To my nocturnal plight.

I drink lychee nectar

From a ravine, knees muddy

Skin so white

It shimmers in darkness.

I was a ghost once

And in your arms

I am again, slipping

Into your angles

Like a deadbolt fastening.

Oh how I love you

Your sentience and brevity,

The sight of your smile

Inching toward the wisp of mine.

My god we are perfect,

Absence has no cause to soften me

I have seen my purpose in you

As in no other, there is nothing else

To consider, there is only

This awareness and what a gift!

OctPoWriMo

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29 responses to “Wordle #82 and Firepower

  1. “What is written here
    Must never get out.” … I love this. Like, duh, it musn’t get out, then don’t write it down. But you really can’t help it, can you? 🙂 I’m sure a lot of poets feel this way.

    I don’t know what “laotang” means, so I’m looking it up of course. And how awesome is this poem in light of this:

    As if you are bonded to your poetry in a contractual relationship for life. I love this!

    Here’s another article: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Laotong

    I’m thrilled to know about this. Man, we have nothing like this kind of bonding in our present-day American culture. Not even among family members.

    I also see “These poems are my laotang … with my blood.” Meaning that your deepest words are basically flowing out of your veins. This is just stunning imagery. But you’re obviously not getting enough iron (meat, whatever that might represent). Something is missing in what you’re taking into yourself, so you feel like what you’re pushing out (in writing) is lacking.

    Love the pencil used as a farming tool:
    “My anemic pencil plows
    Through beds of fallow ground.”

    Like it’s not getting meat, so it’s digging for spinach … but not even that can be found.

    “Melancholy scars assist
    Their own alphabets.
    And I, a melody, a shriek,
    A sheet of metal beaten.” … This section speaks of a split or segmented personality … or describes your pain as being a separate piece of you, as if you’ve pushed your hurt portions “over there,” leaving you as whatever’s left after that. So while the melancholy, scarred portion of you writes its own poems, you harmonize … actually, you’re supposed to be singing the melody, with the pain singing the harmony. I’ll bet that gets flipped all too often, though. And then the sheet of metal is where you’re supposed to be getting the iron from … but you’re beaten, so maybe you’re not getting what you need. Or maybe you’re the type of person who has to be beaten in order to get the iron infusion.

    • You are spot on about the Laotang and I am also very fascinated by that concept. I really haven’t got a close female relationship. I love that I am looking for spinach lol You are right about the segmented personality right now my therapist is talking about reintegrating my personalities (a fracture common with sexual abuse), and I must admit to being intimidated. It would be nice to be more consistent in performance. Whenever I am learning something new I feel all of those eager bastards also have to learn it if I am to perform well.

  2. I love the sudden appearance of the indifferent katydids! That’s exactly how nature is, isn’t it? It just bops along, doing it’s thing, not really caring about you one way or another. But still, nature is an extreme comfort to us.

    “lychee” … What a gorgeous fruit.

    “I was a ghost once” … I love that this status can change. It’s kind of hopeful. But is it good or bad to be a ghost? To disappear?

    Something about the end makes me think of the movie Sixth Sense. A ghost finding purpose in helping the living, maybe.

    • Nature is gorgeous and absurd and nothing lifts me out of a dark place faster than a nice walk. Something about ducks waddling up to me hopefully just makes me smile. I think so too. I do think it can change the status. I suffer from disassociation so I have spent a lot of time inside myself, millions of miles away from anywhere but bit by bit I claw myself back into the living world.

  3. Somehow you have managed to fashion such a deeply personal piece Yves, constructed in part, by words difficult to use, yet you have placed them in such means that they impart images so evocative and startling – it leaves me breathless.

    There is a stillness within this piece – a love poem – of a fashion – not only of one addressed to a lover, but also to the writer – the poet itself, perhaps even “the muse” ….

    And there are such absurdly genius minded lines:

    Melancholy scars assist
    Their own alphabets.

    I am again, slipping
    Into your angles
    Like a deadbolt fastening.

    Amazing Yves!

  4. I read this in two ways…bonded to your partner
    and finally appreciating and bonding to your craft and self.

    Several great lines. Too many to single out.
    Thanks for a difficult list. You saw where that went. 🙂
    Thanks… Hugs, Jules

  5. Wonderful poems thanks for sharing. I never get over how lovely your artwork is on both sides of this blog. Gorgeous. Thanks for popping in to like my short story, Under Cover, on my author blog. Really appreciated. 🙂 Have a fab week.

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