the poetry side of madamepens

s.n.h. //please send an ask if you'd like to contact the poet

[pensthelibrarian]

i cut my hair so you couldn’t drag me back up to the attic anymore--

no more insidious nests of pillows in the night, no more wind

winding my wavy locks into knots -- and my body is still weak

but my bones are stronger, skin more like porcelain than paper,

and i piled the attic full of blankets and bolted the door.

so-- you cant be my poison anymore, you cant even tempt me to taste--

you cant touch the spirits ive ringed with salt up there, cant share

of the tea ive salted too. i listened to you try for too long and now it's time to rest;

just rest.

--s.n.h.//attic

[pensthelibrarian]

did you ever love me she whispers like a secret

hands wrap around a neck curls against his

did my memory love you he asks like breaking

if your memory of me did, then-- then--

-s.n.h.

[pensthelibrarian]

depression is a force.

[luthienne]

“we sleep and are awake, / we dream and are not here;”

— H.D., from Collected Poems 1912-1944; “Projector II”

[nathanielorion]

Falling in love with a god is not a death sentence. The story is only a tragedy if the god loves you back.

o.g.k (via nathanielorion)

[nathanielorion]

FOXHOLE

1.

You can’t dig up a ghost. A ghost has to come unbidden, uncalled for, undesired; if you want it, it can’t haunt you.

2.

I can’t stand to bury you alone, so I let my grief lay me down with you, I ease my body down into the open jaws of your grave. The cool wet of the dirt wall feels good beneath my palm, good like the river was good when we waded through it with our shoes in our hands, good like the earth was good when god was through with it.

3.

How many times do I have to answer to your name before I become you, before I bring you back to life? (I want to call out to you, but your name has never failed to burn my tongue.)

How many times do I have to brush close to death before I catch a glimpse of your reluctant ghost? (Can suicide be considered friendly fire? I consider this while looking down at my gun.)

4.

The only difference between a grave and a foxhole is that there’s a chance you can survive in a foxhole. I sit in the mud with my weapons and armor and wait for the shriek of the gunfire to slow, shoulders braced against the wall, serial number and rank pressed behind the backs of my teeth. Whether the name on my dog tags is mine or yours is anyone’s guess; they read the same to me.

5.

Here: I give you my heart. I lay it on your lapel and watch it beat, watch it sink into your chest.

Here: I give you my body. I lay it next to you, on top of you, surrounding you.

You can’t transfer a soul through touch, but I put my mouth to your throat anyway.

6.

You can’t love a person back from the dead, but god, hear my plea: can’t I hope?

Can’t I try?

[pensthelibrarian]

Your Riches taught me Poverty--

Emily Dickinson

[pensthelibrarian]

i had another dream about you last night: they always come with the roses and daisies, always in the same house in the same stealthy situations, always walking on eggshells around another body; but this time there was no ignoring this corpse, sitting under the willow in the backyard watching, incredulous, as you pull out the same words and phrases that saved you last and praying that karma is just a word, just a word-- even without the bodies i became your secret even as walls fell away and empires turned to disenchantments, a secret you can't sweat out but can't stop thinking about, a body that lost its mind in your mind and just faded, faded away into night skies and red stars and meaningless constellations-- and as it started growing sunflowers from the remains you still haunted her, still played her ideas and regarded her destinations with some feeling-- even as you determine she's just a body, just a body, just a body.

s.n.h.//yet remains

[exit152]

you always wanted it to be like this

We run & we run & search lights sift the fog. How do I love you? Oh, same as always. With a key in the door. Through an open window. A little more on Sundays.

What’s young doesn’t stay young. I’m ready to think of you fondly. In the boat when you touched my face so softly that it hurt for weeks, the aching wonder of

a reverse bruise. In my room, in the alley, in the backyard dusk. A place where the shadow lingers. They all say the same thing, “it sure gets real late, real early.”

I’m okay with giving you everything. That’s the way of the world, or at least of this crooked universe. I just wish we’d had more daylight before the dogs were called out.

