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jude rigor Feb 2022
sappho greets her as she
would a reflection:
hand against hand, staring into
her eyes. silence dancing
around them as a long-lost love-
r.

enheduanna sighs at the contact
and the quiet shifts as
her fingers close:
as there is no need for language
when her
inanna will grant them
a holy diadem.

-----

eternity reeks
of nights out on the lawn
daisies growing with the weeds
pillowing beneath the two
dwindling women -
hands clasped tightly,
their eyes closed.
...lapis blooming
within the petals
of the undergrowth...

gods slumber amongst
worthy poets occluding,
heart-soothing each
other without words
or sonnets
or divination.

sappho dared to
look out from
heavy-lidded
lethargy,
for she was
yearning:
at dawn

...her honeyvoiced,
    mythweaving
    enheduanna:
    a sweet-shelter
    of temptation
    and goddesses
    who wage
    tender war and
    drink from pools
    of sun...

at dawn
the ancient
divine
poet
gazes
again

and sappho
forgets she
too is nearly
as old

for her lover wears
an invisible golden-
crowned circlet
of springtime
and illuminated
lands.

but she can hardly think
anymore, when
the songsmith of
glory and prayer
is kissing her.

laying in the basin
of heaven and skies
she pours restless
eternity down
her throat.


----

lapis melts
to pink clovers
of fowlerite

no mortals notice

two bodies blending
between poems
rustling tunics
maidens casting
away their  
fruitful

sobriety.

----

poet
dreams
a woman
of verse.

hardly expecting
shallow-breathed
kisses of burning
solstice and
unrequited
love.
for this piece,  i wrote about sappho and enheduanna. both ancient poets, both incredible women who achieved a lot with their poems and lyrics. i allude to some phrases/words from sappho's fragments, as well as verses from enheduanna's poems.

i also referenced quite a few letters from open me carefully, a collection of emily dickinson's letters (what remains of them) to susan huntington, her close friend and eventual sister-in-law. the references are honestly vague and you might only catch them if you've read at least the first chapter of the collection.

also the title is a fragment from sappho, featured in "if not, winter"

here's some info on all of that for some much-needed context.

sappho: (l. c. 620-570 BCE) was a lyric poet whose work was so popular in ancient that she was honored in statuary and centuries after her. little remains of her work, and these fragments suggest she was gay. her name inspired the terms 'sapphic' and 'lesbian', both referencing female same-*** relationships.  

[some phrases/words from this piece were taken/inspired by "if not, winter" - a collection of fragments of sappho's lyrics and poems].

bio source: wordhistory . org

enheduanna: (pronounced en-hoo-d-ah-na)  was an akkadian-sumerian princess, poet, and priestess who lived around 2285 BCE. not only was she the first author on record - she was also daughter to king sargon of the akkadian empire, a powerful woman figure, and the backbone to a synthesization of two newly unified cultures.

she is acknowledged to have penned the first known example of poetry, and wrote 42 hymns that were read across the akkadian empire. additionally, she was the first named poet to refer to herself with the "i" perspective. through her writings, she combined the akkadian counterpart (ishtar) of the sumerian inanna into a single goddess that brought akkadians and sumerians alike together. though this first served as a culturally-conscious and politically driven move, it morphed beautifully into enheduanna's lifelong relationship with inanna.

enheduanna's success and works as the high priestess at the temple ur helped bridge a gap between self-discovery and religion. many of her hymns and poems - especially "the exaltation of inanna" gave a human connection to gods; something far more powerful in the long run, compared to the old ways of gods growing the land, mixing the sea.

