==[misc. early poems]==
poems from various places written pre-2023. some were written for a creative writing class in Fall 2022.
“Sourcery”
The crooked claw of industry
Creaks with the greaséd blood of men
And children that cry into cobalt skies
Under the threat of ten.
Mothers and wives and daughters too,
Into canals of cordless passersby
Sweat out and slowly promulgate
Their selfsame images of “made”-ed-ness as are wantonly belied.
In search of surfeit soured masters still master on
And scour and scourge every strewn sinew and bone
Of that long-since-saturated body, politic,
Until, in solidarity, it slumps beneath their sanguine thrones.
And the erudite autumnal crowd
Asks often for renewed
Automatons to dance for them
And burden that which they’ve eschewed.
It was the pungent scent of human skin
That the necromancers first shed
Into those simulacrums of symmetry
To ward off the lively-ed nature of those joinéd with the dead.
And to speak of witchcraft is ignorant
Lest one doff a heavy veil:
No more toadstools and frog feet
Do cauldrons ask, shan't those much any avail.
They call it alchemy that knows not
Whose death and hunger have been recomposed
Into such spiral splendors of sustenance
As the wicked, spikéd rose.
Under the sliding hand of progress,
Passions once fiery have into smoke succumbed—
The burned-out quests for gold and life
Now join the ranks of parlor tricks as conceits of wielded numb.
In this world of industry,
A magic lies in wait,
Yet the only miracle its gods can bring
Is for them that have food on plate.
New machines:
Reanimate.
Smile.
Happy, to be alive.
“Whither”
Today I caught a glimpse of wither.
That mighty rose so felled by wilt.
Into blackened sepulcher it had wander.
‘Side such, it never could nor would
A lease on life so violently relinquish.
Tonight, I dream it shall all rewind.
From the universe, it must rewind,
Since now, as singularly spectated wither,
It is to mine own selfish eye relinquish.
What would it hold if sharéd wilt
Had been blessed to visages of those that would
Unite with it in death whence now it wander?
A place interrogated by history and wonder.
Even gospels, they grasp, in want of rewind,
To have otherwise a relief which would
Quell the gnawing hunger of what wither
Awaits unto those husks that wilt.
Might if I knew my faith hitherto relinquish.
For the victor, it comes the spoils. Relinquish
The blooden treats of war and let wander
The wicked whims of vigor. Who conquers wilt
Cry out to kingdom free, “Rewind!”
From whence and whither
Did them that wish they would?
Could they build home of inforcéd wood,
They’d burn down forests and relinquish
From Gaia the tongue of wily wither.
But forsooth, it is for stones they wander.
Wander whereto the wilds must themselves rewind.
As what once was will be again: the frothing fields of fluid wilt.
Those that clutch carelessly wilt
Hunger for they would
The power vested so to rewind.
And so, ‘tis victory becomes the railing relinquish
Wherefrom that flower forced hence to wander,
Into my eyes, and, with its last drop, so assiduously grin and wither.
I glimpsed the grasp of wither
As it came to this kingdom to wander.
Now likewise, in this floral fashion, to endings I must this poem relinquish.
“You Swam the Ocean”
*this is a word swap of William Blake's I Saw a Chapel; with each word being replaced with another word of the same part of speech (more or less)*
You swam the ocean assuredly toward redemption
Seemingly fish have dreamt to die above
For forty schooling swirled between
Flitting sailing watching
You danced seven nights sweat until
A grueling tent without a pole
Yet you sheetd & sheetd & sheetd
Up this cerulean calve crawled
For into a house hollow
Empty of humans or humdrums hallowed
Both our swarming cowls we doffed
Lest out a fossil flourishing
Singing your odes solipsistically
Around sixteen swords & above a wound
For you blackend beyond the blue
But dreamed us up into the seas
::about poetry::
If I get time in the future, I would like explain some of these, as there are within this sea of text some number of poems connected to each other in various ways. For example (at what's currently near the bottom of the page) there's the poems from my encounter with the books Cat's Cradle and station eleven. While the methodology for these is technically divergent from what I'm doing with the Salvage Poetry project, there's a concerted genealogy connecting the two. Again, if I find time in the future I'd like to speak more to this.
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