Please enjoy these fantastic works from DA's literary community:
Neutrino dowsingLove is a brilliant idea, but
around the most placid dreams come
flowers and silence,
serendipity and snowfall,
matutinal silhouettes in
the realm of awakening moss.
When cats revolt,
our darker purpose may
finally become clear --
with child-like wonder
and the charm of grit
neutrino dowsing will not be
our last resort.
Love is, after all, a brilliant idea.
Neutrino dowsingLove is a brilliant idea, but
around the most placid dreams come
flowers and silence,
serendipity and snowfall,
matutinal silhouettes in
the realm of awakening moss.
When cats revolt,
our darker purpose may
finally become clear --
with child-like wonder
and the charm of grit
neutrino dowsing will not be
our last resort.
Love is, after all, a brilliant idea.
Ode to a Girl from SwanseaPretty Welsh girl, with the Titian hair and
long legs, the secret voice and virescent
eyes: you strike a resemblance to the
goddess of the oak-flowers baptised in
a vernal meadow, beckoning those who
would chant and proclaim your mysteries to
your side as you slide from the slippery
stones to drift back into the bosky wood.
Last Tuesday, when the rain faded away, I
caught you unawares as you brushed your flaming
locks by the sea-wall. Worshippers absent, the
clouds retreated slowly and your Sun shone in
full victory: it was in that light that
I could glimpse you as you are, not as you wish
to be, not as your devotees cast you,
and in that golden light you returned my look.
Today, it is raining again. Small droplets bounce
off the cobblestone walkway and splatter your bare
feet; there is reverence enough in them not to graze
your ankles. My eyes wander from your shoulders to
your chest, travelling your body, and reach your gale-green
eyes. You blink, and turn your head in my direction.
By The WindowMy image must have burned through the divide
ages ago,
paled into the gray of old brick;
the ice from a tree limb
sweeping the pane,
a hand melting into spring
still wiping away the film of past storms
only to gather in the corners
new vignettes;
the rain bandying down against the glass
like a flit of fumbling fingers
to the bleed rust of old nails,
exposing projects of past springs
as if the tangled metal were an offering rejected by the season --
(the childhood memory of fences shooting into the sky);
you'll see how in this cloister of overgrowth
rests a special pool of light --
distended ghosts
in the refracted glares,
joining
in the periphery of sun-spun trees,
the same sun that escaped through slits of fingers,
in their habitual shielding of the eyes.
For FatherYour voice has quieted to a color
as nails bleed into the sills,
years of stainless steel
streaking counter tops.
You must have found a way
to think it beautiful,
rust --
the russet of young hair,
halos of summer;
the dimness of your bulb
losing its light to a sunrise
streaming between monoliths,
golden towers
of paper,
edges brown as
cigar boxes
of memorabilia --
you hunched behind old analog screens
your exhales settling into walls
as the sky turns blue,
your lit window carved between trees
its own autumn
waiting to fall,
never falling.
UntitledNothing is ash
as the tired, buckling wavelength
that cradles the color
slips into the skin of heaven
all of the motes
of the cloth of a room left untouched.
It might appear as if the curtain
has soldered itself to a sun-ray,
the home half cloud
with no threat of falling;
your presence locked
in the same spot of wallpaper --
your pace preserved
in the beam of light
that held you,
that still sinks in
from the day
in the way that all things
become points of light
in passing,
the only thing between being
and not being,
a memory.
womeni remember noticing your breasts
how they were larger than mine
how i imagined my hands fitting over them
or if they could fit over them ;
i remember asking myself if this is what lust is
if the memory of your hair smelling like clean sheets
and cheap conditioner
if that was enough to convince me i was falling for you ;
i had never kissed a woman before you—
before you I was wrapped up in used condoms
and masculinities as fragile as my words
now i’m wrapped up in you and when and if and how i can touch you ;
i'm wrapped up in you
and how you've shown me how beautiful all these women are
dark sheetsshe was tired
and always seemed to be
with her mind moving slower than her hands
her hands still trailing behind others
she was beautiful
even with bags under her eyes,
there was so much warmth to her face,
you’d want to make your bed within her cheekbones
she was smart
but managed to forget to turn off the stove
and burn her hands on curling irons
she was tired
because she refused to sleep
refused to succumb to the strength
of the dark sheets you ruined her under
she was not weak
and will say so, everyday,
until you can hear her
cheap beerwe were surviving on half inflated lungs:
the hollowness killing us—
what was independent of oxygen left open
to the poison of tears, of blood, of the taste of your mouth;
a taste that mirrors the bitterness of hate that tastes of
boiling black coffee and cheap beer
making me believe that hate isn’t all that bad after all
your lips aren’t all that bad after all—
but my lungs feel the burning, the heat of the hate of the black coffee
of beer dancing in the confines of a plastic cup, i know you feel it too
that my lips—my hate—burn like autumn bonfires, like ends of cigarettes
and i apologize for our half inflated lungs
for the poison, for the tears, the blood
for all this hate lacing mouths.
