"cartography" poems
were we looking
for the feminine
of our soft hands
no questioning
the nature of daylight
is wonder, we feel it
in our touch
we know the ancient art of
cartography: love memory
death quivers deltas of tears
we taste the starvation of breath
the magnitude of gratitude
we kept the drum of hearts
alight to catch the waves of time
Anna's drum summoned Shiva,
the master of shiver
the god of blood
carrying sage scent in our hair
forgotten paths in our shapes
pink lotus flowers in our wombs
bold desires in our feet
tales of flames in each scar
we recognise each other
greet with a soul reverence
across time across space
we forgive ouselves
our betrayals violations
of a feminine truth
we wait for the men we love
we set ourselves free
from the spinning wheel of pain
we receive
we keep
what is alive
what is dead
still not born
in refused bodies:
the possibility of
kindness
we are women
we are dancers
we sing fiercely,
gently from the
chest of the moon
Feb 6, 2023
Feb 6, 2023 at 2:42 PM UTC
—and not simply by the fact that this shading of
forest cannot show the fragrance of balsam,
the gloom of cypresses,
is what I wish to prove.
When you and I were first in love we drove
to the borders of Connacht
and entered a wood there.
Look down you said: this was once a famine road.
I looked down at ivy and the scutch grass
rough-cast stone had
disappeared into as you told me
in the second winter of their ordeal, in
1847, when the crop had failed twice,
Relief Committees gave
the starving Irish such roads to build.
Where they died, there the road ended
and ends still and when I take down
the map of this island, it is never so
I can say here is
the masterful, the apt rendering of
the spherical as flat, nor
an ingenious design which persuades a curve
into a plane,
but to tell myself again that
the line which says woodland and cries hunger
and gives out among sweet pine and cypress,
and finds no horizon
will not be there.
9.2k
i imagine pulling over at a canyon
seeing the day they took all the pictures
off the wall when she died
i stop for a picnic on a scar
from getting too close to the junk
but you made it and making it is all that matters
i see the ends of your hands
as 15th century cartography talks to the hierarch
a promise of platitudes
flat and lacking grandeur
how on that plane it knows
when you turn them over
like pages of a book
and secrets pour out
they don't tremble like they used to
haven't had an earthquake in years
not even a tremor
not even happenstance could stop me
from gawking at the pile up on 64
how outwardly looking
in you don't look like a "wreck"
your hands remind me more
of a car crash without the quotation marks
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 9:44 AM UTC
You were the greatest neuronal reorganization to ever happen,
of course I don't know who I am anymore.
What was plastic seems changed to stone in a gargoyle brain and beneath a microscope the shimmering glia spell out your name over and over in little green lights, fossilizing the neurons that say:
Him.
The earth has an edge. Nobody wants to fall off.
So call me Homer, because the gods themselves could not convince me my situation's a sphere there's far too much fear in this flattened plane that understands only primitive desires and just wants you near.
Everyone knows the romanced brain could be mistaken for a ******* addict's.
But perhaps if you look more closely into my eyes you will see my irises have turned stormy, that cyclones of energy are becoming patterns that scribble and scribble arcane suggestions for a new cartography. A new story. A new being.
Supplies needed:
One strong pencil.
Enough oxytocin to unlearn an addiction.
Enough optimism to overcome an affliction, my diction is code for the way you kissed me and it underlines every sentence like the way a voice rises when asking a question.
I have so many questions.
And even though the notion of who I will be when I am not you terrifies me, like Cathy and Heathcliff I will not be doomed to roam the moors, already I know there's endlessly more, and with or without you the best is yet to come. Just as they say. No, I don't know what's in store. But I think that's okay.
Turn golden, Grey Matter, light up 'til you burn.
Reboot.
Restart.
Rewire.
Relearn.
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 1:06 PM UTC
Fandango cartography
Dance of our lives
Verbarxenelasia breast but not thigh
Ruricolist unmentionables off to the side
Blowlamp irradiance, pistil niche guide
Sacerdotal ceremony the cloven hoof of ******* saints
Intrinsic allegory to despoil trust and heart deflate
Inaudible uproarious potvaliant jingoism schism
Suppurateing deep held fears ungrounded sparks annihilate
Mar 15, 2014
Mar 15, 2014 at 8:25 PM UTC
To be knelt in a shower
Watching crimson mix with water
Some good ol’ fashioned
Pain drain
Bloodletting
How delicious
What is it about a cleansing ritual
That brings
Soot to surface
It’s scar tissue
Meets fresh wounds
Amidst the carnage
A kernel of truth
Cartography
How scrumptious
What is it about toweling off
That removes
Less than we thought
It’s whispered words
Meets silent screams
All this chaos
What does it mean
Decryption
How cathartic
What is it about slipping into jeans
That tucks away the secrets
Folds up the mental maps
Slurps the blood from the floor
And masks us up
For the world to adore
///
“How was your weekend?”
(wait, what’s my line?)
