[x]

We the Poets- Veiling LustWe,
The poets.

INVENTED
Love.

Through fabled fingers spouting metaphoric bliss,
Losing ourselves in their entrapping eyes,
Forgetting who we are,
Forsaken for our words.

Lost.

For what we think is love, we feel,
But only through our staggered breaths,
And stained innocence.
Beneath the dimming streetlights,
Hiding away in darkness.
A dress code less than strict.

A dance we needn't learn the steps to,
To a song that only we ascribe the lyrics.

Beneath the veil of something more,
The animal stands pacing.
And every touch,
Leaves our hearts racing,
Eyes locked,
Facing.
Gracing yearning lips with simple touch,

Lust only co

Ill DevotionEvery night I wake up from weeping in my sleep
I always stir so desperate with longing for you
My hands madly search your warmth each night trying to reap

Your arms to wrap myself around them without argue
Unknowing of how darkness hides your smile like a scythe
You sleep tight with my cropped locks stitched on dolls for voodoo

Hidden under our mattress is the source of your blithe
A curse I've been bound to without any foreboding
Since when have I become Satan's token and his tithe?

I've long fallen for you without such need for goading
There was no need for this trap for me to seek you out
I crawl to your feet as my heart's bent on implo

Aurora (Borealis)The vermilion sky melted and slipped
into a barely muddied, ruddy hillside
powdered-sugarcoated, vanilla ice-whipped

The vivacious glory-of-the-snow
sabotages the dead silence of the season
with its vehement, blue-violet glow

Know that I see the gleaming aurora in
your laugh lines, life lines
in the palms of your hands and
pads of your feet, unfurling the unsaid
The north star becomes
a cardinal bindi on your forehead
Know that I feel you are heaven-defined
prophecies pressed into my spine

You want to whisper across my tips and capillaries
breathe in sky-blue butterflies, out sea-green envy
I want to compass through your crust and

Melancholic TendenciesAs she danced away to the fine symphony
She felt nothing but an enchanting ecstasy

Her connective rhythm, her fire breath majesty
A deified sight for the broken heart to see

As she held her stride and moved to and fro
Her heart filled with joy, her mind free of woe

Her grace as she laughed; her happiness so pristine
Her being held sway, no words could define

She moved and moved, her smile more pure
As she danced in the darkness, a divine allure

As the circle drew near, she made a cheerful sound,
An operatic discourse, vibrations spreading round

As she danced and sang, the court was reborn
As ghosts danced to the music, of a satisfied v

The Things We Leave Unsaid Common wisdom dictates that meaningful feelings for another ought to be expressed directly and honestly. However, advice is given to be neglected and so too often we are poisoned by our own silence -- the things we leave unsaid.

We are fortuitous that the opportunity for the lesson to be followed by the illustration presents itself. Let us use our discretion and semi-omniscience to observe the conversation between the two young men before us.

"Oh hi. How are you?" It's him.

"I'm good. You?"

"Good." I've been better, but there's no way I'm going to tell him that. "Man, it's been a long time." I haven't seen her in forever. Almost three ye

on essencebut first, kiss my dopamine--

rest your untiring hands on this swelled belly: feel me
as i swallow oceans whole enough
to condensate these north pacific skies, and accept
petrichor’s last offering.

so kindly are these breaths
left to lay rest
on the beds of noetic trees, let us watch
as they breathe,
let us watch as they breathe;

tasting the oxygen
swirling at the back of our throats:
life.

i love how simply the lull of your voice
bathes me in laconic moonlight
how this longing slows time two degrees below
the sixth of listening to mountains grow

pieced is this slow-beating
apologetic metronome, teethed and
sweetheart these
were

the poem i never wrotei’ve got four fingers on each hand
to count and recount the carnal instinct of familiarity.

i have kissed you out of the liveliness of the moon
and her returning blanket of sea, like the softness & quietude

of your eyelid’s atlantic flutter. like the blue dream of sky
that extends the cover of your vagrant esteem. your heart,

gypsy to the cadence of likeness domestic of catholic balance
gingerly, ever able and oh so nomadic

extends the voice of its beat as small as the world
and as vast as our amalgamated essentiality. sunly

is you by which i am reborn, and time fails us
where the aim of waking is to dream.

i’ve got

Sculpture of The SuicideIf Augustus is right, then clap your hands,
Though I beg of you,
Do not dismiss me with applause from the arena;
At the very least, do not cage the lions in my heart
Burn my flesh like a blasphemer of the gods