[i ripped all this out of a research paper i wrote a few years ago. enheduanna is my niche special interest and i find her life and story so utterly fascinating].

open me carefully: emily dickinson's intimate letters to susan huntington dickinson

susan huntington gilbert and emily elizabeth dickinson were born within days of each other in December 1830. they may have known each other from girlhood; they certainly knew each other from adolescence; and they had begun to correspond by the age of twenty. their relationship spanned nearly four decades, and for three of those decades, the women were next-door neighbors. together, susan and emily lived through the vicissitudes of a life closely shared: susan's courtship, engagement, and eventual marriage to emily's brother, austin; susan and austin's setting up home next door to the dickinson homestead; the births of susan and austin's three children, and the tragic death of their youngest son, gib.

in open me carefully, we see that emily was not the fragile, childlike, virginal "bride who would never be" writing precious messages about flowers, birds, and cemeteries from the safety and seclusion of her bedroom perch in amherst, massachusetts. dickinson was devoted to her craft, and she was dedicated to integrating poetry into every aspect of her day-to-day life. she was engaged in philosophical and spiritual issues as well as all the complexities of family life and human relationships. she knew love, rejection, forgiveness, jealousy, despair, and electric passion, and she lived for years knowing the intense joy and frustration of having a beloved simultaneously nearby, yet not fully within reach.

Emily Dickinson Archive

NY Times Archive
bulletcookie Mar 2016
Where do birds go at night?
When winter's silent furies
turn Hawthorns white,
cotton light on ground and grade.

Where do birds sleep till dawn
while pillowing clouds, twice height,
slumber across this evening sky.

Where do birds go to dream?
Swirling, feathered flurries,
to shiver off frostbite extreme.

Then upon a morning light
to round and wakeful nigh
with muffled wings burst into flight
tree branch waved goodbye.

-cec
(12262016)
Hallie Bear Jul 2012
Creased eyes blink
Slide down your cheeks
Dip into the 
Bow
Of you voluptuous mouth 
Drip lashes into 
The gap
In between your miss-sized teeth 
Spit bubbles incase them
Pillowing their decent down
Your coiled throat
Float down the river of your belly
Trace the outline of your genitals
Shooting automatic shivers through
They lick the tips of you
Delicious.
Janette Aug 2012
Only a distance in time, a slow drift, a free-fall,
To where the curve of the crescent moon ribbons ebon hours together,
And silvern ache dips in moon-silken pools;
Where the poetry of spooned tongues, impart a lasting call,
where he hushes me in the sway of stars,
Drowning my heartbeat in the breath of swollen whispers;
His musky scent, alluring
Melting those hidden places aching for the heat of his touch...



I taste the stir of conversation across my skin;
A silence settles there,
In the cool drifts of its tone, I sense the pulse in his throat,
I feel it thrum, so fragile through veins crowded with the
Stained glass shards of his scent;
My heart draws to the rhythm of his love; and
I am pressed against the quilt of his breath,
Soft.....softly.....a fleeting touch
Skitters in rapid succession around the curve of my neck, where
His lips whisper want in moist seduction...


Here in the freckled light his hips teach me,
Rocking me to the sighs of angels, heated flames of fragrant, vanilla foreplay,
Burn uncontrollably with such undying desire;
Folding my breath inside his hands; all smoke and violets,
Stolen moments;
Needing him, like blood, desiring only him to brim the indulgence,
Swallow it as sorrow and birth it as fire between my hungry thighs, as I beg his ******* to expose me;
Hushing my lips with the fire of his mouth, and the
Slide of his tongue from throat to breast,
His hands pressed upon my skin in urgent exploration,
Spreading me on an altar of rainbows...



Where he Loves me deep and dark in the owl light,
And I tremble, as the wet of want unleashes in the handcuffs of his voice,
Whispering blindfolds of lavender satin around my eyes,
Urging me to braille his body with my tongue's tip
My hungry mouth a mere vessel,
Waiting with wonder, agape for the fill of his adoration;
Soul touching, silk soft fingers, heart caressing the hours;
As we torture the gazing moon, pooling lakes of creamery soft,
Pillowing silken pleasures; breathing paradise upon the fragile blooms
Seared crimson into my veins...