my lips are cracked, i’ve been breathing so heavily
so maybe you won’t want to kiss me anymore anyway
The world is a paragon.the story always ends at the carfax,
lost in translation, somewhere in the barathrum of the world
like dragon tongues, blundering in the darkness
waiting for purity to light them aflame once more;
diaglyphs lay scattered on my chamber floor,
scented with the oils of lilies and mountain waters
depicting the emergence of all life, scrawled in gold and jewels -
patrons always seemed to discard the thought of nature
and her intimate beauty that surrounds us every day:
what need is there for gold when the rosy light of the sun
soaks the plains more thoroughly than the monsoon rains,
and what use for jewels is there if we have stars,
scintillating and luminous in their navy cradle of velvet,
selcouth but alwa
true blue, beautifultrue blue, beautiful
you forgot your own worth
you turned away from the stars above,
questioning and wondering and asking, simply,
why?
but you're coming back, turning towards the dawn
the sound of the drums herald your arrival
the tinkling of the flute
did you think yourself so unworthy?
did you think you'd have nothing, in the end?
true blue, beautiful,
you remembered you are worthy.
dance with the devilI am claws and ash wood,
crackling magic and throaty war-cries
when you dance with the devil,
you bring your own army, or die.
Outcast GospelFreshly disowned in some frozen devotion, I prayed my mind.
Mustering some tender charm, not a trace of me would argue
about what my hands and my body done.
No tired sighs, no rolling eyes, no irony,
no better version of me I could pretend to be tonight.
In some sad way I already know I walk my days on a wire.
If the heavens ever did speak, it's carried by the sneering menagerie -
thrown here or found, to freeze or to thaw.
I knew that something would always rule me;
our teeth and lungs are lined with the scum of it.
Those who figure justice in fond memory: witness me.
I know who I am when I'm alone.
Outcast GospelFreshly disowned in some frozen devotion, I prayed my mind.
Mustering some tender charm, not a trace of me would argue
about what my hands and my body done.
No tired sighs, no rolling eyes, no irony,
no better version of me I could pretend to be tonight.
In some sad way I already know I walk my days on a wire.
If the heavens ever did speak, it's carried by the sneering menagerie -
thrown here or found, to freeze or to thaw.
I knew that something would always rule me;
our teeth and lungs are lined with the scum of it.
Those who figure justice in fond memory: witness me.
I know who I am when I'm alone.
EmoticalsThe train is late.
Cramped in the station, I let myself sigh. Third time this week; the petrol rations must be affecting public transport, too. Nothing’s been the same since the Event.
Shuffling around, I try to find some space in the dank station. It’s dirty, this one. Rubbish strewn, the air cloying with the scent of old garbage and stale gases. A layer of soot blankets everything.
Moving to the back of the underground station, that’s when I spot it; a bright yellow box, clean, in stark contrast to its industrial surrounds. Emoticals is written on the side, with a cartoon smiley-face staring out.
Emoticals are quite popular. You put in a dollar, and they dispense a skin patch. They’ve been all the rage since the big pharmaceuticals found a way to chemically induce emotions. You can get all kinds of emotions these days; happiness, optimism, fear, even love. If you have the money.
I’ve never used one before, but what the hell, it’s been a whil
Magec e Mawu are there pieces of morning that live in me?
that breathe through my reluctance to wake up?
if I saw water in myself,
I'd have a power and will to care for my reflection.
