Thursday, 4 July 2013

Creative Writing (2 Edited Older Poems)

I've decided to start going through my archives of poems I've previously written in any attempt to find things that I feel are salvageable or not entirely bad, and then tweaking or changing them. I'll post the results as they come up here in addition to anything new I'm writing (hoping to do some this coming weekend).

I've got 2 edited poems to post today.

I have found beauties leave a
Mark unspoiled, undying, spread
Like Arabic eagle’s winds
Across the brain.

Stays light, as a milky dew
Upon new-found eyes; refuses
To dim, flicker, no matter

The thoughts still sting, swim,
Repose in blue; smiles, frowns,
Sweet songs and death knells,
All still, alone.

The wonder is bonded in image,
An old memory from the voice,
Some strand from the modern letter,


Walking Past Midnight in a Small Town
There was nothing to be afeared,
There was nothing to cause a shame.
I was lone with but the lights,
The calmed forms of brick buildings,
Shines through the windows snuffed
Long since.

I dressed sloppily, in shack-like
Disrepair, feet bound with the
Flimsiest support, rankled shirt
Flown to the dark sky’s breezes;
None were looking, so, why
Would I bother with mirrors?

Only a faint memory’s flicker of
Headlights flashed by, no red
And pale gold to break the
Moon’s hazy illusions, the dying
Mists blanketed by clouds most
Ashen, most enveloping.

There was no shouting, no slamming of
Doors as now, only shudders of the
Maple keys, the soft songs of yawning
Birds; here is too heightened, I block
Out the window’s echoes with rattling
Speeches, just to sleep.

I am heavy as swinish iron,
With no more a light foot
To skip, no more strung along
From places pinned to the push-map:
My own way is to be now drawn,
And when I walk it is now but

The shattered pavestone, the bleat
From heated lamps, the stone
Eyes of the city-dwellers,
And no more the walking
Past midnight

In my small town.

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