The Dirty Days of April

[Andrea345]

Easter

For eight months I have lain in your grave -
dead longer than Jesus. Our friends
are repelled by the corruption of my laugh,
and I, by my stench of tears. All
bear witness the extent of my decay.

But today was my Easter. And while hope
is now lost to me, I felt my lungs heave
when I heard the thrush's dawn song.


********************

shadygrove - thanks for dropping by!

5th column - each NaPo, I really have to have a theme for me to focus on through the thirty days, and I hate to repeat myself. I still write pornetry, and I'm sure some will show up this month, but it's turning out this month's theme is "love and death." The cliche of it makes me feel dirty. But it is what it is... ugh. Now to go wash my mouth out.

Hey Julie - glad to see you back! Thanks for dropping by and letting me know.

Matt - I really love your idea about cutting "open wound". I'll sure look at it. You did get the idea behind, "Cold Pie's" "To nest. To nest." The external drive for a widow to remarry after a very good relationship was exactly the point. I'm glad my theme didn't put you off your feed. Thanks!

-a

[Julie]

You did get the idea behind, "Cold Pie's" "To nest. To nest." The external drive for a widow to remarry after a very good relationship was exactly the point.

I didn't even grasp the significance of what the N was saying. I think, sometimes, I get distracted by particularly vivid (sometimes the most gruesome) images and forget to think. I can definitely attest to the weird way some outsiders react to widows, as if we are just waiting for a mourning period to be over so we can go find someone new. Because unlike divorcees, we can't be bitter!

[Andrea345]

Robert

and Robert

When he took me for the first time,
I became an image of myself - one
shaken, sanded, and stripped. He reached
around me, held me back as he jacked
me hard, and I - I became past tense.

My beautiful, dark self, your death
was not a small one, but rich and loud.
I could not take my eyes from your cock
as you threw yourself against my wind.

inspired by the photograph "S/M#104, Robert and Robert" by Michael Rosen


**************************************************
Yeah, Julie, seems to me people want to "help" the widow "move on," almost more eagerly than a divorcee - like the healing process can be laid out and neatly tied into a bow, that that's somehow a sign of "getting over it."

[HowardM2]

Fine work all the way through, Andrea, evocative pieces and -- especially -- something that's difficult to do consistently, very strong closing lines in every one of them. My favorite is "I'm sure the king dined well as he sucked my blackbird's bones" but they're all first-rate. I'm so glad to get the opportunity to see your work again after much too long.

[BrianIsSmilingAtYou]

April Fools

Who made Spring a young woman? With its grotesque displays
of edematous green, eternally weeping skies of slumberous grey,
the damp soil which clings beneath the dead skin of my fingernails.
There is nothing here which does not spring from your flesh.

And mine continues to consume.

Lovely sounds in here. The metaphor of spring as a young woman is interesting. Equally interesting is trying to make out the ways in which the following images, of green and grey, skies and damp, and all the rest represent a young woman. The later references to skin, fingernails and flesh seem more in tune with that idea, and it all seems to hang together.

Grief

Your death is an open wound, the kind of cut through
skin and fat, past muscle; the offal exposed.
Such viscera cannot hold itself so spills
pinkgrey before the audience of friends
and other paramours. My failure slips
to the floor, and I crash to my knees in impossible prayer.
Hope is no more, and will does not stop my next breath.

"Offal" makes the opening. "Open wound", though a visceral and powerful image, seem more overused.

I like "impossible prayer". It makes me wonder what qualifies as such. Is it that the request is one that cannot be fulfilled (e.g. self-contradictory) or in opposition to one's true wishes, or the will of the deity, or is it that the act of prayer is impossible for the one doing the prayer (e.g. an atheist or other non-believer).

Much to think about. I hoped to cover more, but the boards are being cruel to me tonight, and this is something like the umpteenth time I've tried to make a comment.

