Deviant Login Shop  Join deviantART for FREE Take the Tour
About Varied / Student Member KatieFemale/United States Recent Activity
Deviant for 3 Years
Needs Premium Membership
Statistics 112 Deviations 9,243 Comments 7,228 Pageviews

Newest Deviations

Random Favourites

Watchers

Groups

This month I felt it was appropriate to share poetry since I am submitting to the 2014 Rattle poetry contest. 

These are poems that stood out to me in my recent English studies; there are only six here, but they are (mostly) long -- I hope you'll read through anyway, and feel free to pace yourself.

 

Watermelons

by Charles Simic

 

Green Buddhas

On the fruit stand.

We eat the smiles

And spit out the teeth.

 

Spelling

by Margaret Atwood

 

My daughter plays on the floor

with plastic letters,

red, blue & hard yellow,

learning how to spell,

spelling,

how to make spells.

 

                 *

 

I wonder how many women

denied themselves daughters,

closed themselves in rooms,

drew the curtains

so they could mainline words.

 

                 *

 

A child is not a poem,

a poem is not a child.

There is no either / or.

However.

 

                 *

 

I return to the story

of the woman caught in the war

& in labour, her thighs tied

together by the enemy

so she could not give birth.

Ancestress: the burning witch,

her mouth covered by leather

to strangle words.

A word after a word

after a word is power.

 

                 *

 

At the point where language falls away

from the hot bones, at the point

where the rock breaks open and darkness

flows out of it like blood, at

the melting point of granite

when the bones know

they are hollow & the word

splits & doubles & speaks

the truth & the body

itself becomes a mouth.

This is a metaphor.

 

                 *

 

How do you learn to spell?

Blood, sky & the sun,

your own name first,

your first naming, your first name,

your first word.

 

The Fish

by Elizabeth Bishop

 

I caught a tremendous fish
and held him beside the boat
half out of water, with my hook
fast in a corner of his mouth.
He didn't fight.
He hadn't fought at all.
He hung a grunting weight,
battered and venerable
and homely. Here and there
his brown skin hung in strips
like ancient wallpaper,
and its pattern of darker brown
was like wallpaper:
shapes like full-blown roses
stained and lost through age.
He was speckled with barnacles,
fine rosettes of lime,
and infested
with tiny white sea-lice,
and underneath two or three
rags of green weed hung down.
While his gills were breathing in
the terrible oxygen
- the frightening gills,
fresh and crisp with blood,
that can cut so badly- 
I thought of the coarse white flesh
packed in like feathers,
the big bones and the little bones,
the dramatic reds and blacks
of his shiny entrails,
and the pink swim-bladder
like a big peony.
I looked into his eyes
which were far larger than mine
but shallower, and yellowed,
the irises backed and packed
with tarnished tinfoil
seen through the lenses
of old scratched isinglass.
They shifted a little, but not
to return my stare.
- It was more like the tipping
of an object toward the light.
I admired his sullen face,
the mechanism of his jaw,
and then I saw
that from his lower lip
- if you could call it a lip
grim, wet, and weaponlike,
hung five old pieces of fish-line,
or four and a wire leader
with the swivel still attached,
with all their five big hooks
grown firmly in his mouth.
A green line, frayed at the end
where he broke it, two heavier lines,
and a fine black thread
still crimped from the strain and snap
when it broke and he got away.
Like medals with their ribbons
frayed and wavering,
a five-haired beard of wisdom
trailing from his aching jaw.
I stared and stared
and victory filled up
the little rented boat,
from the pool of bilge
where oil had spread a rainbow
around the rusted engine
to the bailer rusted orange,
the sun-cracked thwarts,
the oarlocks on their strings,
the gunnels- until everything
was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow! 
And I let the fish go.

 

Punishment

by Seamus Heaney

 

I can feel the tug
of the halter at the nape
of her neck, the wind
on her naked front.

It blows her nipples
to amber beads,
it shakes the frail rigging
of her ribs.

I can see her drowned
body in the bog,
the weighing stone,
the floating rods and boughs.

Under which at first
she was a barked sapling
that is dug up
oak-bone, brain-firkin:

her shaved head
like a stubble of black corn,
her blindfold a soiled bandage,
her noose a ring

to store
the memories of love.
Little adulteress,
before they punished you

you were flaxen-haired,
undernourished, and your
tar-black face was beautiful.
My poor scapegoat,

I almost love you
but would have cast, I know,
the stones of silence.
I am the artful voyeuur

of your brain’s exposed
and darkened combs,
your muscles’ webbing
and all your numbered bones:

I who have stood dumb
when your betraying sisters,
cauled in tar,
wept by the railings,

who would connive
in civilized outrage
yet understand the exact
and tribal, intimate revenge.