Because you are a fine puppeteer, beloved
With the way you've sown my mouth shut
And used my body to recite ancient monologues;
The audience falls silent
As their faces stand at attention with ears pricked up
Watching me as I argue against the sun

I am no better than a gladiator in lacking liberty-
Neither labeled human nor given a right to morals
Right hand to left foot;
I'm tied down to the bottom of my bones,
Livin

Acid WashEven if it were true
That to savor each and every second of our time on earth
Would be as foolish an attempt as counting all the
Specks of sand spread across the shores
Of the east coast waters,
If by doing so would mean that I could
Undo time and distance's doing and
Have you by my side once more
Then trust me, babe, I will start counting
From this moment on, diligently so-
With burning eyes and drowning senses,
Till my fingernails turn to specks themselves
And my hair reminiscent of sea foam

There will never be an obsession like mine- over your soul
The lack and longing from my core leaves me salivating,
Leaves me a special kind of

on wet roadsv. She wasn't meant to be helped. We are all wrung from the same breaded soil, bound by our virginal ties to bareback earth. And so maybe it's okay to be a beggar, then, cradling this age-old fatigue.

xcvi. "Here, try this."

Nothing had ever sensitized me more than the smell of green, carried heavily on gusts of crisp oceanic air. The world slowly began to fade around me, and I let my head drop to my knees while the gentle rush of sea teemed humble volumes of vibrant aural stimulation.

"I don't really care who it is, you know. All I want is someone real."
An hour passed in silence. "Lift up your head." It's too heavy for me to carry, plea

Rorschach's BlotRorschach's Blot

Spiders and bears and misshapen trees,
when the swollen fruit drops it bursts into wren wings,
salamander tails shivering, the color of bruised plums.
It tastes so sweet, the tip of a beak.
With a straight pin, I peck at my arms,
a Pollock of blood, swarms of carnelian bees.
Sweet sweet stings. The poison sings.
They say hallucinations, the saints said visions.
"Ollie ollie oxen free," they call running through orchards,
the evening air loosening, a grace note of despair.
There was once an apple and it was bitten,
poor thing, all hell broke loose.
"Tell me what you see," he asks.
"White," I say, hospital sheet

FallingFalling

The body is weightless,
bones hollow as flutes.
They sing startled crescendos
beneath the world distant and harmless for once,
a map of what was.
"Here lie monsters," they warned.
Here lie creatures luminous, grotesque, incandescent
beyond anything you might know.
Potentialities.

Requiem Fall:

     A slip
          A decline
               A loss

          You have been all these things to me at one point or another.

Fall,

               Did my heart
          Did my hope
     Did my home

          All this for the rak

ListsLists

We bask, the sun weak as watered milk.
We create lists of things we remember,
stalling on artichokes, "green" long forgotten.

Basilisks have returned.
They gather around the bird feeders,
clumsy wings batting away sparrows and hummingbirds.
Even honey water excites them.
Pathetic really. Until you remember
it was us who brought them back with our lists.

There are still people
who think money is worth something.
Their lists fill with numbers, denominations.
Paper bills swarm thick as locusts.
They are rich
until our dragons eat them.
We all have our distractions.

We thought it would be more exciting,
the a

SacramentSacrament

Her belly hangs full and heavy, a sack of potatoes.
The painter's wife grabs at a pew to steady herself when she stands.
The priest glares, his vestments white, the words:
"Fornication, serpent's tooth and Whore of Babylon"
lie like uncoiled strings inside his mouth. He knows,
she will drag them down to sin, her mouth a peddler's pack
filled with combs, bodkins and prickly heresy.
"Eat and you shall become as gods." But Ann only smiles.
The knife unfolds like a bird's wing. When she cuts her palms,
the Xs are red cross stitches.
"Drink and it will become wine," she says and it does.
The angels napping in the church eaves

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Submitted: September 1, 2012
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Happiness is but a butterfly...

by =Sammur-amat, Sep 1, 2012, 6:08:02 AM
Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse

        It's that time of the year again where everything fades to blues
               A time when I come to the realization that all I see is a corroding facade
     A prideful lie

          An all-consuming deceit

Now is the when where I start chewing up my own flesh
                                   Tearing off my limbs

          Gnawing at my marrows
                   Clawing and gasping
     For light

                  For air

                                              For anything to help make me reclaim myself
                  An inkling of hope in this far too sullied blueprint world

                         Now is the when where I am left gaping

                          Wide-mouth
                 Tongue-out

           Forcefully I am left smashing mismatched pieces
Crying to breathe
       I am left wanting to finish the thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle and
                                                              Fucking breathe

          I have become a man whose crutches have been sown unto his armpits

   I have been artificially treading
                                   For the longest while

                  Happiness is but a butterfly
           Meant to roam this earth for only

                                                Seven days
                                           Each lifetime

Happiness is but a butterfly...by =Sammur-amat

Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse

_{Happy Birthday to me.