BrianIs AtYou

[Andrea345]

Not "The One"

He might not be my "Perfect One," but he's the only one I've met
in thirty years who could put up with the ink on my fingers;
the need for speed I have in my PCs; the way my pointy finger
goes to work in the garden; who makes chicken wings which
I won't send back "to the chef"; who buys my favorite wine
even when it's not on special, and fills the mini-fridge
with fizzy water; who went to Angkor-Wat even though he'd
never had that particular dream, and the last time he was
in Southeast Asia he'd ended up in a hospital; who will
"walk the family" before I whine; who locks the doors
and checks the windows at night; who laughs when I fart;
who would answer the phone when my mother calls.
He is not the one, but the only one.



In response to Dan Savage's, "The Price of Admission"


********************************
Howard, thank you for reading and letting me know how the pieces struck you. I'm glad you didn't poke your eye out, brave man.

Brian, thank you for such in depth consideration. The "impossible prayer" is really about the idea that buried in the middle of our grief is the deep wish / prayer of the return of the dead. I'll probably examine that idea between the living's wish for the dead's return and the myth of "Heaven" where we will once again "be joined" with our loved ones on those "beautiful shores." I so appreciate the time you took during NaPo. Thanks.

[Donner]

Now, there, that wasn't so difficult, was it. Sweet, romantic and heartful without being sappy.

Very nice - excellent details listed, each carefully selected with attention to sonics ("goes to work in the garden; who makes chicken wings which won't be sent back", "fills the mini-fridge with fizzy water", "walk the family before I whine") and that "Awwwwwwwwww!" factor ending. That's one I'd frame for "the only one".

Good on ya.

Donner

[Andrea345]

That means you'll move your finger from the Burien trigger, right?

[Donner]

And give up my leverage? Not hardly.

[Andrea345]

rats

[casket N orbit]

"April Fools", I love the Spring/young woman and the imagery that follows and the wittiest ending I've read in a long time!
"Grief", the images are non-stop, acutely showcasing a powerful metaphor. I could feel this poem!

[Dave Wiseman]

What I have to offer is a low whistle of admiration for such strong work in NAPO. "Stench of tears" hit me particularly hard. I am a fan.

[Andrea345]

Small Love

I wish I could make this love tiny,
so it won't die the way a larger dog
goes before a smaller. If I could
fold it into squares, or an origami swan,
I'd stick it in my pocket, keep it safe
by tying it to my belt with a chain
so no pickpocket could slip it from me
unawares. I'd take it out before I put
my jeans in the wash, but if I forgot, if I
separated from this love for the two hours
of the wash cycle and the dry, it would come
out tattered or felted like a forgotten
love note folded into an origami swan
which just got washed. When it does die,

it should be small enough for me to stick pins
along its edges to mount it onto a black board.
I'd put it under glass to preserve its color,
its iridescence, its form. I could pull it out
from the closet on Tuesday nights to examine
it with my friends, compare it to other loves,
see if we have since found a similar species.
If the answer to that is "no," that what I have
before me is the last specimen of a now extinct
variety, we could at least then look at it in wonder.

But no, my love needs to be smaller even than that.
It needs only to be as large as a baby box turtle.
I'd keep in a terrarium with the top sealed, filled
with plants expiring their oxygen, making it rain
for the miniature pond which I'd paint blue
and add a plastic yellow fish. I'd make it
a sealed world that is always wet, always
warm, where my love lives longer than I.



********************************************

casket - thank you for such strong words. I'm grateful and that does help keep me going.
Dave - NaPo really helps me focus on theme. At least, that's the way I can actually make it through a NaPo, I need a theme and then just hammer at all the riffs. I'm glad you found stuff you like. Much appreciate you letting me know.

[Andrea345]

While we're young and beautiful,
Kiss me like you mean it
lyrics by Steve McEwan & Rivers Rutherford


The Secret

What they never tell you in your time of strength,
your head thick with hair, your body lean
and spare, in that time when passion can be shared
for hours a day after lengthy day

is how tasty your lover is the first time he comes
on your tongue after surgery cores him of pleasure,
or how sweet her cunt is even after they
strip-mined both breasts from her body. The salt

of the paper thin skin on the back of his hand
is a feast when he speaks your name in recognition
after weeks of singing schoolyard songs.
You will love the carved scars of her face, the lines
formed from laughter, count each wrinkle a joy.

[cookala]

heya Andrea345! The secret touched me on a deep, personal level after going through what I have this past year. it gives me hope. strong work here. thanks for writing and sharing this.