Raven's Wing Poetry » death

Holes

ravenswingpoetry — Thu, 29 Mar 2012 13:37:58 +0000

(Lakshmi and Persephone, to Sita)

(Lakshmi)
I don’t want to ask you about
how wide or how large the hole grew to –
I’d rather not remind you it’s even there
at all. When the white rabbit disappeared
down into the abyss, to the other side,
pocket watch in hand, a dandy’s waistcoat
girt about him like an old fool from sepia days,
we did not bid him goodbye, or Godspeed, or even
tears. Perhaps a veiled middle finger out of his sight,
or a “fuck you” shouted down the hole in frustration
for the pile of undone things he left behind — but that
was all we sent after him into the ether;

(Persephone)
and I wrestle with an arm larger than Atlas’
while Vishnu tries to keep the world turning
slowly in its days, trying not to knock the tin soldiers
off its surface, still trying to be steadfast, or jar
the shooting stars out of the cornflower midnight mantle
above our heads. Your honesty can make the embers
of a heart in someone else’s chest die, or
leap up in conflagration accusation, pointing
flame fingers at you and asking why there are
no tears, no eulogies, no honor for the dead – but how
do you mourn a crotchety old rabbit hypnotized
by his own pocket watch and refusing to drink in
the benevolent sun overhead? You don’t. If
a stone falls out of your shoe, tumbles into the river,
and is carried downstream out of sight, do you feel
any sorrow for the pebble? You don’t. But you
nod, accept the condolences, and shuffle away.

(Lakshmi)
Sita, has the urge to disappear into the ground
faded away? There is no more need to
cover your head with earth, to beg the eye and ear
of Rama to turn to you again and listen. But
the hole in the backyard attracts my questions,
the ones which I dare not ask lest I resurrect
things that should remain dead. Call it a
computer mind seeking data to parse, seeking lenses
to view the world around me through. You have just
broken through, like a mad woman hungry for air
bouncing up to drink the sky – it causes me to wonder
if there is even a hole in the yard at all.

(Persephone)
Earth was made to heal itself,
and holes must eventually swallow dirt
and become silent. I have a glass shatter heart
that knows what it is like to replay soundtracks
and celluloid memories until they wrap themselves
around your neck and close off the air
in your throat. I will not thread the projector,
I will not load the reel-to-reel and strangle you
with tape. The questions can wait, or never
speak themselves into the air. In the meantime,
I will teach you how to leap off the earth
in trampoline fury to grab and drink from a sky
that you have never tasted.

Written 3/28/12
© 2012 Nicole Nicholson. All Rights Reserved.
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This poem was written for We Write Poems Prompt #100: Poet’s Choice. We were asked to write a brief description for a prompt idea, and then write the poem for that prompt. I must confess, my description will not be brief, but here it is….

I’d call this prompt “Entilo/Veedilo”. The title is taken from two words in Telugu, a Dravidian language commonly spoken in Andhra Pradesh in Southern India. It translates to “Inside/Outside”. For this prompt, I’d ask poets to write about inner conflict — specifically, when the norms of the group dictate we must do/say/believe/feel one thing (the “outside”) when we’d rather do/say/believe/feel something else (the “inside”).

I’d written the poem last night, before I even knew what the prompt was…and when I saw the prompt, it was easy to devise one that this poem would fit. As I mentioned in my last poem, a family member who I never got along with recently died, and I’ve had a bit of a conflict within myself about this. The reason why we never got along had to do more with this person than me — I tried to reach out to this person, get along, and be understanding, probably more than was healthy for me or my fiance. I don’t hate this person, but I am not sad that ze is gone either — only sad that this person did not take advantage of the life and opportunity given to hir. Normally, people would expect one to grieve and be sad at such a loss — but I must confess that I feel quite the opposite. I’ve had to do the best that I can when receiving remarks of condolence, namely reducing myself to saying “Thank you” when presented with such remarks. (I don’t think it would be in good taste to dance around and sing “Ding Dong, the Wicked Witch Is Dead”!)