I don't know why or since when, but I suffer from birthday anxiety. No I'm not kidding and yes, it sucks.}

Critique by ~shehrozeameen Dec 4, 2012, 6:57:52 AM

Now... How do I put this...

I'm not bothered with the people above me (irrespective of the fact that *NotenSMSK is a childhood friend of mine) because I have something to think after I finished reading this.

The first few things that struck me were the font (I'm a sucker for any Typewriter font, and here its the right choice to use) and the openness that you've used (reminds me of e e cummings, Brendan Behan, and in fragments of Seamus Heaney in terms of content). I had to take out "the new dragon book of verses" just to bring myself to comprehend who could have written like this.

Which is where I gave you marks for Vision, Technique and Impact. The vision was very pristine and well strung. It was definitely something written from a sense of loss or a sense of distraught disharmony.

The feeling of being a man whose crutches have been sown unto his armpits; the almost deliberate cry to "fucking breathe" (which I'll also pinpoint, the word "fuck" has been used to very subtle effect here. It suits the desperation of this poem) Its very clear. Good job there.

BUT... Originality...

I can't help but quote Dylan Thomas on this one:

And death shall have no dominion.
Dead men naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion

and e e cummings:

for whatever we lose (like a you or a me)
its always ourselves we find in the sea

following this up with Brendan Behan's "I Remember in September"

[link]

and Seamus Heaney's poems from "The Death of a Naturalist" the book itself.

That is a very big tradition that I've borne witness in this one poem.

Let me put it this way: Its a poem, that brings to the fore all poems written at an age of indescribable development. In essence, this poem... is more than just a poem; its an experience.

And an experience that occurs for the whole week... talk about happiness beyond words, and this poem is honestly a tradition put in words.

Don't do anything to this poem. Its a worthwhile experience.

And one which I'd like to end with a stanza from Thomas Moore's untitled poem:

So soon may I follow
When friendships decay,
And from Love's shining circle
The gems drop away.
When true hearts lie wither'd.
And fond ones are flown,
Oh! Who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?

What do you think?

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Critique by ~NotenSMSK Dec 4, 2012, 5:47:03 AM

Hmm... so this was a unique piece and for some reason I was expecting it to be a rather happy and soft piece. But then again I don't think that being a rule.

The work was clearly emotional. There was frustration and anguish if I were to use words. There are many such works and they somehow fail to convey to the reader yet the formatting in your work made me feel a bit disheartened along with your words. Perhaps it also matched a specific work of mine so I felt somewhat conected.

Anyway the way you wrote was not only emotional or frustrating. There was the feeling of control in your words. As if you are expressing these emotions rather than feeling tham at the exact moment.

At least that is the way it felt to me and personally I like it. Overall a good work. I enjoyed it

What do you think?

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3 out of 3 deviants thought this was fair.

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~baglord-lordmindor Feb 28, 2013 Professional General Artist

Happiness is, alas... but a butterfly...

=Sammur-amat Mar 6, 2013 General Artist

Amen.

~baglord-lordmindor Mar 6, 2013 Professional General Artist

NOW amen.

=Sammur-amat Mar 12, 2013 General Artist

~baglord-lordmindor Mar 12, 2013 Professional General Artist

=Sammur-amat Mar 17, 2013 General Artist

~baglord-lordmindor Mar 17, 2013 Professional General Artist

these will be charged.

ten points per heart.

=Sammur-amat Mar 23, 2013 General Artist

(1 Reply)

~LightOverpowers58 Dec 4, 2012 Student Writer

"I have become a man whose crutches have been sown unto his armpits"

A startling piece of imagery that forces the reader to take a deep breath and realize, the line above manages to summarize the entire a piece.

The speaker is so stuck in their impairments, disabilities, and obstacles, that they allow for nothing else to pass through. They are so crippled [in their mentality], they cannot imagine anything but their woes to aid them on their walk through life. They are so far from hope, they allow their impairment to control them.

They are so finite: they blockade themselves from feeling infinite.

=Sammur-amat Dec 5, 2012 General Artist

Thank you so much for taking the time to read and comment on my work, dear friend, I really appreciate it!

You have quite the ability to dissect poetry in such a flawless, fearless manner (and quite on point, too). Thank you so much for all your lovely words. I am humbled to think my poetry could make you care enough to provide me with such understanding.

You have no idea how true what you just said is

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