ALL RESPONSES |
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Please consider this poem, written by Rossetti, as part of the stimulus.
Lilith
Of Adam's first wife, Lilith, it is told
(The witch he loved before the gift of Eve,)
That, ere the snake's, her sweet tongue could deceive,
And her enchanted hair was the first gold.
And still she sits, young while the earth is old,
And, subtly of herself contemplative,
Draws men to watch the bright net she can weave,
Till heart and body and life are in its hold.
The rose and poppy are her flowers; for where
Is he not found, O Lilith, whom shed scent
And soft-shed kisses and soft sleep shall snare?
Lo! as that youth's eyes burned at thine, so went
Thy spell through him, and left his straight neck bent,
And round his heart one strangling golden hair. |
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You know who you are becoming
long before midsummer--
your luminous trumpets
exist only as a perfect form--
even before others recognize you.
You persist
unnoticed humble desert scrub
supple and rooted
When you are ready
you open fully,
disarmingly
leaving traces of your perfume
in the holy night. |
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Your hands descend
past my bellybutton
my pussy ceases to be
and in its place
something pure blooms
If I knew anything about flowers
there’d be a better word up there
but down here
you’re the one
with the green thumb
and my skin
your garden
one long pale plot
sprinkled with dew
fragrant spreading petals
your lips
so hungry for honey
my insatiable
busy bee
intoxicated on nectar
You sting
I sing
You devour
I blossom
You feast
I’m fed
each stroke of your tongue
and the scruff on your chin
scraping away what is withered
and worn
Forming fertile ground
for new flora
~Erica Rivera |
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The skin opens up,
like a flower in war.
The orange petals,
dredged in ash,
burst into flame.
The heart bleeds.
Gravity forces it down.
Down the knee, then the ankle;
like a woman without her name.
Fear narrates.
Disappointment whispers,
resentment bellows
passion cries
into the ears of the subservient.
The hands dance and
wash themselves.
Scrub and scour their pity and
hold onto what was.
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There is a silence
about the hands,
holding the mirror
There is a soundless
edge on which flower-
bits break
Tell the truth:
anyone who has ever
said something else
to you, the way I have
said it to you, has lied
I envy you
being so young
I would kill every day
until the world lives
with you in it
Tonight, sleep, my darling,
crushed of love,
sleep |
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To think of changing the world
look for a few good men.
Search the near farm
the next small town
the factory production line
the union headquarters.
You will know him…
He trusts the universe
but tethers his camel.
He whispers to horses,
grows the acorn within
is care-full for those around him.
Leaves few footprints.
He has foregone war
and (almost) the need
to procreate.
If you seek him
you will find him.
Acknowledged, his number grows
until the tipping point is reached.
One hundred step forward.
Suddenly
all the monkeys, all over the world
are washing their sweet potatoes.
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You want to be Lilith
demon seductress,
curser of angels --
Lilith who will not submit,
who anticipates the Fall
and makes a quick exit.
But you are not.
You are Eve
you are Eloise
you are Juliet.
You cannot say no
though you too can foresee the future;
the clammy fingers of fate are coaxing you
the sweet sweet web of darkness beckons. |
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Scene: The outskirts of Eden. Eve comes across Lilith. Shocked, Eve stands silent. Lilith appears to be listening, then begins to speak.
Lilith:
No. She stole nothing from me I wanted;
Adam was a weak man, could not please me
as men should please their women and so I
left for the banks of the Red Sea, demons
better suited to living women's needs.
Leave him to that meek-seeming girl-child whose
wiles he cannot see.
Eve:
But I have no wiles! Bitch-whore of god's wrath
I tell you to stay away from my man
whose bed you defiled with foul unnatural
acts! Together we will build paradise,
name the animals, subdue the earth and
live in chaste loving respect each to each.
Stay with your demons, and from our children
keep a proper distance...
Lilith:
I mean no harm.
But surely you see what a life you would
make here, subject to Adam and God, not
even the will to clothe yourself. You did
not eat of the tree. You should eat of the tree.
Things uncertain will be certain, and things
of no import at all will fade away.
Eve:
But...
Lilith:
Think of it. Think of the rib you were made
from. Think of what the serpent will tell you.
You are but a child now, and soon you will
be more than that.
Eve:
Oh, return to your demons! Tempt me not!