Also, you’ll notice two voices in this poem. This is another one in the Goddess Chronicles, and here I introduce the mask of Lakshmi, the Hindu goddess of wealth, prosperity, light, wisdom, fortune, fertility, generosity and courage. I use her to represent the part of me that is curious, taking delight in asking questions and figuring out the world around her. I identify her with a concept I’ve mentioned in my other poems about Asperger’s with the “computer mind” — that is, storing large amounts of data, having a sharp memory, and attempting to parse and solve problems in a rather particular and logical way. You notice Persephone speaks here too — I’ve mentioned that Persephone is the more vulnerable part of me, but she’s also rather innocent and vivacious. I identify her with the “glass shatter heart” I speak of in my Asperger/autism poems — i.e. the very sensitive, emotional, and over-empathetic part of me.

Anyway, thanks for bearing with the long explanation, and I hope you enjoyed the poem.

-Nicole
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Signs

ravenswingpoetry — Tue, 20 Mar 2012 18:32:02 +0000

Consider this: a white vase of red roses, sitting stately
upon a table, greeting the dawn, casting up its song
of fragrance. One day, a careless wind, an earthquake,
or an errant cat’s paw sends the vase tumbling:
prisoners of a reckless plummet to the ground,
the roses cannot stop their fall –
and the vase shatters into fragments and dust
that will meet and rejoin the earth it once rose from.

Or consider this: we reach out for a familiar hand one day
and the next, we barely feel the whisper of its fingertips
sliding past our own as it falls away, just out of
our grasp: and we marvel at the lack of fingerprints,
of the warmth of a palm, or of the barely captured memory
of knuckles and joints negotiating the turns, bends, and angles
required in the simple act of clasping a hand.

Roses leave no ghosts, and spirits leave no shadows.
The only signs of their existence live behind our eyes,
inside the attics enclosed by walls made of bone and
stuffed with keepsakes and moving film. And as we live,
we fill each other’s attics with stacks of old Polaroids,
boxes of bric-a-brac, trunks of old books, and
canisters of home movies on Super 8, curled up and sleeping,
waiting to uncoil and come to life.

Once we slip off these skin robes and exit, all of the
virtu, photographs, and film are stolen away with us,
housed behind a red door, carried as unseen binary code
imprinted upon our spirits. And who will read the code,
edit the films, or frame the photos?
Who will finish our unheard testimonies then?
Who will create and post our signs when the message is gone,
standing behind a glass wall, staring across a chasm
unheard, unseen, and unread by the living?

We are little creators — yes, even little craftsmen who
have wrought something new out of the stuff
in our attics. We can remove the dams and let our love
flood the space around us, giving our fellow itinerants
water to drink and relief from the unforgiving sun overhead. We can
pour our wine into the chalice and pass it around
in fellowship. But when will the chalice fall from our
trembling hands, or the snow-covered mountain break apart
and die, unable to feed the river’s streams again? We do not
know. After all, no one posts a sign in your backyard
to tell you when it is your time to go.

Written 3/20/12
© 2012 Nicole Nicholson. All Rights Reserved.
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This poem was not specifically written for the We Write Poems Signs Prompt, but I am sharing it as my offering for it this week.

I actually wrote it to read at a memorial service for a family member who recently died. I must be totally honest — this person and I never got along so I find myself with conflicting feelings about their death. Typically, elegies can honor the person they are written for or express grief and sadness at their passing — and this poem does neither. Instead, I chose to focus on how without warning, life can suddenly end — we don’t get an advanced sign from the Gods that our time is up. And since this person became ill and then died suddenly, I feel that this is the most appropriate thing that I can take away from this person’s death.

I believe that the best things we can do, knowing that our time can be up in an instance, is to give, love, and contribute something positive while we are still here. I hope you enjoyed the poem. Can you read the signs?