I'd have a lust for wanting to see it grow into the ocean,
I'd have a prayer for you to drown in it.
are there afternoons that still whisper in you?
as you slide off of your shoulder,
that faint and young scratch of cloth on skin tells stories about light rays that left the suns horizon but never made it to your bedroom.
The glass in your window and the wrinkling flaws in your sheets and bralettes all apart of the air somehow.
is the night not moonlight?
Whether it be absent in us as we are. Trickling down from that white rock and blank sky,
landing on blank expressions and empty spaces,
room enough for beams or legs to lay.
You couldn't hear it if it screamed the way it did,
ivory and shimmering, running its edges across all surfaces.
I saw it.
So then, captured by my eye this light of the moon from the sun to the no
Goldmilkin a tooth,
I am depicted
a patron of losing
bets and valuables.
I break bones to bring myself
money, elation,
and sorrow above it all.
my smile against metal,
a finger against hers,
my soul fighting all.
she'd look at me again
on the street or at school,
but never directly.
I was more an object than a pair of eyes.
and she certainly was a pair,
telling lightning about her looks,
electrocuting me
and if looks could kill
she'd be five thousand bolts of nature.
I never held your hair back like I imagined I'd have to.
He is made of gold and he trims around your neck,
like a pair of scissors cutting overgrown hair.
you don't have to worry about catching yourself in it,
though that is how I'll remember you.
unstrong, powerless, and losing faith.
Lionwater liquidity is monstrous.
it surrounds and coats,
licking and having,
becoming in shape and essence,
yet she is her own.
containing several seas,
and women,
she is an avatar.
iridescence breathed in her,
diamonds converse in her heart,
singing sonnets from her eyes,
stars caught
in the knot of her pores.
she was the ocean,
vastly spirituous
and defeating
she was the sun,
infinitely glowing,
golden in essence and being
in movement and sound
The DefendersToday, I told my class that we would be playing a game. One that required a special visitor to participate.
I had invited my friend Hassain to visit my classroom – he arrived wearing a cotton thawb and leather sandals. He had taken his taqiyah from his head and held it in his hand as he stood and faced the children.
I introduced Hassain to the class. I told the children that this man was named Hassain and that he was very much the enemy of all children, he was extremely dangerous and he was not to be trusted.
The children had never met Hassain before today but because they trusted me, they nodded to my description of him and were thankful for my warning on the man that stood before them.
They did not ask me why Hassain was the enemy and they did not ask what made him dangerous. Some simply shuffled their seats a little towards the back of the classroom.
Hassain smiled and greeted the children warmly.
I told the children Hassain was leaving now but, I told them, Hassain wished ver
Unclean HouseWhen I was diagnosed
you were sending me off to work
saying its just a sniffle –
now
on odd days
I forget
to lace my skin in the dark
– or to puncture
my rich anaemic
pores
with another dream.
I forget that I let you
forget that.
This sickness
makes you feel dangerous
and guilty
like a shotgun
in your hand
or sulphur and blood
smeared wet
across a bible.
Smuggled night bourbon
and dog-eared porn
keep you away
and vacant
until 2:00am
then all the skinny whores can’t help you
and you come back
to your unclean house
and it hits you
like someone
tore your lungs.
I am here now;
like a painting
on a radiographer’s easel
-still life with protruding bone -
so go ahead - be the man I must heal for:
or better still - be the snake
that I first mistake
for something more benign.
The SmokehouseThese perfect mud-rusty bricks
once served as the walls
of my Grandfathers old smokehouse -
glazed, split
and worn,
for years they soaked up the scents
of hanging hogs
and throat-slit boar,
of old hoggots strung tight
by their hind quarters
of lamb shorn and split sideways
for an easy carve -
the rich greasy meats
of long, silent winters.
Smoke from alder wood
green and thick,
would drift and dart
from a bent copper chimney
that he placed - makeshift -
on a corner of the building,
the ever eastern wind pushing the clouds
across the cow fields
to the rocky coast,
a silent voyage to the sea.
Today, the tired smokehouse bricks
border small bunches of thyme,
rosemary and oregano
in my father’s garden -
barely knee high walls now
they surround the fields of herbs
with small walkways in-between
to allow him an easy harvest.
My father cleaned each brick
by hand,
used almost every wall of the smokehouse
in the garden. To him, each brick
was a poem in miniature –
a kiln fired memory
Skin by SimplySilent
