#forest primeval

[schistostegapennata]

Found myself a beautiful copy of Evangeline the other day, y'all

[hercomputerruins]

In a forest primeval A school for good and evil two towers like twin heads one for the pure and one for the wicked try to escape you'll always fail the only way out is through a fairy tale

[whisperthatruns]

Another Antipastoral

I want to put down what the mountain has awakened.

My mouthful of grass. My curious tale. I want to stand still but find myself moved patch by patch. There’s a bleat in my throat. Words fail me here. Can you understand? I sink to my knees tired or not. I now know the ragweed from the goldenrod, and the blinding beauty of green. Don’t you see? I am shedding my skins. I am a paper hive, a wolf spider, the creeping ivy, the ache of a birch, a heifer, a doe. I have fallen from my dream of progress: the clear-cut glass, the potted and balconied tree, the lemon-waxed wood over a marbled pillar, into my own nocturne. The lullabies I had forgotten. How could I know what slept inside? What would rend my fantasies to cud and up from this belly’s wet straw-strewn field---                                                                          these soundings.

Vievee Francis, Forest Primeval (TriQuarterly Books/Northwestern University Press, 2016)

[honeyglot]

[slapkiss]

All Kinds of Howlin', by Vievee Francis

Wolf is just one There's the wind between houses Cold as a tongue in a couldn't care less mouth There's that belt or hand whistling through air to meet a backside and The cry a woman makes when she meets her Maker Wolf is just one way to get there To that pain that rocks your bones Rocking away

[godsopenwound]

Vievee Francis, “Like Jesus to the Crows” from Forest Primeval

[godzilla-reads]

100 Days of Poetry: Day 17

Chimera by Vievee Francis (From Forest Primeval)

She's not "maternal," she's dangerous.

—Jamaal May

I have no charms. Admittedly.

No gold comb can move through

This mane. My skin is not translucent.

Mine is a tail to fear. I know.

And though a mother may destroy,

She too sees fit to create beauty

That would eventually grow into forms

I would swallow if I gave in

To my hungers. But, up from my wounds—

From this goat's body—

Up from my wood-smoke lungs, from

The milk of me, comes a song, a melody

To open yours, then lick them clean.

[sanalebihan]

What we are doing to the forests of the world is but a mirror reflection of what we are doing to ourselves and to one another.

Chris Maser, Forest Primeval