-Nicole
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Change

ravenswingpoetry — Wed, 18 May 2011 14:09:39 +0000

Kharon by Alexander Livtochekno

I hold coins in my pocket, refuse to drop them
into Charon’s rawbone hand;
I hold the gifts of my passage under my cloak
back from this boatman’s demand.

The hand, scrubbed white by time and tale
empty like a mouth that forgot its prayer
still waits for the change in my pocket:
yes, the hand waits for the leftovers of my life,
yawning open like a vacant ribcage,
knowing what I could not take with me.
But I still hold the change in my pocket.

No one builds a bridge over the Styx,
and no one arches a proffered back over that black river
to allow foot and wheel to wage across:
no one conquers Charon
and his waiting, hungry hand.
But I still hold the change in my pocket.

From beneath the hood of my cloak
I see my lovely psychopomp standing in the boat:
I see that fire-haired, ocean-eyed brilliant man
who dropped the pain in his chest in loose bags of gold into the river.
Charon sneers: here’s another who’s conquered him.
No little pittance of coins for him that time.
And I still hold the change in my pocket.

I stand on the bank and peer further,
pulling back the curtain of mist with my eyes:
I part the brume veil around this river
to find more rebels standing on the other side,
rebels who broke through the webbed bony finger wall of the boatman.
The tallest of them shines, with rubies embedded
like nail prints in his wrists.
Charon curses us all under his breath.
And I still hold the change in my pocket.

I turn scarlet from the fever of the revelations,
giddy and carmine from the lick of flames now
rising up beneath my cloak and behind the red door in my chest:
my red door, still healing its busted latches and cracked open hinges.
My psychopomp died trying to fix the hinges of his own door,
and the rebels across the river display their own busted hinges
and cracked locks welded back into place.
They all stand in defiance of the bony hand,
stand quietly in their insolence to the white-palmed thief
who set up camp under the nose of the gods
when their backs were turned.
And I still hold the change in my pocket.

So fuck you, Charon, for I will cross another way;
away with you, ghastly Boatman: for the other side awaits.
And I will still have the change in my pocket.

Written 4/18/11
© 2011 Nicole Nicholson. All Rights Reserved.
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This week’s prompt over at We Write Poems instructed us to come up with a prompt, and then write a poem for it.

First, I’ll explain my prompt: parallelism. You see this as a frequent device in the Book of Psalms in the Hebrew Bible. Parallelism is “a kind of rhyme, in which an idea is developed by the use of repetition”. There are two types of parallelism present in the Psalms: synonymous parallelism, which is two lines expressing the same idea, and antithetic parallelism, which involves two lines expressing opposite ideas.

Here is an example from Psalm 27 of synonymous parallelism: “The LORD is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The LORD is the stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?” And example of antithetic parallelism happens in Psalm 1: “The LORD watches over the way of the righteous, but the way of the wicked will perish.”

So my prompt was to write a poem using one, or both, or these methods of parallelism. I also borrowed a little from Cee Lo Green for this poem. If you know the song, you probably recognize a little of this in the poem. If not, here are the lyrics.

-Nicole
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NaPoWriMo Poem #16: Roses and Thorns

ravenswingpoetry — Wed, 27 Apr 2011 14:55:18 +0000

To make a crown of thorns,
you must first tear the roses away.
The King is crowned with their stiff, green bodies
withering to brittle, bone, and dust after they
have been seized and stolen from the ground.
Before returning to dust, they stiffened into rigor mortis,
frozen in a circle as they entwine with each other,
thorns jutting out and radiating from an empty center.

The thorns were meant to ward off
fingers, paws, and teeth away: but instead,
they bury unwittingly into the skin of this young man’s
temples and forehead. Draw blood against your will,
and make both of your murderers sing with glee,
braying scorn into the palms above your head,
up past the stone rooftop heads rising above this city
and gazing out into the surrounding desert with empty,
window eyes. The King drags a ragged robe behind Him
down the street, past the bodies of the blooms
torn, cast aside, and left to die. And die they will,
along with this King,
along with the crown of comrades biting themselves
into His brow.