Naked in his arms, heated emotions trickle down,
In a pour of tangled need; in the cradle of collapsed sighs,
Fingers tracing pleasure, lips swollen pouty with desire,
Drag of tongues forging serpentine trails,
Whispered things never heard before;
And like the sky I spread for him, the ink of us
Pouring lavender velvet...two bodies melting into the voice of one,
Chained in moans, in primal kisses that beg arched worship
Kissed raw in the silver scorch, of moonlights rapture,
Where moondust meets skin......

Love Is Deep .....
The laying of hands and lips upon a canvas of aching skin....ignites emotions pressed into the palate by fingers painting tender hues and subtle strokes....tracing lines and curves, indelible with passions ink....climactic quivers, paused
upon the tip of tongues, that ride the ebb and flow of cresting waves..... bleeding seductive shades, blanketing our embrace.....feeling your lips so close.....as breath escapes us........ J
Jack L Martin Aug 2018
I like trees.  
So do the bees.
Scents of flowers on pillowing breeze.  
Share this moment, will you please? 
 Seriously!  don't just tease.
How sweet to be thus nestling deep in boughs,
Upon an ashen stoven pillowing me;
Faintly are heard the ploughmen at their ploughs,
But not an eye can find its way to see.
The sunbeams scarce ****** me with a smile,
So thick the leafy armies gather round;
And where they do, the breeze blows cool the while,
Their leafy shadows dancing on the ground.
Full many a flower, too, wishing to be seen,
Perks up its head the hiding grass between.—
In mid-wood silence, thus, how sweet to be;
Where all the noises, that on peace intrude,
Come from the chittering cricket, bird, and bee,
Whose songs have charms to sweeten solitude.
steven Jun 2015
We are two sublime entities
pushing boundaries shifting
shapes drifting through life
stomachs eager for the madness
of digestion smoke & acid
billowing pillowing spillowing
against the organic walls
the defenses so thicc & sticky
we scratch our heads calmly
patiently waiting out the silence
conversations can't understand
so comfy we love our close
nothingness our joint voids
our abysmal futures
Katelynn Oct 2021
There lives a dragon in my stomach.
That pokes and prods with every scale.
With heat from it’s flames that leave skin blushed.
A bloated squeezing growing from the lack of room.

I check my stomach daily.
Searching for holes and bruises,
My hands running over bear skin amazed.
And yet, I feel it now,
Playing chess up my spine,
Each claw catching as it climbs up my vertebrae.
Leaving chills and goosebumps in it’s passing.

I’ve cried out for help.
Wanting nothing more from this beast.
But it leaves nightmares with it’s presence.
And it’s wings make perfect walls.

People just get tired after a while.
Just “the boy who cried wolf,”
But as I spout more words to them scrambling for help.
I see the smoke pillowing out of my mouth.
And before I could question,
We were both just as blinded.

I have a dragon in my stomach.
Years spent together like bitter friends.
Growing used to the burn of it’s hugs.
Even dousing the flames on my own at times.
A begrudging compromise.

Now overtime the beast grew too.
Spending more of it’s passing as a shadow over my shoulders.
Even with much less hold on me than before.
It still watches with delight.
Some days weighing like a backpack of bricks.
Whispering in my ear, coaching. Letting smoke fill my head, confusing.
Most other days are more bearable.

At night the beast stays on my chest.
Like a scaly tiger it curls on top,
With a kneading purr as it settles.
I never quite remember sleeping these nights.
Flashes of tossing and turning from being uncomfortable.
Poking, and prodding, and burning, and now chilling, and now waking up sweating.
The fog only clearing after spending time awake.

Alas there is a dragon in my stomach.
A spiteful beast that took hold there.
With greetings just like an old friend.
And when I finally demanded it’s name.


