oh, yeah

[Lorraine Pester]

Hi. You gonna update your index on the first page? And what happened last time? My mind runs away with all the possibilities

Lorraine

[5th column]

"When the very tips of my fingers exploded with envy"

5th

[GreaterMandalaofUselessness]

Hey point!

Long time no see. Welcome back!

Nice short and sweet start, it made me smile. I'm looking forward to the rest of the them.

-Matt

[Dunc]

Point

Ah, the lessons of experience! Keep 'em coming.

Regards / Dunc

[exclamationpoint]

wow i'm almost out of time and i've got nothing sigh

i found her drowned
in a pool of ink
and wanted to drink it up

[Dunc]

point

Oig! Suitably disturbing use of simple words for a rather opaque setting.

Regards / Dunc

[exclamationpoint]

don't ask me why sometimes i capitalize and sometimes i don't, there isn't really rhyme or reason to it, i just do whatever i feel like works in the poem. ps i'll update my index as soon as i post this

and now, the weather

i buried an egg this morning
to apologize for something i haven’t done yet.
it’s raining albumen here,
a sticky film, like afterbirth
or a blooming photograph.
but tomorrow, i will be holding
a deep yellow sun, round and tight,
the fulfillment of a promise.

[exclamationpoint]

they ask if they can use me as a pincushion,
and i say yes,
because they never taught me how to say no.

and anyway i draw flowers on my skin
and make a good piece of art,
soft and sturdy in equal measures,
a thick knit of woven fingers.

it stings a little, the first prick
in my upper arm, and aches later,
but it’s not too bad. i sit still
and am useful, which is more
than you can say for a lot of people.

someday i will stand,
and spit out the sand
they stuffed in my mouth,
and jam those pins into their eyes and
they won’t see it coming.

[GreaterMandalaofUselessness]

Hey point.

I liked the found/drowned ink/drink rhymes and the quickly sketched picture it paints. I wondered if you'd consider losing "it up" to accentuate the end rhyme and add a double meaning to 'drink'?

And now the weather made me smile, eggs-actly the sort of word play I enjoy!

The last one has a light tone in places, but with a much darker underpinnings. S1 seems to imply that the pinners may be N's parents, or some others with a parental / power relationship who are responsible for teaching (or in a position to teach) N how to look after him/herself, how to say no, although the sand in mouth suggests the playground bullies. N has ways to make to divert him/herself from this experience ... drawing flowers, telling him/herself that he/she is being useful. However, as we learn from S4, N is also consoling him/herself with the idea of revenge ...

I'm enjoying your Sevens so far, looking forward to the last few.

best,

Matt

[exclamationpoint]

you think you can part my pink lips
and find some pretty hanging flowerpot,
you think i am some tiny flower of a girl
with pink ribbons in her hair.

i will tell you this, inside you are cerise
and amaranth, layers of coral and orchid,
guts to muscles and blood and sinew,
and i will peel this off of you, and you

will regret all of this

[Dunc]

point

the weather - Hm. My guess is, puns and allusions about impregnation. Or have i missed it altogether?

pincushion - Ah, needles and hospitals and nurses who can't find the vein and nurses who can. Brings back memories.

pink lips - Tight, anti-romantic, savage, and very readable.

Regards / Dunc

[exclamationpoint]

whoooooppsssss i missed the deadline. i'll respond to some of your comments later! thanks for reading and responding as always

i've been getting these headaches,
a little worse every month
that i get a little better.

aura: from latin for little wind.
i imagine i am watching
the poisonous parts of myself
leech out and drift away
on the north wind

like old acid trips
burning and blistering their way out
bitter on the back end
but you're better for it
when they're gone

[exclamationpoint]

i'm baaack
this poem doesn't have a title yet


My friend tells me ghost stories
from back home, of jinn,

the virulent kinds of spirits
leveling villages. I want to say

that kind of thing doesn't happen here,
though I've heard of ghosts

more wistful than angry
sitting on windowsills and sharing

the details of their lives. I guess it depends
on the circumstances of their death,

or the gossamer shapes of their lives.
The things you thought were solid -

bones, frameworks, first loves -
turn out to be only tulle.

It's enough to make anyone bitter,
after it's gone.

The body dies all the time,
skin and hair only shells of cells

already spent and peeled off.
Some people speed up the process.

From eleven onward I hardly ate,
couldn't see the point,

watched blandly as my body fell away,
adding new layers of wool and cashmere

to protect against the cold, but holding
on to the slough. I sometimes have dreams

of things before they happen,
and think I might be half a ghost.

Which part of you is living?
Is it the center of rushing blood,

or the thin scarf you call your soul?

[5th column]

I like the image of ghosts on windowsills. Less will be more in this case, post Sevens.

[Jee Leong]

I like the wistful tone in this, at least partly created by the careful delineation. Solid to tulle, and scarf to soul are convincing changes in sound.