Somewhere in an apartment above the street,
an urn falls and breaks.
The roses inside tumble to the floor and
lie helpless and unsettled among the shards of the body
that used to hold them. Their scent
still floats around them in an unseen aura
and levitates upward, touching the stone ceiling above
their heads. Below them on the street, the torn rose blooms
also waft their final songs up to a clean, vacant, and cloudless sky.
And the King walks past the dying rose blooms
to become a broken urn Himself. Groaning and struggling
underneath a wooden cross, He feels
the clay of his body already beginning to crack. Through each fissure,
the scent of roses slips surreptitiously out
and intertwines with the other fragrances calling up
from the window and the street.

Written 4/21/11
© 2011 Nicole Nicholson. All Rights Reserved.
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This poem was written for NaPoWriMo and for We Write Poems Prompt #51: Pairings. We were asked to pair two opposite things in our poems: given that this past weekend was Easter weekend, I chose the theme of life/death and roses/thorns. I hope you enjoyed the poem.

-Nicole
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NaPoWriMo Poem #15: Walking

ravenswingpoetry — Wed, 27 Apr 2011 14:26:11 +0000

Nails pin thin, battered feet
to fractured wood. Affixed to earth,
neither He nor the wood can rise up
and walk. He is a nailed up, gasping, bleeding sentinel
watching the sun’s single eye burn:
but Death walks around Him, trailing a mantle of clouds
behind her that will occlude the sun and shut its eyes
to sleep.

A Circus Maximus, slow death procession,
parades around and circumnavigates Him. The
mockers, the jeerers, the scorners. The
red-caped centurions, armor and helmets
proudly glistening with the sun’s fire. The
mourners: two veiled women, battered with grief
and wailing elegies until they float above the sun;
and a young man, thin and pale like Passover bread
before it is broken and spent.
All are blind to Death’s march:
she leads them while she is translucent to the sun
her cloak and train of clouds still a far distance off.

The ache, the agony,
the breath being pulled out of his lungs
like ribbons by an unseen hand: they all draw
her cloak and train closer to fly over this spot. All
weave her raiment thread by thread: eli, eli,
lama sabachthani. Another thread: Son,behold
your mother. Woman, behold your son. And the final pass
of the weaver’s loom: it is finished.
The cloak, mantle, and train are complete. Death stands
on the hill, her proud, ghastly, and shadowy garments
unfurled to the sky. Behind her, the sun
turns away his face with sorrow. And somewhere, a temple curtain
rents itself like so many outer garments.

Sack cloth on the sun: ashes on the earth’s face
as fire consumes a life and leaves
the flakes of its passion at the foot of a wooden cross.
If you ask the man later about the fire, He might tell you
that He only felt ice crawling up His limbs and veins
as the world and the heavens receded. But not
right now: you won’t find Him. He has shed His mantle, and
is walking.

Written 4/21/11
© 2011 Nicole Nicholson. All Rights Reserved.

Filed under: NaPoWriMo 2011, Poems Tagged: christ, crucifixion, death, Easter, Easter Poetry, Good Friday, jesus, NaPoWriMo, NaPoWriMo 2011, Passion, poem, Poems, poet, poetry, poets, shed mantle, walking

It Will Not Stop

ravenswingpoetry — Mon, 14 Mar 2011 18:11:49 +0000

There are birth pains,
and the water breaks in trillion-fold up the coastline spine,
an army marching to where water does not belong –
marching into the streets,
marching into the marketplace,
marching into the suburbs,
marching to obey a command invisible to the ears,
and like Mickey Mouse broomsticks,
it will not stop;

