No announcement yet.

ëxcerpt of "Âbígàïl"

  • Filter
  • Time
  • Show
Clear All
new posts

  • ëxcerpt of "Âbígàïl"

    I am in the bathroom now, in the mirror, broken at one side. I think of the spider. Perfect and spindly and a great essential scare, from the depths of smokey things we barely know. “You must make your oneness with the spider, weaver of fates, and remember that its bite becomes less and less by the days.”

    Well, the mirror is broken. There’s no spider here in the bathroom. I can smile, I guess, but there’s such density — too much to hold onto. Stop borrowing their problems to nurse and succor as your own to pass the time in all those possible realities. You are a woman and not a girl and you exist in all places at once. As well, all these places (and times) do not wish for your particular stread, yet, to be cut.

    The world will not be brought upon you like an axe. And your soul is safe. Think of the mummified remains of all the Egyptians, and other cultures around the world, and why they did such things. Then, that was what they thought they needed to do. To keep the beat inside, from the inside world, like alien music playing that unique, soulful rhythm you heard enchanting nights. What’s it mean? Move forward. When you’re dead, you’re dead; isn’t up to you what happens afterwards.

    The cookie jar stinks. The mirror cages a spider. I am not one-dimension.

    Try not to attempt describing ‘curled up dimensions’ or possible intersections of significant timelines, large and small. Everything is bound up with the fate of everything else: They are raised together, later remembering the reasons for their coming, and each genuflection of the chance taken is to surpass each momentary ache. An ache they won’t just submit to, but it MUST be expressed, anyway.

    And remember. Later on, they spit off the wires which around them formed, and grow, beautifully, into that new thing. You can’t kill a dead person, and the dead person doesn’t hurt any longer. Dead is a state of mind.

    In this vortex you change shape. Little by little the elements combine in you. You can regress for eternity, and eternity is still there. You’re simply learning new lessons. Removing excess baggage. Don’t spring up in haste; allow and stabilize.

    Because there is a deeper feeling, presence, which has existed within me before my first memories. Because it is more than a sound, or a shape, it is what describes these. It is intelligent. Moods, it doesn’t have, but reads them anyway. It’s really more than I can describe. It is pure, like a tool we can use, yet we are used by it. It is gentle and calming, soothing the world in times of need. And it is the pressure of the world which makes the pond surface bob up and down. Feel that? Lunar energy. Night time awareness. In the dark you can walk in the grass . . .

    The candle there in your hands trailing
    And white, the whitest white, your halo
    Extending through each metaphor,
    Dreaming meteors. Time’s elapse.

    You are glowing in an urgent yellow, just
    Asking to be cooled:
    And as you slide down the slant
    Of the hill, you move from your skin

    Into the water, the water your fears
    Have formed, water you’ve never been in
    Shaking like that, in the night, you
    Enter it, pierced, and the woods around

    Eat your body. You’re a tongue in a mouth
    Writing poetry over the bodies,
    In shadows you’re perfect, under the surface
    Where reptiles of your fears ease

    Developing new sense
    Tuned to the otherworldly.

  • #2
    amenOra, that five-verse poem is adeptly magicked and truly beautiful. My my my my ..... candle in hands, through meteor-dreaming metaphors, down a hill, pierced and into the fear-formed waters, body et by woods, self transformed into a tongue of poetic potency in shadows .... sheer wonder at this amenOra.

    I enjoyed being carried along by the stream of impressions in the prose preceding the poem. Thank ya.


    • #3
      I agree with Grant, I enjoyed the prose part just as much, if not more than the poem! May I ask, why do you accent the letters in your poems' titles? I found (in wikipedia) a couple variants of writing Abigail:
      Abigail (Hebrew: אֲבִיגַיִל‎ / אֲבִיגָיִל‎, Modern Avigáyil Tiberian ʾĂḇîḡáyil / ʾĂḇîḡāyil

      While similar to your version, not quite the same. Do you use accents just to make the letters stand out visually or there is another reason I am completely missing?


      • #4
        the stresses, yes.

        ill post more from same...


        • #5
          I dial. It rings a few times, “Hello, room 24-A. What can we do for you tonight?”

          “Well, first thing. Your hotel isn’t making any sense to me, and I need to get drunk. What is your most expensive liquor?”

          “Well, room 24-A, you are not the first person to say this. And try our Mizraba, it is a fine, fine whiskey. We are sure you will enjoy it. It will be up ASAP. And remember, drinks are free.” Click.

          I am sitting on the corner sofa, remembering my hospitalizations. This place feels like a hospital-ward, but obviously they did not have the furniture there, nor the room service. They did, however, regularly bring us our pills. In little white cups. “Thoughts are what slows the human race.” Weird place.

          How much do dreams, thoughts, and ideas cost? Ideas are money, aren’t they? We sit around the preponderances of our daily lives as blue clouds pass through, our dispositions inherited and our complications swiveling through the channels of sense. Now, set up, the idea is as fresh as a wet leaf. We argue about our businesses, and the real world out there is an expectation: inside this hotel room I am free of such things. To ponder them is different. In an arena of competition, specific to the time in history, what matters is mitigated by anonymous figures. The end is a sign in the distance, glowing.

          In truth we are all slaves. Money is an idea. The concept that for growth to happen, rules must be set up and followed; sense doesn’t play a part in exchange except that the one who leaves with the most is the winner. The end, a sign in the distance, is glowing for us all. Many people actually —

          A knock on the door. Four knocks, and some cheery declaration. I tip-toe to the door and whisper through the crack, “Leave it outside the door. I’m naked, I don’t have any clothes on!”

          I wait a minute or two and open the door, peeking up and down the hallway. There’s a cat, a white cat, stalking around. I grab the bottle and shut the door, lock it, and pray to all living beings. I am still alive, rich, so rich with this bottle in my hand and these ideas in my mind. This is, of course, a special occasion. I won’t be wasting it praying to the wrong guy.

          There is a glass on the fridge, and ice in a silver bowl next to it. I pour the honey-colored liquid over the icecubes. Lay back and sip.

          Not exactly a GREAT ESCAPE, just a minor one. Perhaps redeeming for myself what the world took. Yet we really did it to each other. Through the games we played, much fun was had. And this is normal, yes. But when the fun drained out, when the truth of the matter seeped in, and the dream leaked away . . . a hole was left inside us all we had to share. I guess that’s what we talk about with our friends.

          And this turned into other problems. Because we could no longer find where the hole really was. Because of that, we couldn’t speak about it. You know, they look at you like you’re making no sense. We played catch with our dark aches in the haze of our discontent. Later on we would fight, fight the meanest, nastiest fights, searching for that hole, for the broken understanding.

          You get to a point where you neither want nor expect the complaint or explanation. And the Sorrys were deep, plasmas from the emptiness leaking out. They never lasted either. I would see them fight (I’ve always watch from a distance) and I knew why. It turns into hate. Love unattended, in the hands of the naive and ignorant, gets sick yet does not die.

          And so we nursed the moments in silence. I saw the problems, and why, but had no voice to speak — plus, I was already beaten as well. That is about the time I wished to be someone else.
          PHP Code:
          The slow hand moves so cold
          And teaches what it lacks,
          It holds tight to the mystery
          And every card is blank.

          We take our turns in sharing
          What wisdom we behold
          by experience and inches,
          The distance starts to learn.

          The Devils and Gods awaken
          With wings spread over our sun
          Delirium overtakes our sense,
          Flying in opposite directions —

          Are we lost
          , or are we trapped?
          The slow dance through quicksand.
          the meaning’s clearthe host
          A broken star clutching the hand

          Everything is pressure
          Changing our bodies

          Last edited by amenOra; 03-19-2017, 06:19 PM.


          • #6
            thank you, et al.


            • #7
              so, the thing about the main character's name is that one night at friends i played games with my friend,... a boy and his sister, abby, he called her, and then i found out that her full name was Abigail. Nick Forstmann... he is\was a good friend.


              • #8
                I am stunned by the inventiveness of your imagery and the freedom that you write with.


                • #9
                  this was from 2011... ty for the time!


                  • #10
                    Your monicker fits.
                    Not to be overly musical, but the clever combination of staccato and legato, punctuates each verse.

                    Love the imagery and metaphor.

                    Conjured poetic inspiration in me.

                    Profound write!


                    • #11
                      thank you, wonderful of you to say. be well