This was written for Read Write Poem #82: Ode to Your Homunculus.

I borrowed heavily from concepts in Jungian psychology, Freudian psychology, and Kabbalah to write this — and thus it is a multi-part, somewhat lengthy work. I’ve been troubled by a lack of creative energy lately, so this work was a blessing to me. I hope it touches you in some way.

Oh, and by the way, enjoy.

-Nicole

——————————————
i. psyche

a hollow school room
looking like eighteen and ninety four
everything is wooden
and silent: open-mouthed chairs
wordless desks scrubbed
of paper and language
outside
the snow is falling

ii. superego

she wears a suit of drowned skin
her face an impossible matrix
of wrinkles
she recants
and decants
fire from life
and spits the embers out
into the somber coals
lying inertly in her fireplace
this is where desire expires
and life comes to die
her spectacles

gold-bordered and clear-lensed
their serene roundness barks irony
at the sharp slicing square-ness of
her mind
they sit on a wooden bench, staring up
and reflecting little versions
of her in their eyes: she

of the hair pulled back in strained strands
pre-traction pre-baldness yet unspoken
except for the pain
caught up in her round wound bun
perched perfectly at the back
of her skinny head
and her dress

weeps overcast sky in
perfect techni-non-color while her
black boots click oppression upon the floor
not even polite enough to mimic
castanets, they sound out
her “nos” and “musn’ts” before she
even arrives in the room
we hear these drums
of death

she approaches

iii. animus

gold straw hair forms
spun golden coils atop his head
square angled jaw of Gibraltar rock
carved in peach pale rough flesh
wrapped in loose navy
button-down and denim
he waits

hidden by the darkness of
a wooden unlit corner
heavy round black toe tapping
tick tock
tap tap
a countermelody to the
distant schoolmarm drums approaching
clenched first, fetal fingers
they ache

for neck
and knife

iv. shadow

auburn clouds
of perfect kink
erupt from her head and
burning black eyes
pierce her smoke veil – a
cloak of black wool reduced down
to tulle and wrapped around her, oak-colored
and pillow-skinned
another corner hides her
she is wearing black

and has been
since nineteen eighty three

v. inner light

a crystalline violet wind
like purple Easter basket cellophane
blessed with a bit of iridescence
it reflects rainbows though its skin
and drags fringed fuchsia fingers
behind it and
carries stellar spheres in
its back – ten orbs of liquid glow
spinning golden nimbi around
their smooth skins
it blows through
this hollow wooden room

it was always here

vi. la petit mort

the death drums
fall silent
and a cold black eye
encircles the caught shadow
frizz on overdrive
waiting in a corner

“I thought I was
rid of you!”

her hands
blue rivers running through milky plains
one pulls a giant wooden paddle from
the air
the other pushes the
lump of blurry black wool
across a desk and aims
for what she guesses is an ass
but

before she can land the first blow
the violet wind enfolds him
and now, he glows behind a
purple lucent curtain and
his pale hand swallows
her accordion-fold neck
push back
pin to the wall
she becomes a temporary
Mona Lisa, face written in terror:
exploding eyes
mouth open in an ever futile inhale
he says

“I’m sorry
you’ve gone far enough
I have no choice”

quickly, deftly
he draws a slender scarlet line
across her wrinkled parchment neck
his silver blade screams green
under the overhead florescents
multiplying a ghostly gleam
to the eyes of all beholders
and she falls

wings spread body curling
feet inhaled by mouth
this gray ouroboros
spinning forever like
an insane wheel of fortune injected by
lightning while her eyes
ejaculate red rivers two perfect beams
of blood spray, knocking her spectacles
up again a random wall and now
they crack – one single, jagged bolt of
tacit lightning divides each lens
she hits

the ground
and unfolds into
a tan hourglass angel wrapped
in white robes and wearing
a tumble-down of black waves
spilling upon her neck
she looks up

and the cold eyes now
gently burn warmth
they are a pair of total solar
eclipses – glowing black marbles
haloed in soft sunshine coronas

“where am I?”

four hands reach out to her
two pale, two tan
encased in pure violet glow

“welcome home
we’ve been waiting
for your return”

Written 7/10/09

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Poetry in the Park is a summer poetry series held in Goodale Park at 6:00 P.M. every Third Saturday during the summer. This year’s schedule has been posted, and readings will be held in July, August, and September. For more details and a schedule of featured poets, please visit:

http://www.poetryinthepark.com/

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Rachel McKibbens will feature at Writer’s Block Poetry First Draft Poetry Night on Friday, July 17 at 8:00 PM! First Draft Night, hosted by Joanna Schroeder, is a night where new poems and new poets are always welcome. Cover is $3 for the night. There will be an open mic — so come on out and share your *new* poetry!

For more info about Writer’s Block’s First Draft Night, check out:

http://writersblockpoetry.rewritingovid.net/FirstDraftOpenMic.php

http://community.livejournal.com/wbpoetry

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I wrote this for Read Write Prompt #79 (also Read Write Word #18), and as you can guess while reading this, it was just as much for me to write as it probably will be for you to read it. Enjoy. (Oh yeah, I encourage you to click on the links too — your choice of during or after your read.)

