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 Jun 2015 Lexi Cairns
Ameliorate
Take the plunge with me
Answer to the irrevocable calling that is this moment
Maybe in comparison the fear you might have if you were to jump off a cliff bungee jumping.
For this we won't have harnesses
Only flesh embodied, skin caressed with the warmth of the blankets and each other.
Swim with me in this forbidden pool
The night is young and the taste of white wine heavy on your tongue
 Jun 2015 Lexi Cairns
epictails
Whatever did Sylvia Plath
and Anne Sexton
have in common?

—two great minds
of the literary canon
who drove themselves
to the proverbial crimson

One gassed herself
like a condemned Jew
the other stayed in her car
letting the breathlessness brew
A melody of the swans that
not even Beethoven
could undo

What could have been
in their poetry
that consumed them in
the deepest misery
—like one of a dark soliloquy
or a dying plea?
I've recently become interested in the life of Sylvia Plath. One person told me a poem of mine reminded him of Sylvia Plath's. When I looked her up I learned of her and several other poets ending their lives in the most miserable manner. In fact, I found a list of 100 plus great poets and writers who did it. Even Ernest Hemingway shot himself with his beloved shotgun, to my surprise. A considerable number of them were manic-depressives, sad to say.

Plath's main style of poetry is confessional poetry, some sort of subtype of lyric poetry, I guess. In fact, her and Anne Sexton (who also killed herself together with John Berryman) popularized the style. This is a far-fetched idea but I think their poetry is part of what made them commit suicide. Confessional poetry focuses on the poet's psyche, individuality and even their very own demons. They sure had some dark issues but couple that with writing that leaves anyone bare, open and vulnerable to personal pain and depression could very well drive some people to death. I just realized while reading their stories and even their accomplishments how writing could get very dark. It's such a risky career if not wedged in the right direction. I always thought it would all be rainbows and fields of daisies. But then it goes deeper than that.

And that concludes my little blog entry and research haha. To be honest, confessional poetry is my favorite and most of my poems are of that style. I believe it's so pure and raw but is also the most tasking to write.
A thousand miles wide
The storm it is landside
Takes all the trees that were going to die
The cargo floods the highways
A pier ride in the ocean
Fifty-five hundred sheltered, safe and sound
Over 6 million people without power
Did they ever really have the power
Not like Sandy
Such devastation
The govenor needs a vacation
Again
 Jan 2015 Lexi Cairns
Syzygy
I long for those days
When we had something to treasure
Outside the sheets.

When we were in love
When "we are in love",
Were we actually?
Are we now?

Because
Even those kisses
And nights full of *******
Feel unrequited.

I ache
For your love
Not your lust,
which is all I've been seeing.
I was inspired by the song "Temporary Bliss" by The Cab.
1450

The Road was lit with Moon and star—
The Trees were bright and still—
Descried I—by the distant Light
A Traveller on a Hill—
To magic Perpendiculars
Ascending, though Terrene—
Unknown his shimmering ultimate—
But he indorsed the sheen—
It was wrong to love you,
I knew that.
Sneaking and skulduggery.
A web of lies.
Lies that tripped me up,
Lies that I believed.

Now that I think back,
I know that you wove those webs.
But I liked being caught,
I liked playing your game.
I loved you.
I thought you loved me.
I held your dying body as you gazed into my liquid eyes,
You breathed a last blessing within my soul,
We swore an oath, do you remember?
Upon the darkness, calm were the waves that sleep with the stars,
Your pained body took peace

Long summer suns blister my parched lips,
I pledged to search for you my beloved,
Giants in the valleys sway in warm summer breezes,
Walking a dream I smell your freshness on forests floors

The fields bloom and golden daffodils smile to the sun,
Birds sing of springs love, on a blue summer’s eve,
I wander this world alone breathless without you,
Awaken to me this infinite love to fill my soul,
For I am incomplete, a flame waiting ever waiting for your crystal smile

── Aching the poet wept in the starlight alone

© Arnay Rumens  /A Sol Poet 11. 2013
When the writing is going well,
I am a prince in a desert palace,
fountains flowing in the garden.
I lean an elbow on a velvet pillow
and drink from a silver goblet,
poems like a banquet
spread before me on rugs
with rosettes the damask of blood.
                But exiled
from the palace, I wander --
crawling on burning sand,
thirsting on barren dunes,
believing a heartless mirage no less true
than palms and pools of the cool oasis.
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