the kanji signboards drown,
throats pierced and clogged with ammunition,
this water,
this silencer so you never hear the bullets coming except for water,
except for the roar of water,
except for friendly fire like a life-and-death double-edged sword,
except a maker of casualties and widows and orphans and unknown soldiers,
with ragged breath behind forts of concrete and bamboo,
behind forts clung to like driftwood,
behind forts held on to with one hand free to bring fingers and chopsticks to mouth to feed,
and like unbidden, sudden jungle gunfire,
it will not stop;

water tumbles over blood,
and blood tumbles over limbs,
and limbs tumble over people tumbling over cars,
and cars tumble over boats,
and boats tumble over more water like bathtub toy fury,
and the water tumbles over the invisible hands of a child,
unseen and newborn,
surely sprung up from the new crack in the ocean floor,
the crack that smiles red once every few hundred years,
once every century,
once every decade,
once the giants stir from their sleep and make a new child knit from Poseidon’s body,
and like the call of the crawl, and of the babble, and of the walk,
it will not stop;

and like a cracked-open Earth, it will not stop;
and like a flaming power plant retching forth its guts and people, it will not stop;
and like the body counts of the dead and the missing, it will not stop;
and like fear and questions hung in the chest cage by thin wire like a wind chime heart,
it will not stop.

Written 3/14/11
© 2011 Nicole Nicholson. All Rights Reserved.

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This was written for We Write Poems Prompt #45: Against the Grain. Some process notes:

I normally compose my poems via a word processing program; I rarely hand write anything. This time, I chose to hand write my entire poem first, rather than my normal method, which involves composing as I type and consulting thesaurus.com if I want a new and shiny, brilliant, or interesting word in place of what I might use ordinarily.

Also, I normally use a great deal of enjambment in my lines, but this time I chose to write entirely in end-stopped lines.

Lastly, I try to avoid poems about current news items unless I really feel a need to (and can resist the trepidation within myself). I started to shy more away from writing about those after a minor ruckus occurred at one of the local open mics at which I used to read; after I performed Vicious (written about a five-year old boy with Asperger Syndrome being voted out of his kindergarten class by its students with encouragement from the teacher), two of the attendees of the open mic got into a verbal argument the subject matter. I felt somewhat responsible for causing the ruckus, and began to doubt whether I was really as informed as I should have been before picking up my pen. I’ve slowly tried to shake my reticence about writing current events poetry — I’ve tried to do this with poems such asTo Bless These Tired Throats (about the revolution in Egypt), Gulf Song and Oil (both about the Gulf Oil spill) and Smoke Signals (about Phoebe Prince). This week’s poem, as you can probably tell, was about the earthquake/tsunami in Japan.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed reading this poem.

-Nicole

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Protected: WWP Poem #32: Apartment, 17 Rue Beautreillis

ravenswingpoetry — Wed, 15 Dec 2010 02:41:55 +0000

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Filed under: Poems, Prompt Poems, WWP Prompt Poem Tagged: death, escape, happiness, letters project, Poems, poet, poetry, poets, prompt, prompt poem, Prompt Poems, pursuit of happiness, WWP, WWP Poem, WWP Poem Prompt, WWP Prompt

WWP Poem # 17: Undertow

ravenswingpoetry — Tue, 31 Aug 2010 19:02:45 +0000

Undertow, by Nicole Nicholson

This week over at We Write Poems I asked people to plug one (or more) of their own poems into Wordle and then write a poem using the most frequently occuring words. As I’ve been pretty busy and haven’t written in a couple of weeks, it was a bit of a challenge, but looking at my Wordle again inspired me to create the above. Blow it up, print it out, save it, rotate it, read it. I hope you enjoy.

-Nicole

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WWP Poem #15: Epilogue

ravenswingpoetry — Sat, 14 Aug 2010 21:00:53 +0000

Mom's House by Sarah Regnier

This is no statute crying blood,
no wounds weeping from the palm of hands. The
Jesus on your wall pried himself off that cross
a long time ago, leaving nothing but porcelain and floral
in his wake. The imprint of his perfect, clean back
rises in flight, arms extended like absence as it
hovers above the rest of the bric-a-brac flying low solitude
and anchored to the wall. Her world collapsed
early Sunday morning.