-Nicole

———————————

the bellydancing gorilla
at the corner of Twelfth and High
alternates between
large, gentle shimmies erupting from
chocolate-covered chunked mountain
muscle and

rotating gyroscope hips
sliding past Saturn, stealing
violet and pearl glow from
Andromeda’s halo, and catching
turquoise and electric orange fire
from Crab Nebula’s crown before
returning back to point zero
when she’s not dancing

she stomps the street corner and
wears a sandwich board
painted in six-inch high black letters
that reads

“I am sapient and
convoluted”
and

she is her own Crab Pulsar
broadcasting
dense and suspended in this
street corner world
no one would notice her
except for

the river of liquid celadon-colored
undead
spilling into the street
and then collapsing in a
stinky wave on top of her
and from beneath the mound of
wet devouring and
moribund expiration
she soon emerges
just as green-faced and dead-eyed
as they are
and now her sign is altered
two words crossed out and
two words added
it now reads

“I am devoid
and debunked”

her shimmy stolen, this
chained lady now leads the pack
lurching forward in a slow, stiff, stilted
death march past
motorized metal candy-colored wombs
giving birth to frightened sprinters
under this perfect sky wearing
torn cotton and yellow number five
on her back

up on a rooftop
a young man with wild hair sits
knees curled to chest
next to him an older man
an ocean of fuzzy black waves
atop his head
he mumbles to himself in French
and sheds a few quiet tears for
the gorilla
together, they watch the chaos
unfold and spill into the streets
lost, roaming blood
looking for an end
and

soon
wild-eyed denizens emerge
from darkened doors
holding cold lengthened lead
in their arms
opened narrow mouths
do not betray the
unborn arrows of fire inside
one woman aims, pulls
and

ejaculates
wounds and terror into the street
but the leaden cum zooms
past their zombie ears
which perk up while their lips
offer up gasps to heaven
and now the gorilla

spins around
leaves her place at the head
of the undead crowd
and runs towards the
fiery masturbator
while pulling her head off
the shooter

now finds herself face to face
with a sparkle-eyed man
wearing fur, gypsy skirts,
and silver chains – he smiles
and says

“please don’t shoot
right now
there are buses waiting
at the corner of
Northwood and High
to pick us all up and
take us out for milk and cookies
and you can come too”

he points to the gun

“but I don’t think they’ll
let you bring that
onto the bus”

Written 6/16/09
© 2009 Nicole Nicholson. All Rights Reserved.

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June’s Poetry Super Highway Worldwide Open Reading is online now! I read “Samadhi” (one of the poems I wrote during National Poetry Month) on the show. You can listen to the show at:

http://www.blogtalkradio.com/psh/2009/06/14/June-2009-Worldwide-Open-Reading

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One of my poems, “They Tell Me That You Had Cherokee Blood”, was published in Strong Verse Online Poetry Magazine. To read it, go to:

http://www.strongverse.org/poems/nicholson_nicole.html

The Pharoah’s Daughter by Sijeney

I wrote this for Read Write Poem Prompt # 78: Kiss Me, Amelia Earhart. I decided to approach this a little differently, as there are so many historical figures I would like to write about — so this is kind of a longer narrative of how one woman graces the lives of several. Also, I decided not to limit myself to the idea of love in the romantic sense — but it is here, as you can see in the poem. I hope you like it.

-Nicole

———————————–
i.

green jaws
seize a brown body
clamp down
the crocodile is hungry
this young woman will do

white triangles
stained, dripping with red
color the Nile carmine
in this spot

ii.

the black night
blinks her white eye
sideways
in slow motion

and stares upon
the young woman with
perfect unbroken body
and tattered, black braids
walking the shores where
she had become lunch

even the Nile wonders

why is she here?

iii.

she spins metal
her three hundred and sixty degree
revolutionary blade
creates a silver sun that burns
blood lines into skin

her teacher, holy
tan, lanky, and bald
smooth all over from
giving his hair up to
the glory and service of
Ra

his voice
almost a whisper
blooms in this
lamp-lit night

Banafrit
your name
will be an ever-changing thing
mutating with time and age
you will never be the same
and as long as you play The Game
you must remember
that

in the end
there can only be one

iv.

shadows

behind a sarcophagus
endless origami
black tissue folding, moving, flying

clothed in white nothingness
with eyes of
ebony polished stones
jewels set in clean ivory ovals
their curves caressed by kohl
borders, black and perfect
she stares
into a smooth, wordless, carved face
of peach stone

I loved you
sun child
Merneptah

brown fingers trace
his stone face
she turns
then returns
to the shadows
a whisper of footsteps

then quiet

v.

the living ghost
of dead myrrh
blooming below her nose
in her hands
cannot slow down her tears
this is the last thing that
she can ever give him

flanked by female pillars
weeping
she can barely build back
the strength into her own bones
enough to walk

she stops and stares at the tomb
a scrubbed white maw
now wide open
the choked up stone laying
aside, silent and unsurprised

a white veil hides her
Egyptian eyes and
obsidian waterfall hair

but he sees through
her womanly curtain
and softly calls her name

Miriam

vi.

