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Poem Compost
  • Got a poem? Put it here.

  • 1st one’s for coldforge, Grand Elect Perfect and Sublime


    The ghost was spoken and the poem was known.

    The builder became the house; and iron wind

    Was like the bitter boundary of the house.

    The ghost was spoken and the poem was known.

    The stones were chosen as if there was no house,

    Except that the builder blew into the space,

    Practiced to blow, practiced long last to be

    The poet to whom his home is sound, to whom

    The iron wind is like a prophecy of room.

    The ghost was spoken because he knew to be.

    A gull was blown in the building, blown in the mind.

    The spree of precognition for the space.

    And the poem was known. The ghost in a known poem,

    The known in a poem. And the flown came home.

  • that’s great

  • thanks! it’s a few yrs old but I tweaked it for TNM. thinking it could make a triad with “Incantation of Nudimmud” and “Birds of Abomination”. will post those soon.


    And these ye shall have… Lev 11:13-19


    Each evening I wake inside an aviary

    Of rage, cursed fowl of Leviticus

    Flickering in the ceiling’s four corners

    With each exhalation. They are expected,

    And roost like captive illuminations,

    Fumes flashing in the blackness whose ill

    Will fills the cell. Whence they are returned,

    Exhausted from the fury and inhaled

    In expanding admixtures which,

    Again, I exhale here. We are dreaming:

    Press your lips against these flaring stanzas,

    Breathe in. I am mingling with species.



    I went out to the laurel grove

    Because a disease was in my blood,

    And plucked a sprig of laurel growth,

    And mixed the bay leaves up with mud;

    And when the dark had quieted,

    And darker stars were coming out,

    I rubbed the mud into my skin

    And lay down like a seed to sprout.


    When I had rested forty years

    I blinked and flung a look around,

    But something rang inside my ear,

    And someone grabbed me underground;

    I had become a silver shoot

    With root-hairs blindly stuttering,

    Whom light awoke by name and lay

    In clay of Uruk’s founding king.


    By edict of his golden reed

    I will not die like other trees,

    But as a feast for birds of sound

    Announce myself on Sumer’s mound;

    And pumping sin like blood to air

    All through 12,000 furlongs square,

    Awake the tongue within your mouth,

    And by its language I am crowned.

  • Goddamn.

  • wow! i really enjoyed all of those immensely!

    here’s something i wrote recently after having not written for a couple of years:



    I waited for you to be

    wading in blue with me:

    Steven’s creek and the streams of Vermont,

    all blew into lazuli and jewels with me.

    But you didn’t appear,

    so I made a bliss

    of the missing and the river,

    of wishes for a mistress,

    of living without a center.



    whose image is of bitterness and ginger,

    whose temper is the envy

    of the ivy and magenta,

    I hid the Eastern Sun for you.

    I cast it on the water

    so it could kiss us,

    listless on our lips

    and middles of our temples,

    ripple on your dimples—

    so it could be the crystal

    you serve to Mitchel at dinner—

    so it could be as tender

    as the minnow being eaten

    in a mist of silt and shimmer:

    the shoots into my fingers.



    did you see?

    I settled the silk of the noontime heat

    and the riverbed sheets,

    once lifted in my stirring,

    my swimming and my yearning,

    so that you would never know defeat.

  • the whole thing is marvelous, but these lines, my god

    so I made a bliss

    of the missing and the river,

    of wishes for a mistress,

    of living without a center