Angels aren’t meant
to burn
nor should their feathers
glint of hardened steel.
Madder is wrong here
and ochre, that snaking
strand of sun-fire
that licks your ankles
and draws out poison
like a song.
There is a grey in your eyes
that has
the sheen of an impostor,
a reflection of this sky
gone wrong, the weathered skin
of a long-dead tree
or the sorrow of a forest
bereft of its loam.
Rachel Westfall
December 1, 2011
A Little Scribble and an Honorable Mention
13 hours ago
8 comments:
The line 'the sheen of an impostor' reverberates for me. This is a terrific poem. Thanks.
Thank you, Elisabeth! I'm glad you enjoyed it.
It's so interesting that you use the word "madder". I've only recently come across it a Scandinavian crime novel set in Sweden. This made me think of Stephen King's title, "Rose Madder" (I believe). This is a bit irrelevant.
Your poem has much in common with the descriptions in Scandinavian fiction which I believe is largely due to a common landscape.
Kat
P.S. The link you have for Invisible Keepsakes (in your sidebar) was hijacked ages ago. You can find me again at katmortpoems.blogspot.com
Would love to see you there!
Kat! Thanks for your comment, and the fresh link. I've updated my sidebar.
nicely done. all good but I think stanza two is my favorite. just very interesting to me because it's a bit odd yet compelling.
Sounds like the voice of an art critic with a horrified note running underneath. Love it. :)
Valkyrie
The madder dyed cloak,
the ochre stripes down your cheeks,
the black beneath your
eyes and the strapped on
sword and shield tell me I have
really, really screwed
up this time around.
I try, believe me I do.
I want the kind eyes
and the fresh girl smell
of you as you come to me
from the bath, not this
harpy with war sweat
on her belly, this painted
face aimed at my head.
What a glorious piece, Christopher! I'm sure I can springboard off it, too. Just need to let it sink in for a bit.
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