a turbaned dark man
eyes softened
their usual fire shed
and tumbling down into water
which makes rivers on his
brown cheeks
and then disappears into a
forest of black hair
growing upon his chin

Allah calls you,
Muhammed

she says

and the shadows call me
I am older than this time
and you cannot know me
will Paradise hold me?

but you can never
love me

she turns
veils softly murmuring her name
Isha, Isha
as she disappears deep
into the garden

vii.

she wipes the sweat
from his brow
a clean white sari
winds its way around
her lithe body

Bapu

she says

you cannot die now
we need you
for you have shown us
that truth is God
and tyrants will always fall
before the will of the divine
you are the closest thing to Ram
that we have, gently
breathing and walking upon
this here Earth
this is why
we call you Mahatma

he looks up at her
finds the strength to shine
a weak smile into her eyes
and laughs
and says

I am not that great, Amita
you give me too much credit, dear girl
truth is bigger than all of us
and you must always
remember
that

satyagraha
will always change hate
into love

viii.

twin mocha moons
their faces locked together
by a pair of parted red lips and
pink tongues

black hair rivers
curled and unspoken
flow onto white Parisian sheets
and pile into pre-dawn pools
upon pillows

eternity

then a break

do not leave me,
Renée

one whispers
but the other
breathes a lament laid down in a
bittersweet morning croon

je t’adore
Josephine
but I cannot love you
enough for you to know
my flesh
my secret carried in skin cells
I must leave you now
but never forget

that you are
une grande diva magnifique
and that you are
loved

ix.

you cannot tell anyone
that I am here

she tells the young man
of fiery black eyes
and curly red-brown hair
standing before her

for a man with
giants of monsters of metal
roams these parts
he thinks that this is
his land
but Kokopelli says otherwise
we danced to the tune of his
sacred celebration flute
once upon a time
once upon these grounds

he cocks his head to one side
thoughts growing loud and large
shifts his weight
looks at her
and asks:

then why are you here, Una,
old woman with the
young face?

she smiles

I have loved many
and have seen much
and still I want to see more
you see

and my kind
can only find it
upon holy ground

Written 6/8/09
© 2009 Nicole Nicholson. All Rights Reserved.

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I am featuring at Writer’s Block Poetry First Draft Poetry Night on Friday, June 19 at 8:00 PM!

First Draft Night, hosted by Joanna Schroeder, is a night where new poems and new poets are always welcome. Cover is $3 for the night. There will be an open mic — so come on out and share your *new* poetry!

For more info about Writer’s Block’s First Draft Night, check out:

http://writersblockpoetry.rewritingovid.net/FirstDraftOpenMic.php

http://community.livejournal.com/wbpoetry

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From PSH’s website:

“Worldwide Open Reading
Sunday June 14, 2009 @ 2:00 pm PDT/5:00 pm EDT
Call in and read your poetry, open mic style. No content or style restrictions. Share details about your local poetry community with our listeners. We want to hear you!

Our Live events are hosted through BlogTalk Radio and can be accessed during the event by visiting http://blogtalkradio.com/psh and clicking on the “Click to Listen” button.

You can listen to the shows through your web browser as well as call in and ask questions live through by dialing (646) 716-7362 during the live broadcast.”
—————————————————————–

Literally, poets from all over the world have read on these broadcasts. You know yours truly will be dialing in and reading. I encourage any poet who wants to and who can read to join in!

To check out Poetry Super Highway or find out more, visit:

http://poetrysuperhighway.com/PoetLinks.html

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This was written for Read Write Word # 17. I have to admit, this gave me a bit of a workout in the vocabulary department. This poem is a little less coherent and more of a “stream of consciousness” poem. What does it look like to you? Let me know – and enjoy.

-Nicole

—————————-

saturnine glances
from heavy-lidded eyes

an empty room
no windows

thoughts veer off
a paved desert road
collide with walls

no one hears the crash

metal twists in on itself
impossible figure eights
hang from wire threads
above random glass triangles
lying on asphalt next to
carmine rivers running straight and
ending in mutating pools
like giant red maws opening
with unhinged jaws and lips
without end
they grow larger

a shadow slinks away

somewhere in the distance
bombs explode
scattering atoms underground
without a sound
Mother Earth carries shaking
in her white sand belly
she cannot excise
a bitter musing

raped again

shouts rise up from holy mouths
backbones to which smoke
plays countermelodies
against black sky punctuated
by strange rages, glowing orange
and yellow, in the shape of crosses
white fleeting sheets recede
like tides, their shadows flooding away
into the blooming darkness

a boy stands and stares
frozen-eyed
dropping pebbles from his fingers

landing loudly
their echoes scream
in the empty room with no windows
after falling
for twenty years

Written 6/2/09
© 2009 Nicole Nicholson. All Rights Reserved.

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