“Trauma” the beast told me.
I’m amazed that I wrote this. Comments are appreciated and I hope you random stranger have a nice day.
Orchid T Aspen Dec 2019
<>
When he throws you                 at the wall,
and hugs you
and bites you
and screams in you
and kisses you,


let it be back then,

when she threw you                on the floor,
and stomped your filling
and snapped your stitching
and sliced your corners
and kissed you.
<>

Tighten your throat
and you can go to bed again.
<>
Gabrielle F Feb 2010
Riesling and cat. This is Christmas for me. This wine used to tickle me, it is sour,
like the grapes were young, like I was young when I drank it and praised it.  There are always tears around this hour. This time of evening is the time when enough of the day has passed without me doing anything to feel bad about it, and there is enough time left to be unsure. Will I be lonely again tonight? Will I spin in the kitchen, feet slipping on spices spilled (the remnants of some sort of communion)
will I outstretch my hands and let my knuckles crack against the sacred objects-a fridge, countertop, stove,
will I drink all the wine in the cupboard? To that I say yes -my mother would weep at the thought.
Mother, just so you know, I always drink the wine in the cupboard if it is there. But not in a sad way, in the way that (simply put by a heart that I burn for): in a way that makes the gravel against my eyes easier to bare. It is not sad. I repeat. Do not cry mother.
Tonight I will sit in the spot hollowed out for my lonely body, a place con caved especially for my spine-rigid and warm with aching. I will allow the furred creatures to slither across my lap, curl around my neck like vibrating scarves. They have ladylike evil in their eyes, they extend fingers and pronounce their claws and let tongues creep between them and I do the same in my own human way. And without anyone watching we will be beautiful all by ourselves.

Will I write you a poem, one who has blackened before my eyes? Yes, and this is it.
Christmas for me, crackles with time retrieved and run over the reel again, it is stiff with wear and sweat and tears that squeeze from those traditional embraces, dried out, worn out like a dish rag, draped  
over the faucet and forgotten.
When you finally come home, I want to pull on the shoes and slip the coat that has become like a second skin over my back and leave the door wide and gaping open like the mouth of an old man dreaming of new pleasure. I will run then.
And you will watch my small body retreat from this, light pillowing before me giving you the illusion that i have no dimension:only darkness within me you will see, from your place by the doorway.
Amanda Jan 2015
I imagined the cutting words that escaped from my lips, multiplied it by 1,
(I remembered the first time I smiled because of you.)
it stung very sweetly.

Then, x2, guilt heavy and dense pillowing under the guise of comfort.

x3 I still remember how my voice sounded when I said Yes,
it's still the truth.

Another time, just for good measure.
I'm so sorry
x
Seán Mac Falls Apr 2017
~
The swelling brooks, so clear toned,
Rolling rounds over musical stones,

That unveil the rushed veins of May,
Race in wide cool stills, freshnesses,

Of the moistened soils overturning
And the chimes in the belled leaves,

Before they shout from buds keyed,
To syncopate in sun by bopping bees

Who buzz with jazzy pillowing waft,
Of daisy downs, in mid air to reeds,

Lips newly sprouted, banding green,
Groove myriad symphonies of colour

And the roots of trees tempo tapping,
Into waters plucked, earthy sounding,

All voice, with woodland birds, in joys
Do trumpet, O what new life to come.
Ethan Sigmon Jun 2010
Patience’ breath
in waves and rhythms
mists across the mirror,
blurs eyes returned,
lightest blue,
so cold, so still,
upon a boy who grew and grew,
into a wire frame, a cage,
it’s warmth like
almost loving you.

How it comes and goes
away again,
pillowing in tides across the glass.

Reflected
again,
a warmth like almost loving you.
There are many reasons why I can not and should not delve again into old relationships that I neither maintained nor handled well, but they provide fuel for these fires I call poems.
My eyes,
arms,
fingers,
hands,
lips,
my whole
body
yearns to carry on this
conversation
with you:
your
lips,
soft
shoulders,
pillowing *******,
tongue,
and
fingertips--
these ears
want to hear
our hearts
drum! Our
bodies yearning
for sweet intersection:
mingling,
melting,
knowing
me, knowing
you,
from the soft, sweet inside
out.

