At least I got something from taking history...

Alright, this is one of those situations where I can't decide whether or not I like the poem and just need some edits or whether a massive rewrite is in order. It's a pretty early draft, but I was a little torn over it and impatient to get some feedback.

I really hate the form right now. I always do.


Taj Mahal

They say the creator of the Taj Mahal
Was found in his solitary prison cell dead

With his eyes still open, a mirror tilted so he could see
The reflection of his wife’s tomb on the water.

I find myself thinking of him as you
Pull me up by the wrists like a child, piece me

Together again like ancient shards
Of red clay pottery tugged from the desert sand.

When I move, the edges grind against each other
To remind me of the place I came from.

I think of his dear Mumtaz, who died
While giving birth to her fourteenth child, and how

My body was knit together by man and woman,
And like every creation of man it will crumble,

As the tomb they come to lay me in too will crumble,
Even if you say it is as beautiful as I am beautiful,

Even as its ivory minarets unravel toward heaven
And change color as we circle the sun.

the heavy parts

i love you caroline. : - ( i reawy reawy sowie. but i just wrote this and i'm kind of in love with it. and to be honest and it kind of reminds me of our lovely of mr. collins.

heather: comment on caroline's post and this poem please.

Untitled

It's the empty space we mourn:
the impression, the imprint.

Not a thick body folded
into a black box

or white dust sprinkled
among butterflies and waves.

It's where her breathing used to slow
on the left side

of the bed. Or perhaps,
how the phone doesn't ring at five.

It's not having fingers on a wrist
at the company ball.,

Not lungs or kidneys. We feel the absence
of the cranberry salad at Thanksgiving,

Or the empty reserved table:
two chairs staring at each other,

The cushions curved and cold,
menus untouched.

*peacefully moving on* love you!,
emilea

There will be more (much more, obviously, obviously) but this sad little paragraph is all I REALLY have (read- like) and

i like it on it's own. tell me what you think of just this and the rest will come... very soon(well, ish. I'm working on it).

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Leila spun until she fell, dancing circles in the hatchback of my father's orange Chevy. It should have hurt, but it didn't. You could tell just to glance at her, even if you weren't me and you didn't know her like the lyrics to your favorite song. Nothing hurt her. She was lying flat on her back, laughing. Her hair had more light in it than the streetlamps on the corner, and she was wearing the torn yellow tank-top she'd snuck out in and the glasses she'd taken from my face.

Leila was untouchable.

&&&