 

Snow White

by Anne Sexton

 

No matter what life you lead
the virgin is a lovely number: 
cheeks as fragile as cigarette paper, 
arms and legs made of Limoges, 
lips like Vin Du Rhône, 
rolling her china-blue doll eyes
open and shut.
Open to say, 
Good Day Mama, 
and shut for the thrust
of the unicorn.
She is unsoiled.
She is as white as a bonefish.

Once there was a lovely virgin
called Snow White.
Say she was thirteen.
Her stepmother, 
a beauty in her own right, 
though eaten, of course, by age, 
would hear of no beauty surpassing her own.
Beauty is a simple passion, 
but, oh my friends, in the end
you will dance the fire dance in iron shoes.
The stepmother had a mirror to which she referred-
something like the weather forecast-
a mirror that proclaimed 
the one beauty of the land.
She would ask, 
Looking glass upon the wall, 
who is fairest of us all? 
And the mirror would reply, 
You are the fairest of us all.
Pride pumped in her like poison.

Suddenly one day the mirror replied, 
Queen, you are full fair, 'tis true, 
but Snow White is fairer than you.
Until that moment Snow White
had been no more important
than a dust mouse under the bed.
But now the queen saw brown spots on her hand
and four whiskers over her lip
so she condemned Snow White
to be hacked to death.
Bring me her heart, she said to the hunter, 
and I will salt it and eat it.
The hunter, however, let his prisoner go
and brought a boar's heart back to the castle.
The queen chewed it up like a cube steak.
Now I am fairest, she said, 
lapping her slim white fingers.

Snow White walked in the wildwood
for weeks and weeks.
At each turn there were twenty doorways
and at each stood a hungry wolf, 
his tongue lolling out like a worm.
The birds called out lewdly, 
talking like pink parrots, 
and the snakes hung down in loops, 
each a noose for her sweet white neck.
On the seventh week
she came to the seventh mountain
and there she found the dwarf house.
It was as droll as a honeymoon cottage
and completely equipped with
seven beds, seven chairs, seven forks
and seven chamber pots.
Snow White ate seven chicken livers
and lay down, at last, to sleep.

The dwarfs, those little hot dogs, 
walked three times around Snow White, 
the sleeping virgin. They were wise
and wattled like small czars.
Yes. It's a good omen, 
they said, and will bring us luck.
They stood on tiptoes to watch
Snow White wake up. She told them
about the mirror and the killer-queen
and they asked her to stay and keep house.
Beware of your stepmother, 
they said.
Soon she will know you are here.
While we are away in the mines
during the day, you must not
open the door.

Looking glass upon the wall...
The mirror told
and so the queen dressed herself in rags
and went out like a peddler to trap Snow White.
She went across seven mountains.
She came to the dwarf house
and Snow White opened the door
and bought a bit of lacing.
The queen fastened it tightly
around her bodice, 
as tight as an Ace bandage, 
so tight that Snow White swooned.
She lay on the floor, a plucked daisy.
When the dwarfs came home they undid the lace
and she revived miraculously.
She was as full of life as soda pop.
Beware of your stepmother, 
they said.
She will try once more.

Looking glass upon the wall...
Once more the mirror told
and once more the queen dressed in rags
and once more Snow White opened the door.
This time she bought a poison comb, 
a curved eight-inch scorpion, 
and put it in her hair and swooned again.
The dwarfs returned and took out the comb
and she revived miraculously.
She opened her eyes as wide as Orphan Annie.
Beware, beware, they said, 
but the mirror told, 
the queen came, 
Snow White, the dumb bunny, 
opened the door
and she bit into a poison apple
and fell down for the final time.
When the dwarfs returned
they undid her bodice, 
they looked for a comb, 
but it did no good.
Though they washed her with wine
and rubbed her with butter
it was to no avail.
She lay as still as a gold piece.

The seven dwarfs could not bring themselves
to bury her in the black ground
so they made a glass coffin
and set it upon the seventh mountain
so that all who passed by
could peek in upon her beauty.
A prince came one June day
and would not budge.
He stayed so long his hair turned green
and still he would not leave.
The dwarfs took pity upon him
and gave him the glass Snow White-
its doll's eyes shut forever-
to keep in his far-off castle.
As the prince's men carried the coffin
they stumbled and dropped it
and the chunk of apple flew out
of her throat and she woke up miraculously.

And thus Snow White became the prince's bride.
The wicked queen was invited to the wedding feast
and when she arrived there were
red-hot iron shoes, 
in the manner of red-hot roller skates, 
clamped upon her feet.
First your toes will smoke
and then your heels will turn black
and you will fry upward like a frog, 
she was told.
And so she danced until she was dead, 
a subterranean figure, 
her tongue flicking in and out
like a gas jet.
Meanwhile Snow White held court, 
rolling her china-blue doll eyes open and shut
and sometimes referring to her mirror
as women do. 

 

Instructions

by Neil Gaiman

 

Touch the wooden gate in the wall you never

saw before.

Say "please" before you open the latch,

go through,

walk down the path.