Let's dance
slow
meaning it,
feeling deeply
every
breath,
every touch,
every kiss,
every turning
toward
each other.
Home! Oh, so sweet,
home.
Home at last,
in
each others' arms.
Written 2005. Copyright 2010 by Michael S. Simpson
Dont spend so much time
Pillowing the truth
That you cant tell
What you lay your head upon
When you finally
Sleep at night.
Victoria Jean Feb 2013
With a flick of my worn down lighter I ignite my last Marlboro
The noises echoing from inside my house fell like a pulsing beat
I lay back, dried grass pillowing my head near a rabbit burrow
Pulling in a deep breath of smoke I hold in the menthol treat

My mother’s shrill laugh trills out and shakes me from my reverie
I really must rejoin people; leave my place in the clouds at night
But just for awhile I stay and let my bones soak in the lunar energy
Before I leave I memorize my connection to nature, my place in it’s light

Inside those walls my relaxation slides from my body, gently numbing me
Creating a world in which I’ll never feel panicked or elated
They live within my bubble of joy, I console them, and they are free
And never have to live with the knowledge that I’m sedated.
Seán Mac Falls Feb 2016
.
The swelling brooks, so clear toned,
Rolling rounds over musical stones,

That unveil the rushed veins of May,
Race in wide cool stills, freshnesses,

Of the moistened soils overturning
And the chimes in the belled leaves,

Before they shout from buds keyed,
To syncopate in sun by bopping bees

Who buzz with jazzy pillowing waft,
Of daisy downs, in mid air to reeds,

Lips newly sprouted, banding green,
Groove myriad symphonies of colour

And the roots of trees tempo tapping,
Into waters plucked, earthy sounding,

All voice in joys with woodland birds,
Do trumpet, O what new life to come.
Elizabeth Feb 2015
My tree trunks tremble in the rickety winds
When your bird-like tongue,
Dry and writhing,
Whispers Shakespearean love into my stems,
Feeding me photysynthetically.
I lean into your fuzz embroidered wings,
Pillowing my leaves and supporting my
Cumbersome mass.

Our love is as natural as the grass plains in Oklahoma pre-Dust Bowl,
The slopes of the snowcapped Rockies,
Or the fragile tide pools of Southern California.

I am your sycamore, your willow that rarely weeps.
You save me from the stagnant waters of revolving seasons,
And grace me with a fascinating new level of life.
Zane2976 Jun 2015
I could sit here and write forever
And tell you of all the things I could think of
But the simple truth is I have no idea
Of what exactly I should write here

A simple poem of how I feel?
Or maybe a song of what's real
Either way I could not find the words
Those slippery things that dance in front of my eyes
But turn to mist as I try to grasp them

It temps me to write lies
Of all the things I see through my days
Yet somehow I cannot bring myself to do such a thing
Maybe it's because I do not wish to ruin the perfect
Although I am doubtful, I believe this is a dream

Yes, perhaps I shall tell you of my dreams
The swirling substance of make-believe that engulfs us while dozing
Long ago I taught myself not to imagine
Falling from the sorrow of trusting once too many
For a while, reality was the safest

I have grown so much stronger since then
Finally longing for what I once stole from myself
Prepared to take on the whole world and beyond
Though all I can do is look through the window you fashioned me
Wishing for a time gone past

Mayhaps I could tell you what I wish for
Sad thing there, because I do not understand
I wish for the trees and the land, the water and the beasts
Its all here, if only you look hard enough
But why must we search for something so sweet and pure?

I will take you outside one night
We shall stare at the stars until sunrise!
The wind should be warm if dares to caress your face
Lush grass pillowing our bodies against the hard ground
Is this what is considered a dream?