[pensthelibrarian]

When the laurel grows heavy on your brow, Where do you lay down the burden? The Palatine has all but fallen now, Naught left but the tree you were certain Would never fail you, the one you claimed Laid waste to all your inhibitions When she refused the dirty hand maimed By your past and your arrogant exhibition— You are left to wonder whether this is your lot, A pile of rubble hedging marble columns in a city That has long since made history without you, fought Wars in your honor, made sacrifices of humanity, And planted laurel trees anywhere but here. You’ve painted your face violet but where Does that leave you? No crowds left to sneer, No slaves to remind you of your mortality, and there On the horizon the sun yet rises With no Parthian band to return your pride— Where is left for a god and his wise Brow to rest, and where can his chariot ride That the wind will still favor him? When the laurel stops growing in Rome Will your changèd love die with them? Is a god still a god without a home,    Or is he a tired man wearing the leaves of his lover,    Heavy, uncrowned, quietly waiting for another                                                                                          arrow?

s.n.h.//daphnë

[pensthelibrarian]

The trains stopped running the day you passed. Songs rippled through the air made up Of the wind rustling the autumn grasses, The cicadas buzzing before they too stopped, The last clicks of the train engines Cooling off in the blistering heat, But they weren’t songs I could sing along to anymore— You rendered me voiceless, voiceless For the second time in my life, no longer Could I carry an aria nor any melody at all; I was left to wonder how you could do it, how You could leave me alone here with the cicadas And the wind, how you could lay there Under blankets of earth and not think of me After everything, everything— I wanted so badly to leave this place. Maybe that’s why I’m so upset, because You promised you would meet me far away from here And that we would find all the loveliest places Together, and now—will you come with me still? Will you meet me far away? Can I still wait for you? Is there a train left running for me to board On the way to somewhere beautiful, Somewhere uncanny but ghostless—? Or are you as upset with me as I am with you? I promised you I would sing for you And I never did—to the cicadas, the wind, The sound of the setting sun— And I wanted so badly to leave this place That I waited, waited for you But you beat me to it, and now There are parts of you planted around the train station Forever waving to me, pieces of you In every thing and every person I see, and really, As much as I miss you, darling, I don’t blame you at all— Not for leaving, not for loving me, not for anything. But I’ll still be waiting here, stuck, singing, and silent.

s.n.h.//How could I seek the empty world again?

[heartcountry]

it was the year you forgot my birthday.  if anyone asks, that’s what i’ll tell them. the year the rain turned away from me. it seems so small now, but back then, the world was a war i was fighting. the trees all had shadows trying to ruin me. i tried to fix it. i even spoke to the birds, but they scattered like dandelion seeds. you wrote me a letter to tell me how lonely love was. i tried to retrace my steps to before it all happened, but our lives went on and our hearts never looked the same.  i had a phantom poem in my head that i promised to give you if you stayed. you didn’t. the poem did. after two more years of silence, i was still sorry. i pictured your ghosts, and they looked nothing like me. i imagined a world where i was big enough to at least haunt you. it was the same world you burned down in all your dreams. 

[puddingbiscuit]

Fuck

[pensthelibrarian]

Psssst my copy is here! So weird to see my work in a book. Go buy it here if you’re interested and don’t forget to leave a review :)

[pensthelibrarian]

if I am told to be voiceless I will be voiceless; perhaps because I’ve always wished for silence even as I condemn it, perhaps because my silence is the only proper response I know to all the anger and all the shouting– but in the silence too there is the breathing, the breathing that sounds a bit too much like rattling, that feels far too much like burning– but this is the price I pay for compliance, for trying to give to any and all who ask anything of me and as much as I wish I were strong enough not to listen, strong enough to speak and speak louder, so too do I wish to feel the painful rattle of my lungs if anything, at least, to know that I am still breathing, still living.

s.n.h.//but in the silence too

[pensthelibrarian]

I’m a published poet now!!

Three of my poems are now featured in an anthology released today by Z Publishing (@z-poetry)! I’m so excited.

The anthology features 52 indie poets from around the world, so even if you’re not into poetry too much you’re bound to find pieces you’ll like!

Here is a link to the book on Amazon :)

Look for my poems “Why god made me an introvert,” “Thunder,” and “Then let me be the sun”! 

[crimescened]

fourteen // s. mardon

how savage to tell me jesus was watching from his grave.

how cruel. tell god to meet me there. let him cringe at the sight of me.

how hateful. like jesus, i died and rose again, but with more bruises.

how brutish. i’ll confess but i won’t atone. let me mimic my maker.

[sjovris-deactivated20160916]

I wanted to be as close as possible without touching you without breaking anything