A red metal imp hangs from the green-painted

front door,

as a knocker,

do not touch it; it will bite your fingers.

Walk through the house. Take nothing. Eat

nothing.

However, if any creature tells you that it hungers,

feed it.

If it tells you that it is dirty,

clean it.

If it cries to you that it hurts,

if you can,

ease its pain.

 

From the back garden you will be able to see the

wild wood.

The deep well you walk past leads to Winter's

realm;

there is another land at the bottom of it.

If you turn around here,

you can walk back, safely;

you will lose no face. I will think no less of you.

 

Once through the garden you will be in the

wood.

The trees are old. Eyes peer from the under-

growth.

Beneath a twisted oak sits an old woman. She

may ask for something;

give it to her. She

will point the way to the castle.

Inside it are three princesses.

Do not trust the youngest. Walk on.

In the clearing beyond the castle the twelve

months sit about a fire,

warming their feet, exchanging tales.

They may do favors for you, if you are polite.

You may pick strawberries in December's frost.

Trust the wolves, but do not tell them where

you are going.

The river can be crossed by the ferry. The ferry-

man will take you.

(The answer to his question is this:

If he hands the oar to his passenger, he will be free to

leave the boat.

Only tell him this from a safe distance.)

 

If an eagle gives you a feather, keep it safe.

Remember: that giants sleep too soundly; that

witches are often betrayed by their appetites;

dragons have one soft spot, somewhere, always;

hearts can be well-hidden,

and you betray them with your tongue.

 

Do not be jealous of your sister.

Know that diamonds and roses

are as uncomfortable when they tumble from

one's lips as toads and frogs:

colder, too, and sharper, and they cut.

Remember your name.

Do not lose hope — what you seek will be found.

Trust ghosts. Trust those that you have helped

to help you in their turn.

Trust dreams.

Trust your heart, and trust your story.

When you come back, return the way you came.

Favors will be returned, debts will be repaid.

Do not forget your manners.

Do not look back.

Ride the wise eagle (you shall not fall).

Ride the silver fish (you will not drown).

Ride the grey wolf (hold tightly to his fur).

 

There is a worm at the heart of the tower; that is

why it will not stand.

 

When you reach the little house, the place your

journey started,

you will recognize it, although it will seem

much smaller than you remember.

Walk up the path, and through the garden gate

you never saw before but once.

And then go home. Or make a home.

And rest.

Inspiration:
:bulletblue: March 2014
fallowfrenzy.deviantart.com/jo…
:bulletblue: April 2014 
fallowfrenzy.deviantart.com/jo…
:bulletblue: May 2014
Soul Art Day fallowfrenzy.deviantart.com/jo…
fallowfrenzy.deviantart.com/jo…
:bulletblue: June 2014
fallowfrenzy.deviantart.com/jo…
:bulletblue: July 2014
[here]

deviantID

fallowfrenzy
Katie
Artist | Student | Varied
United States
Currently an undergraduate at Hollins University, majoring in English/Creative Writing and minoring in Studio Art and Psychology.

Favourite hobbies and activities include: drawing, writing, photographing nature, listening to/finding music, reading, and learning new techniques and information to improve artistic skills.

She has begun writing a novel, the inspiration coming from her first creative writing class at Hollins; she also has a few ideas for poetry collections swirling around in her head at the moment, and is in the process of sorting them out and lovingly birthing them onto paper. Several of her poems have been published, and she has contributed artwork and photography to the speculative literature magazine The Cyborg Griffin and the student periodical The Album at her university. She has also participated in the Quaking Aspen (Volume 3) "American Dream" project and workshop with artists Sue Johnson and Roy Baugher; she has relief prints from this project as part of collections in several prominent institutions.

As of January 2014 she has travelled to Ireland, Germany, and Austria and hopes to continue travelling the world. France is next on her list. She plans on being fluent in French and German one day.

She is co-leader of the alternative spiritualities club Bell, Book, and Candle under her university's Student Religious Life Association, and additionally participates in two literary clubs on campus.

AdCast - Ads from the Community

×

Comments


Add a Comment:
 
:iconnuzvael:
Nuzvael Featured By Owner 3 days ago  Hobbyist Photographer
Lately, thanks a lot for the fav' on Un Secret by Nuzvael! :) :heart:
Reply
:iconvelvet-lies:
Velvet-Lies Featured By Owner Jul 16, 2014  Professional Photographer
Thanks for the comment and Fav ;)
Reply
:iconsoffeline:
Soffeline Featured By Owner Jul 9, 2014  Hobbyist Photographer
Thanks for faving! :D
Reply
:iconfallowfrenzy:
fallowfrenzy Featured By Owner Jul 9, 2014  Student General Artist
You're welcome! :heart: (:
Reply
:iconjxsnyder:
jxsnyder Featured By Owner Jul 8, 2014  Hobbyist Photographer
Thanks for the fave!  :D
Reply
Add a Comment: