there are stories that fail in the telling
and there are stories
that fail.
it is the telling that rives me,
the blood and guts of it,
teeth gnashed down to the jawbone.
i'd weave the words into the dark, if the silence
were gentle enough;
and i'd tell you the ending, if
i were brave enough;
if i didn't mind it killing me, spine broken,
binding bent.
i cut as smooth as flame-warm wax;
under my flesh i am dark and royal and richly red,
kingly beneath my skin.
stories are voodoo magic and mouthy.
they tell the scars on my arm a metonymy,
my limbs a plot woven by delicate digits from
the softest ether.
Um, does anyone know where this goes, or how this ends? Because I am at a loss here.
I do *not* know how it ends, but I do have an affection for poems that don't end properly. Rumi does his a lot -
ReplyDeleteI’m through. Read the rest of this poem
in the dark tonight. (from The Vigil)
or he ends up baffled by the very language he is trying to use - considering this poem is about the telling of stories, and that it's already breaking the fourth wall, you could end it talking about the poem itself
[note, I am the same person commenting as McK, deciding to amalgamate my comment profile]
the lines that hook me are "under my flesh I am dark and royal and richly red/kingly beneath my skin"
Oooh, I like that idea!
ReplyDeleteAlthough if my ending was really honest, it would be:
see.
and now you have made me write
a poem
i cannot
even finish.
you prick.
Haha, I think that's an awesome finish - okay, it's not as eloquent as the rest of the poem, but I like a little human bluntness
ReplyDelete