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vaalski

July 2012

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vaalski: (Default)
Aubade (in progress)

My lover makes me breakfast in the dark, four
a.m., me shivering in boots
and breeches, the sun not even up, helmet
tucked between my knees and hair half-braided. 

(And her in flannel shirt and pants, a blanket
wrapped around her shoulders,
squinting without glasses into oatmeal
coming to a boil.)


--

I've been working with variations on the first line, tossing it around in an idle fashion, for a while now (one is here). This is the farthest I've gotten with it, and if it works out I'm planning a companion piece called Evensong. I think this is still very rough. There's another stanza or two that I don't know yet. 
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I have both an iTouch (semi-elderly) and an iPhone (NEW AND SO EXCELLENT) that I keep with me fairly regularly, and I find that I compose poetry on them in place of the scraps of paper I've traditionally used. It's sort of a weird way to write, but I'm slowly getting used to it. 


Here's one--a tiny little love poem--from late last winter. 





Snow Day


The city is still half-helpless
with snowfall and you
are a long time gone already. 
Come home. The bed
is cold and I am empty. The snow
muffles everything when you
are not here and my back
hurts less from shoveling
and more from missing you. 






There are several scraps from around the same time period, which I present to show you how I make notes about what I'm planning to write. 


3 Feb 2011



my lover eats her breakfast in the dark
...
silk and lace against
the curve of hip and breast





10 March 2011



in the halfcold of night
sailboats on the river
and men in them












The rest of the notes/finished work mostly concern the daemonic/totemic poems I write on commission for my forum. I am verrry vaguely thinking about doing these for money or for proper art trades, but that is maybe a bit of a risky road to go down. Thoughts, TDF folk? (And I suppose anyone else who likes my work, but mostly them.) 
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The water thrusts me towards it, until
I am ankle-knee-hip deep,
mouth already tasting salt, hands
cupping up the liquid as if
there is no other choice, small ripples
cresting on my skin, muscles
tight and shivering against the cold, sand
pulling at bare feet, reluctant toes. It takes
everything not to fall down into buoyancy, let
the ocean overtake me, 
waves breaking down a body
(no more than bones and meat
and sun-scarred skin) that is
no longer fully mine, letting something
out to swim and twist and sink
as wind and tides will let it, within
the boundaries of the blood-deep sea.
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My junior year I was single for the first time in years. I'm good with girls. They like me - the way I move, the way I don't apologize, or perhaps the way I look something like a boy, all long and lean and laughing. God knows I've had more than my fair share of supposedly straight girls eying me in what they probably thought was a surreptitious manner, the same way they looked at the football boys stretched out in full run during practice. Don't ask me why. I never went with any of them past the first one - it's the hardest way to get your heart broken, to be left simply because it turns out you are a woman and not a man. Still. 

It's not that I minded being single. I'm not a girl who needs a lover all the time - I know how to be alone and how to be happy that way, and I have enough friends to make anyone happy. I don't even miss physical contact, because Jane still makes a thin line between friend and lover, and it's not uncommon for me to wake with her curled up beside me, dreaming like a young dog, eyes flickering beneath her lids and small sounds coming from her throat. I rarely have the heart to wake her, and instead slide out of bed carefully, body lithe and cautious, placing my feet oh-so-carefully on the bare wood floor, the cold traveling like a shock --

But I am not in love with Jane. 
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