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Nik Bland Aug 11
Solemnly and silent
In subtleties she calls to me
Falling into my heart caverns
And running through my veins
Through my body
And where I am she’s close to me
Exuding watercolor dreams
Like a painter reacquainting me
With once greyish reality
And every morn, I hear her sing
In voice that constructs melody
As if to say to newest sun
To shine ever still
All subconsciously
And I would follow lyrically
Each instruction as they ring
Like notes in my mind harboring
This subtle, silent calls to me
Tyler Matthew Dec 2020
Subtlety is poetry in practice.
Too bad the world is made up of bad journalists.
sundial iris Aug 2020
Subtle

~for Sally~

there is no escaping it.

to write of subtle,

one must be blunt,

forthright,

direct,

write with no subtlety.

there is no way, impossible, to capture the fine single threads required
to weave a tapestry of bold and delicate intertwined, of depth and
surface, of a droplet of water shining outstanding in a sea of harsh
blather.

there is bold, there is pale. they can coexist, perhaps even
heighten each other.

but subtle is a delicacy, a single thread, a standard rarely achieved.

which is why this poem makes no pretense at subtlety.




Aug 21~22
2020
imai Apr 2018
clothed in darkness,
i am robbed of my senses—
though i am left
with the sensation of
your touches,
i have become senseless
undone, my defences—
useless,
with a single caress,
a blushing mess,
i try not to obsess
over your intense
pretense—

though all is in vain,
you are relentless,
and i am
reckless.
requested by Yan F
Casse Bienu Sep 2017
She whispered in my ears all her broken dreams
And I stood there, afraid. I did not move.
She held me and she tore her fingers on my broken edges and as I tried to run away she
Pulled me closer and watched the blood in some sort of fascination.
Nothing scared her.

So I stood there watching the blood fall in red soundless drops and mix with her tears
By her feet. She was angry at her tears.
Because women don’t cry.
She wouldn’t let me free myself from her grip and I said I did not want her to bleed any more
But she would have none of it.
She wants a man that will wipe her tears, she said-
Tears are the blood of the unseen wounds
And such are the wounds we need most protection from.

So I stood there, holding her. I tried not to move.
I hoped that standing still would keep her hands from bleeding more but she ran her hands all over my jagged edges. She said that it was a metaphor. That it should mean something.
But she kept crying and I fought myself off of her. I fetched her water to clean her wounds but she laughed and pushed it aside.
Play some music instead, she said.
The wounds I must clean are unseen-
Only angels can fight demons
Only beauty can erase the ugly
And only light can ***** out the darkness.

So I played her some music.

And then I stood there watching her move her head along to that
Lala Salama song
Like certain worlds had been hidden in its words.
She danced until the song was over and still she danced to the silence
Her eyes closed and her head always shaking. Always.

When she was done she asked me what I had seen
and I told her that I had seen her dance and that I had seen
her close her eyes and that I had seen her sing along silently.

She jumped at me. She was angry.
These are not the things you were supposed to see, she said.
These are not the words you were supposed to say.
And she opened the door and walked out.

Now I listen to that song.
Maybe I shall hear what it is I was supposed to be listening for.
AJ Feb 2017
Opulence is a whisper
In a forest full
Of clouds
Subtlety is a shout
In this city
Of waning light
K Balachandran Feb 2017
To comfort me the rain hums a tune
as if she could sense I was feeling down
I get buoyant by the soothing tone,
pick up the strands that once were broken

Drenched woods after the rain has gone,
with the wind,repeat it, but sounds like a moan,
it takes  much subtlety, to empathize, I learn
to evoke sublime feelings that touch and lift the soul.
I will admit that I struggle with what I can't give to you. It bugs me.  It eats me up inside.

I see the care and genuine respect that you show me and I want to react. But I can't.  Not in the way I want to do so.

Believe me. I want to do so much.  I want to make grand gestures, promise you the world,  and say the things that my heart hides.

To do so,  would please me, would stoke the embers of my soul.  

But. ..it would station your life,  and I won't do that.

Instead,  I am focused on what I can do. It is not as if I can't show what I feel,  to demonstrate it. I just have to be subtle.

I am,  not by choice,  but by need,  committed to the slow burn. I will leave you with hints;  with clues to piece together.  I will beat around the bush and show you the meaning of restraint.  Because THAT is what I can do.

— The End —