ποίηση — Project Poetry

All people are nothing until they become something. All of us are lost until we find ourselves. Some never do. All are born lost; some die lost, and that's the real tragedy. It's not that we have found ourselves, us from Project Poetry, but our steps sure have become longer, our legs stronger, our minds brighter, our eyes wider, our fingers lighter. We may have not become — how do you even know when you have? — but we sure are becoming something, something greater than flesh and blood, drawing our own constellations in the universe of self, because I am universe and you are universe and we all are, and that's what this is all about.

[noelbadgespugh]

[margotfonteyns]

Swan Lake, Vienna State Opera Ballet, 1966

[gosh]

[danger]

[thequotejournals]

“You are going to break your promise. I understand. And I hold my hands over the ears of my heart, so that I will not hate you.”

— Catherynne M. Valente, Deathless

[phaxes]

via weheartit

[phaxes]

via weheartit

[projectpoetry]

“The Immortal”, Luka Pejić

Knock-knock, hello, I just wanted you to know,

Although I’m aware that you wouldn’t even care,

But I can’t stand not being there to show

You how able you are when it comes to taking life

With one fast blow, as light as a flake of snow,

And I can’t stand being here, with you nowhere near,

I couldn’t stand being there, ‘cause that wouldn’t be fair

To my own bare dignity. And I’ve lost everything for you,

I nearly drowned myself just to prove to you that I would

Do anything to keep you, and you just stood there,

And of which dignity am I speaking of, is there any left?

What you did was theft, you stole everything I had,

And I offered more! I ripped my soul and clothes off

And stuffed my skin with poison ivy, then watched you grin

As you said how pretty I was. That will have to be a sin

Because you can’t just tell someone you love them

And then slowly, with a bit of a smile, grind them to dust,

As reddish-brown as rust, and blow them away into sky,

Because there’s no heaven there, last time I checked,

Then get to become a song of ink, paper and my heart,

You fucking bastard! How is this fair? Where is my share?

Last time I checked, you were smiling upon somebody else,

I but a pile of mess, now poison ivy myself, wrecked.

You fucking bastard! This is not fair, giving you eternal life

While my reflection glares at me through tears.

Fine, be an immortal, motherfucker, and I’ll deal with sneers.

[rainesramblings]

To the woman on the train with tissues

The lady on the BART

Saw me and placed

A pack of tissues on the armrest

For half a second

I wished I haven’t met her eyes

So I tried to look at something else

Then my eyes grazed the neon green paper

Stuck on the pack

“If you were a single mom

And have a 2-month-old son”

I stopped reading then

I didn’t have to know more

Because I know what it’s like

To live from day to day

I gave her a dollar

And she said “God bless you”

And she smiled like she meant it

I don’t have a 2-month-old son

I am not a single mom

I am an immigrant and jobless

And a dollar is still a dollar

But it’s a small price to pay

To be a human blessing today.

[projectpoetry]

“Of Parchment and Cells”, Luka Pejić

once i thought i was dead. every shadow would mortify me, every colour would disappear when i turned around, no meadow ever seemed to open before me, and so much ink had been spent on me, my skin became my parchment, always alone in my apartment, i thought that i was locked, and nothing seemed to shock me anymore, things would happen and i would cry and then things wouldn’t happen and i’d cry anyway, in those times when people didn’t even try to act fragile, when people didn’t die i always thought i had, always a mile away from life, no matter how many miles i had passed, begun carrying a knife with me just in case i attacked the worst enemy inside me, thinking all the time that the race was over a long time ago, just brown and locks and shadows, knife, in case there was some strife—

did crying ever make you sad like me? i’d cry and think that spilling tears was a sad act in itself, so i’d punish myself for being sad for crying, and then i’d cut in pain just above my tiny, purple vein. my parchment became my skin.

i thought i was dead once, i never killed myself.

the sadness, the anger, the pain, none of them in vain.

the door locked, but windows open wide, so i jumped at the first sound, and realised that all of that was life, both knife and locks and strife and god knows what—

and i saw myself falling, and in that moment of dying, i realised i was flying.