I remember a time when despair was my closest friend
Those days are gone now, to never come again
Be banished from me with your foul breath!
You shan't poison me with your lies once more
No, I have not found the truth, but I have found a new beginning

Ah, at last I am back from my journey
Joy rises in me as music slowly drizzles in the air
Come and dance, it whispers sweetly towards me
The music of life I can hear once again
Lifts me up into the sky as I dance upon its tune

So it seems I can write once more
Not only that, but new words are in abundance
Drawing me back into the world of creation
It feels good to be home again
Bringing a gift called Joy to decorate with
Kai Jul 2020
the soft glow of you
the warmth inside you
that spills out from your skin
like standing in front of the sun
back lit and casting shadows
that comfort those in them
a break from the harsh day
a soft pillowing light
to hold them tightly
Prompt 62: Create a descriptive poem about something that has a soft glow or sheen to it.
Seán Mac Falls Nov 2017
.
The swelling brooks, so clear toned,
Rolling rounds over musical stones,

That unveil the rushed veins of May,
Race in wide cool stills, freshnesses,

Of the moistened soils overturning
And the chimes in the belled leaves,

Before they shout from buds keyed,
To syncopate in sun by bopping bees

Who buzz with jazzy pillowing waft,
Of daisy downs, in mid air to reeds,

Lips newly sprouted, banding green,
Groove myriad symphonies of colour

And the roots of trees tempo tapping,
Into waters plucked, earthy sounding,

All voice in joys with woodland birds,
Do trumpet, O what new life to come.
BLVNK Apr 2019
(Thoughts) While Riding High

I just love sounds of trains at night pillowing my ear drums with screeching sounds of metal clashing against itself as it sores through its alleys.,
Focused on one main goal.,
getting to it’s destinations.,
Yes., I’m thinking too much,
Perhaps I’ve been missed lead by my judgements.,
(Thoughts) While Riding High.,
So high that I can feel myself pulsating out of my chest.,
Can’t even search for anything simple.,
Heads racing.,
I’m fathomed by thoughts drifting in and out of comatose consciousness.,
Lol (laugh, or pretend laughter), no that’s too literal.,
I traveled more of a distance in my mind and saw something.,
A glimpse of something that could’ve been.,
These stories that wraps my head infinitely with thoughts so fast unable to interpret a simple comprehension of my own mind.,
I came out with something.,
You know the one thing man all “hopes for”.,
Hoping one day the evolution of man can rise and conquer a again.,
While I listen to the subtle tunes of nature blossoming into a Rose.,
A rose where no matter how pretty and beautiful it is, you’d still have to deal with the most slightest of flaws.........,
Yes the nature of us.,
Imperfection.
We built things on earth to let it all rot on top of itself, isn’t that obscure.,
Let me get out of my own annoying thoughts.,
It’s like the mind is built like fireworks that blankets the skies of earth with energy.,
I picture myself owning something.,
And again stop overthinking.,
Owning what, they say?.,
It’s tragic how limited minds can influence millions of innocent lives using them as tokens.,
Telling them what to do or say.,
Instead of just breaking through and living the best lives they could it’s all about control.,

Smt I’ll stop getting worked up, Pt 2 is coming soon I hope everyone enjoyed reading. If you guys have feed back, give me some feed back, I’d love that through and through.
Brittany Hodges Mar 2018
be soft they say
find the wool
knit by your grandmama
and remember its caress
warm across your infant skin
why do my calloused palms
avoid the embrace of
pillowing knit blankets
when I only sleep
in beds of collected rock
Jennifer McCurry Jul 2020
Man
When were you cast out Brother?
I had named you
Adam
Your woman still lies
In great beauty  
Red hair spilled on the desert floor
Great sands pillowing against  
Open thighs
As sometimes
In its infinite piling
As it would be rough
With your fingertips  
Pressed  
Preparing her for entry
  
Sweet tendrils  
Wrap vermillion and dark
Like the cinder curling of  
My word as it burns
The ink bleeds mankind
Into ashen wandering  
And back again  
To dust
In only the blink of my eye
  
It is not the fragile kind
My weeping  
The tears have purpose
And would filter in  
To flood this valley of loss
And wipe it new
And not without her
  
One existing soul  
Will grow and thrive and exist  
In another’s body
To dance and sing with the great spirit  
Of thousands
A sound mind  
And purpose  
That survived outside  
Of the red tent
Even without the hand  
of Jacobs lead

— The End —