Last week’s Monday Morning Mourners of Mercy and Memory:
And now the new three, the true three, the Warmed Up Warranted Warriors of Willful Song:
Poet the First
at the drugstore.
it seems that Death can be bought —
brown bottles with pretty pink caplets —
served by fat nurses with turkey necks
and faces that look like
melting birthday cake —
and there I sat, day after day
self-diagnosing new symptoms but
always returning knowing that there
was only one
that didn’t grow nor change.
Thewritersaddress throws down contemplative work of disciplined feel wrapped in great adjective bombast. The poetry is of a great forest texture, the kind that wraps around your arms and gives aid and comfort. /it seems that Death can be bought—/ and an excellent start, the kind unexpected that hooks. /brown bottles with pretty pink caplets—/ the contrast alliteration here, the double set and answer and ending the line with ‘caplets’ sticks so well that you glide through the rest in ease at the poet’s ability. /served by fat nurses with turkey necks/ and the description here, the imaginative skill. /and faces that look like melting birthday cake—/ what an excellent description. One wouldn’t think to describe a face as a piece of melting birthday cake but once it is so described it’s the kind you remember and reuse at cocktail parties to slam the pseudo-intellectuals talking yet again about their trips to India. Thewritersaddress has a great intoxicatig style that chills you into further reading. Definitely a Dig It Dig.
Poet the Second
Your heart doesn’t tear me apart
like it used to. When we were young—
nomads among autumn’s descent,
the red-gold crackle beneath our feet.
Your heart doesn’t tear me apart,
doesn’t shred the light before glittering,
flickering between breaths drawn in
close to you, to your skin—
prickled pink beneath the sun;
yet to set in summer’s end.
Flightedd sings of broken love and broken love will always be fertile ground for the poet. This was always so and will always be so and never will we reach the end of the subject. Flightedd helps us understand why in this sharp, brim-filled poem of acute declaration. /Your heart doesn’t tear me apart like it used to/ and it’s a common start and it’s common because the poet needs you to sink into its vibe immediately, needs you to know where the poem is going to go so you may bring your experience to it and the poet may combin new words to strengthen and refine your experience. /nomads among autumn’s descent/ and nomad is the word to use for that is what the heart feels when love first rumbles and when love cracks to leave. That is the path of love, a fluidity seeking solidity gone fluid again. /Your heart doesn’t tear me apart. doesn’t shred the light before glittering/ this word shred is everthing and drops our heart further in. The poem ends in a cathartic triumph and it is all a beautiful moment, missed by those never in love and that’s fine as the poem wasn’t written for them. Flightedd’s got the here/now true-yeah vibe and rewards a trip down the tumble-kick.
Poet the Third
It’s midnight, and almost Sunday
I have been staring at a blank screen for almost half of the day
And I am still no closer to removing the thoughts
From my head
And placing them here for you to read
(And wonder, maybe, if what I’m writing is really real)
It’s now one minute into Sunday
And I am currently thinking about spending money
That I do not have
And I am hoping that somehow this story I’ve been thinking about
Will write itself, and be bloody great and get a million views/reblogs/hearts
(Not really, I’m happy if I make one person smile)
Timony-Souler has got that raw firepit style, that roar at the end of the road vibe, that left knuckle into the right temple set-down. Everything Timony writes feels like the afterburn of a rowdy reckless row, jetfuel on your dashboard, full charge of cannon and shell. A concussion poet. /It’s midnight, and almost Sunday/ here the poet hints at Sunday as a state of mind and not a date on the calendar. Midnight is Sunday in a technical world, but that’s not what the line goes at. There’s an incomplete feeling needing to be conveyed. This scores one for the necessity of conjunctions. /I have been staring at a blank screen for almost half the day/ again a nearness of declared time but not yet quite. /And I am still no closer to removing the thoughts from my head/ and now here we see and understand. The external world is in flux. It is the interior which cannot shake the absolute. Now we understand the lack of definite time in the first two lines. Masterful start. /It’s now one minute into Sunday/ second stanza now matches the world around, aware to the time. This poem, a simple snapshot of a day, is told with such simmering emotion and charge that it brings again understanding to the Nerudian conceit that a poet may write a poem about anything and it be a poem no matter what it’s subject.
We have the three. Read the three. Dig the three.
Since the tags have changed, it has been a couple days before I saw this. Wow, I am a little taken aback - I’m wearing the biggest smile right now. Writing has always been a personal thing for me, and for people to be able to read it and say truly awesome things about my posts fills me with great pride and appreciation. It never used to be, because I never believed myself capable of having any impact on anyone, but that is what writing is to me - the ability to see the world in a certain way, and in some small way bring clarity and acceptance to some soul out there - the way the authors I grew up reading had brought to me.
Thank you King Stimie, honestly for this shout out - and for choosing me as the first candidate. I am humbly honoured.
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