[projectpoetry]

[projectpoetry]

Madelaine Cantwell, i.

Yesterday, I was happy.

Yesterday, I explored forests and streams and meadows.

I ran and I climbed, I fell, I got back up, I got scratches and scrapes and scars.

My paths were endless.

  Tomorrow, I'll be happy.

Tomorrow, I'll have a home and a job and a family I adore.

I'll work with passion, walk with purpose.

I'll fail and fail and fail only to succeed when I need it most.

My path will be clear.

  Today...

Today, I am nothing.

The forests are gone, the streams dry, the meadows turned into rows and rows of utilitarian houses.

I can't fall if I don't run, if I don't climb, but still scars mar my soul.

Still fear saps my courage, my strength.

Still despair takes my resolve.

I am clay without form.

Without purpose.

I'm too scared to get my hands dirty.

Too weak to give shape to the shapeless.

Hope to the hopeless.

Life to the lifeless.

Where I once ran, now I walk, my shoulders sagging, my feet dragging.

There are endless sets of footprints in this shifting sand.

All mine.

I'm lost, walking in circles, and I don't know how to find my way out.

It's dark, and I can't see the stars.

It's cold, and I have no fire.

  And I can't find my path.

[projectpoetry]

Nel Devan, i.

The city is quiet, quiescent.

On the sky a lone crescent stays,

As if someone forgot to turn it off.

Red glowing tips of cigarettes remain

Scattered over balconies and rooftops.

  Sleepiness is like a disease.

It spreads through the place with ease and

Places people in bed with just a yawn,

Travels at the speed of dark 'cross the land.

Symptoms disappear with a break of dawn.

  But one quaint bar does not succumb,

One from where the music comes, rings

Through nearby streets. And the singer, she sways

To the rhythm, eyes closed, doing her thing.

Tables crowned with bottles and full ashtrays.

  And the music touches their heart,

Beats to the drum, follows art. Best

Is to cleanse the soul with what it savours.

Bodies are shells. Real substance within chest.

Don't be dormant. Don't rest. Seek other cures.

[projectpoetry]

“John 8:7”, Alex Morgan

Do we know the same Jesus?

The man who walked

with outcasts and whores

and banished

the merchants from the Temple?

The man who welcomed

the hopeless and the damned

to his humble table?

  If we know the same Jesus

why do you wallow

in blind hatred

when he gave sight

to the sightless?

Why do hurt, bully and abuse

your queer children

when he said

"Let the little children

come to me

and do not hinder

them, for to such

belongs the kingdom of heaven"?

 Don't you dare come

to me with your words of poison,

for we don't know the same Jesus

and any faithless atheist shows

more compassion

than your Bible-brandishing,

red-faced pastor.

 Let he who is without sin

cast

the first stone

[projectpoetry]

*the smell of old books*

[projectpoetry]

“Lithium”, Luka Pejić

A little pill for sorrow,

A hundred for tomorrow,

And all’s going to fade,

And become a little shade.

  A pill when I’m ecstatic,

The one when I’m electric;

Would you please put down the blade

And become a little shade?

  One when you’re annoying,

One when you’re enjoying,

One when you are sleeping,

One when you are weeping —

  You are just so insolent,

Sometimes goddamned violent —

Christ, how much you’ve strayed,

Go become a little shade!

  So I’ll take my coloured pills,

I’ll be paying my own bills,

But now look what you have made:

I am just a little shade.

[projectpoetry]

“Pretty Little Bones”, Luka Pejić

Why wouldn't you expose your pretty little bones?

Why wouldn't you let me take a walk inside your walls?

Why wouldn't you let me break your skull a minute later

To see if the thoughts are as sweet as their creator?

  I promise, I swear, my love, you won't feel a thing,

Except for that thing we're for sure supposed to feel.