The princess tore herself upon the teeth of the window. There is now
shredded flimsy white dangling itself from between teeth,
stuck and clinging in testament to the night that she tried
to escape. She had hung a star from the waist of her gown for good luck
before she shoved herself into its mouth. Now, there is a wind
that plays it as melody and calls it curtain. Don’t try to find out her name;
you never knew it anyway. Those creatures have jumped the barricades
and have headed for the sea.

Did you know that you lost her? The roosters on your shelf
never warned you of her impending departure. They were neither
friend or foe, though you counted on them to never make a fuss
while they stood there looking gorgeous and glazed
in the sunlight, just like their eyes. Just like your eyes. While the
morning yawned and broke yellow through the window, you
never saw her coming or going. The hens
below them never clucked their secrets into your ears. That’s what
things do when you only want them to look pretty. She began to breathe,
to breathe at the thought of such freedom.

Plates never eaten upon,
mouths never lit alive to warm the chasm of days spent in the dark,
embraces that never bloomed. The yellow roses
suspended in silk upon your wall are the last things left in this house
that still look like her. The star in the window tries to light itself
to play candle against the wall that looks like a grave. Somewhere,
there is no tombstone to trade for a chrysalis; this is not
how you get your wings. Draw herself to sleep and call it Paradise,
close her mouth shut and call it ache. The window forgave her
for the lines she drew up her arm. These barricades
can only hold for so long.

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This poem was written for >We Write Poems Prompt #15: What Do You See In This Image?. The gods sent me a little birthday gift this year — a poem on my birthday. Pretty cool, huh? Anyway, I think I ended up reading a darker angle into the picture at the top of the post, which Mallery over at WWP gave us for inspiration this week. I hope you enjoyed the poem.

-Nicole

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WWP Poem #13: Tears and Teeth

ravenswingpoetry — Tue, 03 Aug 2010 13:10:32 +0000

Fear, by Nicole Nicholson

Occluded forest, the hood over my head:
green fingers folding together,
brown bark teeth in a damp musky mouth,
Bavaria’s finest. With your pen, you
cover me in red, and call me virgin:
color me blood, and call me bruise.

Fresh incense of needles dying below my feet,
snap and crackle green, evergreens casting
a princess’ path for me upon the forest floor. I walk
a virgin sacrifice from path to path: the script’s
already been written for me. I follow it
letter by letter, curve by curve: somewhere,
the sentence will end where veins intersect at the
junction underneath my breast, the tunneled mountain mound
where my heart is buried alive. The wolf
seeks to resurrect the living from the dead.

As I walk, I watch
half-moon teeth marks quiver below my surfaces
like little leviathians, backs arced and ready
to dull their hunger. This is first blood
begging for rapture before it ruptures. I am
only missing Quetzalcoatl’s feathers for this walk,
given a red riding hood instead: a replica
of the door and crest between my thighs. And

I know how this tale ends. The basket
is just a prop; so is Grandmother. The god is
wolf and serpent chasing each other,
trading pyramid for forest. Blood calls
for more blood: but you insert the woodsman
to wipe the blood off your own hands. Shall you
split open a thirsty god and deliver me? This
tale is older than you, curled up inside the code that built you,
little scaled and feathered lexicons that hiss inside your ear
and tell you how the story goes:
virgins walk the woods and come back blood. It has
always been this way.

Written 7/30/10 and 8/3/10
© 2010 Nicole Nicholson. All Rights Reserved.
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This poem was written for We Write Poems Prompt #13: Little Red Riding Hood Revisited. Irene Toh invited us to revisit the Little Red Riding Hood fairy tale.

I am back into the land of the living, as you can see. I decided to take a darker approach to the Little Red Riding Hood tale, also drawing the picture over the weekend. I hope you enjoyed both the poem and the illustration.

-Nicole
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