through the portal–white-flat-white to a world with no sky, no water, only flat cold and stone, everywhere, stone with the gaping maw, the hunger, the stark loneliness of terror–that gape in the gut, that hole that pulls down into the abyss of the world where no one no no the hole it gapes and then the portal the light the bright the pull the pull the whole brightness of the sun and everything is golden and sunflowers sparkle into the pull of another portal where the sky is covered in gears and the inside of the clock is outside and the insistent tick of time remember this is not timelessness this is
this is not a dream. A dream is
a quiet home in the roots of a
graht oak with a fire in the pit
and a hammock near the window
this is not a dream–
it is a hero’s life.
Daily Prompt: “write a poem that… incorporates wild, surreal images. Try to play around with writing that doesn’t make formal sense, but which engages all the senses and involves dream-logic,” from Na/GloPoWriMo.
Five clothespins hang on the line near the cottage in the village. Between them span faded linens and one dress, bright blue with lace. I do not own a dress.
I spread my rough shirt and binding cloths on the granite rock in the sun. Stained. All I own is stained with blood.
A rough man’s hand’s grow gentle, as he rests them on his wife’s shoulders. The way the hard line of her mouth softens– I can count on one hand the times I have felt the hand of another, laid on me, that has not been the cause of pain.
The cedar shakes on the roof of the barn shimmer with gold. Shimmer. When I am lucky, I sleep beneath pine bows and wake to raucous crows to consider
the choices coerced by war: you can be a warrior or a whore. I chose to be a warrior, but what if I had wanted a quiet life? What if I had wanted to be a kind man’s wife?
Daily Prompt: “write an elegy of your own, one in which the abstraction of sadness is communicated not through abstract words, but physical detail,” from Na/GloPoWriMo.
We spy down from afar on the worm cultists, whose chants pulled us here, rubbing shoulders, sticking at sides, forming clusters until we grow too fat for the strength of clouds and as their grips release, we tumble fast and wild and wet and sodden on the chanters, slayed by riotous hands, on the daedra and the ripping beaks of clanfear. We fall until the ground is soaked in blood and all our drops of infamous rain cannot wash the stains of life that might have been.
We gaze down from afar, when the last undead have fallen, the stones soaked black in blood and rain and pity, we spread in wave and particle to shoot through space and light the edge of every blade of grass, of leaf, of crystal gem hidden deep within the spine of Nirn. We course through all, consecrate the last and the forgotten.
We carry the same message, each drop of light, each wave of rain: “You mortals only see life as precious because it ends.”
Because it ends, the rain is over. Because it is precious, golden light spreads.
Daily Prompt: “write a poem that similarly presents a scene from an unusual point of view,” from Na/GloPoWriMo.
Notes: The quotation in this poem comes from Meridia, during “The Final Assault” quest in ESO. Oh,yeah–this is another poem about destroying Molag Bal’s dark anchors. I guess that image has really inserted itself in my imagination and come to represent the whole path towards purity of spirit for me.
Also, because I started a day early, I gave myself lee-way to skip a day. I skipped day 16, which was to write a poem using a list to “defamiliarize the mundane.” (Fun prompt; tired mind!) Then, I got too busy (playing ESO!) to post this poem last night… so here’s Day 17 on Day 18! Hope to get Day 18 up this evening!