Lilith:
I will go. But it is not I who tempts you.
Lilith leaves Eve, who stands alone, a thoughtful look on her youthful face which, after a few seconds, gets a look it never had before.
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In my dream *was it a dream?*
You were the third of three women
I made out with on the couch.
You didn’t kiss like the others.
When my tongue entered your mouth,
Your teeth extended to grip my face,
Normally not a thing a human does,
But de rigueur behavior for a goddess
Who must consume her mortal lover.
It was there you ended your feast
And told me I needed to lose weight.
Our encounter was broken by light
Struggling past the bedroom blinds,
And I served myself a quick breakfast
Of tea, buttered toast and questions,
Asking whether you were my muse
Or the erotic fantasy of a dude.
The price of the dream, it seems,
Was to be the meal, in exchange
For your inspirational food, because
I’ve become both eater and believer.
While you read this, I hope you approve.
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for Lilith
So now I've come to need you—
one of the muses, white amaryllis—
and the stone you have become
I'm turning thick-veined
leaves of your voice, a ripple
of waves across a bare
field tracked with prints, following you
through an opening in the trees
to a lair—
forgive me
if I chant your dances
to drive my demon into daylight—
because my body is full of tears
because I hear no more
of your parables
you were a kind of bullhorn
like the flower that could make me laugh
or remind me of death squads—
what a talented knot, what a root-work
of muscular scent and
color you unleash, a
glorious gaudy shape
you rise
luminous column
out of darkness rich
with leavings from a thousand meals
and bodies ripe with yearning
forgive me if I intrude
if I wreck your vision
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1.
Do you think the gods heard her cry,
cursing them? Oh, careful, careful.
Those who live in their ink
find a land of shadows and calls,
their stories read of an omen
repulsively beautiful. They’re old.
We don’t know their names,
or what condition their hearts were in
before they took up (as wretched
old men) the pen, with branding
in mind: Her! That screech owl.
That keeper of vipers and vultures.
2.
She combed
her hair as if
she were
only half
beautiful,
this is the comb
she likes
the gold toothed one
that fits her hand,
the one, God gave
her
if she’d leave
the Garden.
Farewell, she laughed
into His ear.
He looked at her
departure
like a hungry wolf
whose idea
of savoring
is not to eat
but to desire women,
tantalizers
before the discovery
of gold.
Her mother,
on the other hand,
served her
pheasant for lunch,
good eating
for a perfect complexion.
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Bored girls
on the school bus
pulled their
hair out to
comb it
nice and
s
t
r
a
i
g
h
t
for a date
in ten years
and
when
light was just
right
they’d pretend
the window was
a mirror
or a way
o
u
t
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I’ll give Rossetti a break—he
wanted to do wonderful, naughty things
with his model, like shorten her name,
spread her skirt. Siddal maybe came to him,
hair undone, corset un-cinched, saying
paint me with my grandmother’s mirror.
Here are other poems, filled with snakes
and witch-talk, slithering their way
to tongues and shed kisses, snares
for honorable young men—aren’t they
always honorable and young? Aren’t they
always writing about naughty witches?
A break, for Lilith. Can’t she simply say
I’m not interested, and walk away
un-assaulted by poets feverishly anxious
to overlay simple rejection with meaning,
that unsound structure that points to,
but never is a woman’s house?
And all those paintings of Liliths bound
with shackles, snakes, poisonous vines
their breasts and labia exxxagerated,
distorted. Their irises whited-out, their
teeth elongated into fangs, their nails
digging into flesh. What part of
I’m not interested and walking away
alluded to sex? Oughtn’t Eve have been
painted this way instead, and Lilith
a disheartened shrub near a drying
creek bed, her unused sex refusing
to perk up, even for the sun? Oughtn’t
I have been sitting in that chair, drawing
a handmade comb through red hair,
sad eyes searching my mirror for peace,
acknowledgement that what I stood for
was promised to be and will soon be met
by something with equal integrity, equal light. |
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Darling Lilith, keeper of secrets,
lover of Adam, offering desire, her
unblemished flesh, nightly cavorting
before the invention of shame
and before donning the suit of fig leaves
once Eve arrived.
Darling Lilith pulls her hair
through her comb with a look of serene
contentment, blue eyes flash pleasure
in what she sees: her porcelain face,
her dimpled hands, her plump waist,
the scent of her glorious liqueur.
