So, the last poem I submitted to class was crap, and I refuse to post it here.
Meanwhile, the next poem I’m kind of proud of and will post it here.
Prompt: Write from the standpoint of a mythical creature.
In fact, I loved this prompt so much, I wrote two poems. Which do you think was more successful?
All my feather-scales stretched out, burning blades
of earth and sun, keeled and vaned in galaxies
of green and red. I brought you the Fifth Sun,
untied it from my chest and let it soar in swirls
of jade flames, writhing birds and morning
stars. With every breath I loved you, panting
my last laughter over you softly like the hiss
of scales over stone, like the scraping brush
of a plumed wing stroking your face. I sliced
the world in half as the wind and the dawn,
I made the soils move for you, I gave up
golden sheaths of maize and lapping tongues
of the Yucatán to you. When I came among you
with my serpent skin in torso curls and bicep
braids, cloaked in ocelot skins and conch-shell
chains. my children, I wanted you to break
the black mirror of Tezcatlipoca, the trickster,
the god of shadows and shame, of dark dreams
and demons. Gleeful among the ruins
of Chichén Itzá as I drowned, my twin danced
and dashed the rocks into themselves, sprinkling
plague over the waters of Tenochtitlan,
blinding you with the brilliant white gleaming
off the chest plate of conquistador kings. Fear not.
The world dies again, but I will embrace you and all
your broken bones, constricting you in my coils
as I make the world anew. In the flaring feathers
furling forth from my scaly sides, Tezcatlipoca and I
will turn again, the scorch of the Sixth Sun
whistling away from us into a resurrected sky.
It was our intent to run ourselves into darkness,
indistinct eraser-ash in the pages of your minds.
When the day came that Allah built up the walls
around paradise and sculpted man from clay, he also
swept up the scattered scraps of angel-light—smokeless
flame—and blew it into our shapes: we are the end
of all fires, black shadow skeletons, acrid tastes
of soured thought and tangled dreams. Be careful
where you step in the world, or where
the sparrow-shudders of your mind may lead.
In the wastes where the ashen sands turn over
in dustbin dervishes, or through murky forests,
where the spindle-spokes of needle trees loom
over you, or way out on ocean flat like Sahara land,
we wait for you. Like bad dogs, we attack
the black holes yawning open in your head,
the eddies and currents that course through you
in the depths of night. We are no one and no thing,
save the snatch of whispered doubt caught behind
your ears. We thrive free of form or physical
ground, but there is one thing we fear:
the day when our confidence grows too great,
and we look in the mirror to see your faces,
solid and human, forever knotted into our own.
All I write about anymore are Latin American and Middle Eastern culture references. Eh.
Anyways…probably going to up the volume of content, here. Could reeeeally reeeally use some feedback….
Stay classy, friends.