11/22/2017 Poetry by Lindsey WoodwardThomas_H_photo Blind Mythology She is blind mythology with piercing duality and tireless mysteries, her many miseries lure her away so very far from my mind and her own -- Together we have compared histories, written and revised our own elegies, concluded that we have lived like ostriches and fed reality to the porch squirrels and alley cats -- I listen for her airy morning footsteps, the softest steady beat as though she's tiptoeing -- she probably is, always careful not to upset the halcyon dawn, but her jewellery clamours out of tune sends her stumbling -- she howls and curses and falls in her sleep - down two gyrating flights of stairs, down a fourteen storey elevator shaft, wakes up with five cracked ribs and a fractured collarbone, but can't recall her dreams -- she says the vivid ones happen during the day, in the rich, warm soak of afternoon, while drinking in sunlight through old windows, while boiling water for tea, or smoking her thirtieth cigarette -- She keeps me awake, streaking pillows with mascara, having arguments with god, with herself -- sometimes when she can't sleep, she wakes me to crawl in beneath the blankets and asks me to tell her about angels and heaven, and beautiful things -- sometimes I do and she's out before I'm done speaking, or sometimes I tell her the truth. Winter Crisis Version I In the hollow mists of swollen membranes of angry white walls that try to hide our smiles and our expanding/contracting pupils imploring the eggshell nurses and the heavenly fucks of whispering darkness of unrelenting nighttime The ocean passed us by without a beckon a beacon I called to my shipwreck he replied with the fury of a thousand choking lunatics sputtering on bile and waste Make haste as the blankets are tossed to the washers And drink the slaves to emancipate yourself, You crying ember, from Your loathsome fortress! I was destined to fall into flames and emerge as a snowy ashen goddess my romantic ideals have been swallowed by my insatiable appetites I’m starved for a Rose Ravenous for a thoughtful gesture Why can’t you love me like the sun loves the sea as it sinks and simmers? I’m anchored to my truth but truth is hard to discern when the World is your oyster but you can’t find the pearl. Wounded My laughter erupted in red sharp and unbridled until men with stethoscopes reduced this volcano to ash There is no laughter here. My hairpin lips creak oily pink leave a crooked path of crumbs along rims of tea-stained mugs Trace my past across deeply nicked hardwood where I danced in red stilettos over tufts of tissues that wiped rivers from painted cheeks It’s dark in here without a window, like a torn orifice sewn shut - I’m left alone to pick at loose stitches. ![]() Bio: Lindsey Woodward began writing poetry at age 9 because she found pencils and paper easier to communicate with than people. 25 years later, she still prefers the company of books and cats. Born and raised in Port Hope, Ontario, she inevitably fled and studied art history and English at Carleton University in Ottawa. Upon completion of her studies, she returned to the area although she remains uncertain why. Her chapbook Huckster Piss (2008) was published by In/Words Press, and she is a regular contributor on The Mighty website. 11/22/2017 02:42:56 pm
Like these a lot. Especially Winter Crisis and the line "Ravenous for a thoughtful gesture." Comments are closed.
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