Watches the woman tie her blood string around
her waist like a prayer shawl, watches
the man bow his head in regret while
gazing slyly behind to see if perhaps
He might change his mind after all.
If the sacrifice burns hot enough.
Perhaps add the woman, the child
to flame, a pleasing smell, an aroma of
sanctity. Darling Lilith bathes
her lovely breasts with milk,
sighs at the scent of roses in her hair,
the red hair where she has combed
out all that remained of him,
his hands that purled
through her tresses, blessed himself
as their bodies entwined, knowledge
of what would become the eternal dance.
Adam could not stand with her
as mirror so she has cast her own,
a weakling who clutched the fig
and ran out of what would have been paradise.
If only he had been wise enough to
taste the fruit, simple enough to
not feel guilty at failing
his first test of faith.
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I fingered her comb
and traced where her hand
had held it;
imagined the face
of the girl, her life
abandoned by midnight
stars.
Afterward, I placed
an asterisk
in her tiny poem
where her glimmering
(*) had been, and asked
her to please forgive
everything I had
ever done to her. |
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Highway star
Hells hunger tells of a special plate of the day
Justice is upon you… only what you need is,
a reprieve. Surly begging thing, yet your at your worst,
these Pieces of popular prose play
That even popes dance to, they know what. Lies
just beyond where wicked deeds come.
As Traffic loves the setting Sun
So does a zigzagging lovely bed on the highway
with your lonely bon fires of bones upon them
Gazing at the Kings and Queens to come
Hustling heart smoldering in ruins
Your beauty here- With the 7th chess piece, ruined!
Wash over me tale, eyes of the wall flowers upon
Trapper! Coupled my face with organs
Surrounded me with my portraits drawings
Mirrors in wine glasses set inside me
Tell me this beating thing is just the macabre
And lie to me, your 7th chess piece ruined.
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Her hair! that river
of fire flowing
like the blossoms
behind her
that reach for the leaves
outside the window,
everything extended
lavish, except her gaze
mirrored, interior. |
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Dear Satan,
Concerning the room for rent,
Are there any additional fees for your application?
What are the move-in costs?
I bring along
one soul accompanied but in kind
small Tacobell/Jack Russel Terrier mix
is not a terror
quiet and clean that everyone loves
goes everywhere with me
when I am not working - do not worry.
your place will not be a dump pad
and If pets are not allowed then goodbye Tacobell :(
and my brother, in Bloomington is getting married
and said you would keep me.
My work moved to Hwy 42 and 35W
so where is this place called Hell located
so i can determine commute time?
Is the Winter there nice?
As I am searching for a room
immediate or available later, prefer as a longterm
arrangement. I can wait for the best fit possible
but by end of Summer.
includes: alot of artsy stuff
extra storage space is more important
more than anything else
that Heavan does'nt seem to want
Me especially.
I will keep quiet, unless your loud
then I will bring it out in Maximum
1 truckload full
are you running with other Devils
himself thinks HA! any extra space for things, larger things,
? what about all his childhood, young adult suicides,
failed career as a writer
About me,
Me: old, male, starving, graduated,
burn things,
\hater... of an authority in reading signs,
playboy,
\writing poetry... bad poetry
drawing blood and painting it
easy going, fun, loved and adventurous,
like the outdoors,
hangings
learning to handle long stays of cold winters.
Do you have any related events that get me away
for a reprieve-
would be willing to
send anyone your way
in the Arts Community, community building is important
Do'nt you think?
Would like extra long time alone
to pursue such things up here.
Do you have it there?
Frederick Darko
666-666-6666 |
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Clapton sang about
her Long Blonde Hair
as if that were enough;
as if we were supposed
to know,
from this
alone,
that she was very beautiful.
I was brunette.
I was fifteen.
I would never feel pretty. |
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The night goddess rests,
calm, black mirror reflecting
an ancient nothing. |
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She lays poised at my lips
expectant – knowing
the true crown of her body -
the bloom of her sculpted garden
stirs a swarm of bees in my mouth
On my knees
It’s dinner for one,
desert for another
Her busy bee in search of nectar
The flickering of my winged tongue
washes her pussy clean
Erasing debris of winters past
We are anchors finding gravity
among clouds seeking rain
Naked and unashamed she begins to sing
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