Plasma
A flushed cheek
“Oh…it was fine”
smiles
Merely existing
How divine
///
Aug 25, 2022
Aug 25, 2022 at 11:10 AM UTC
Plan to kiss no one without secret intent.
Plan to kiss no one without meticulous method
Plan to kiss no one without a hidden plan.
Now
You know
Who you are.
To think I should speak with you
Is pessimist-dismissed
So quickly
The pen drops
Before the thought
Crosses
The multiverse
Mind
Contained
In paper Cranes.
To think you would want
To want
To talk to me
Is so ridiculous
So out-there
So cover-up
Alien-conspiracy-theory
Secret-society
Cryptic-code
Cartography.
The phonetic
Background
Of my throat
Shuts down
Shuts up.
Vowels in my stomach
Bunch.
Curves
Of your face
Shadows of your mind
Overlay mine
To camouflage.
I could
And would love you,
Not ten fathoms
But deep enough
So
We are suspended where light waves
Cannot bend
Breaking on coral
Breaking on coma
Waking up sleeping sand.
May 28, 2012
May 28, 2012 at 2:39 PM UTC
my body has become a map
of nights i'd rather not recall
i can't tell you how often i've envisioned
guiding your fingertips along the latitude and longitude,
pointing out the coordinates i'd just plotted-
"remember when you told me i ruined your life?
or when you told me about all the pills you'd swallowed?
or when you told me you'd never be speaking to me again?"
but as your skin brushed against mine
we'd come across paths more tangled than others, and i'd say
"remember when you told me you loved me?
or when you told me i was beautiful?
or when you told me you'd give me the world?"
and you'd get angry when i couldn't explain my own work
now my masterpiece is decaying
and so are my memories of you
sometimes i envision seeing you again
maybe days or weeks or years from now
and when you ask me how i'm doing
i'll guide your fingertips along the (almost) blank canvas
and tell you i've given up cartography
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 9:14 PM UTC
There was talk of exploring
empty lots
until the sun came up
And laying dotted lines
on empty maps until
We found ourselves new homes
With softer beds and warmer sheets
Make it as far as frozen streets--
decide to paint it black
when
We've run out of red
Our hands are getting chapped
and
We've been running ourselves dry
Out here beneath polished winter skies
Then right before
our hazy, crossed out eyes
Come falling
snowflakes from the clear
Think they must be the
first five of the year
And lately, I swear all we get 'round here
Are busted plans and second tries
The chips are falling
so let's cash our winnings
out and sup on underpinnings found
as tacit answers start to drift
As tacit answers start to drift
the question's seeding up
the frozen ground
And rougher textures make for traction
so I'll get a grip and count
out snowburnt seconds
'til we find the map to another
point of black.
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 10:54 PM UTC
Bring about a second war,
or pack up - and go home.
We can't accept apologies
from Sicily or Rome.
We can't impart cartography
to mayors without maps.
And no one wades the rivers here,
and water fills the cracks.
And water, liquid power naps,
repels us at the coast,
But draws us in at pipeline ends
and haunts us like Dad's ghost.
I died sometime, the future came,
and everybody smirked
and asked me, while we waited
for my casket, if it hurt.
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 1:17 AM UTC
Let the flames lick over my skin
Until my eyes roll back in my head
Cause you know I like the pain
Tip my head back as the demons crawl out
And their ink mingles in with the burns
The cartography on this canvas
Is littered with ashes and holes
Caught in wildfires and never spared or unscathed
Unleash the heat and I'll be engulfed in your rage
I like the way you hit me
Each scorching breath you take hitting my face
Choking on the smoke I caress the blaze
Razor sharp yet soothing to sink into
Drown me in this inferno
Cause you know I like the pain
Sep 21, 2021
Sep 21, 2021 at 9:15 PM UTC
cartography: noun:
engraving your face onto my retinas
--the angle your jawline cuts into my irises
and burns into a permanent membrane;
roadmapping your freckles, curating my favorite ones
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 11:46 PM UTC
From the prompt: The End Of Monsters
“Nobody asks why the chimera needs killing.
It’s a lone thing – a wrongness,
a distortion wandering in from elsewhere
burning the straight plowed fields of us”
- E. Rose Sims (On Cartography and Dissection)
He took his vorpol sword in hand
and with it, slayed the last Jabberwock.
Claimed its head, and placed it on a mantel,
in between Grendel’s arm, and the Minotaur’s horn -
Trophies of his conquests.
He told himself that he was making the world safer.
Still, that didn’t stop the nightmares.
The memories of the screams let out by the faun
as he plunged his dagger into its neck.
The way the chimera begged to be spared,
in is best human accent, before he thought to cut out its tongue:
“Please, no **** Who will look for my family?”
“No mercy, not in this world.” He tells himself.
“Monsters need to be killed.”
He told himself that he was the great Dragonslayer.
The adventurer.
Eliminating the native threats
so that his people can safely claim the land.
Now that his deed is done,
the final monster, slain.
Our hero hangs his vorpol sword up on the wall.
Yet, he lies awake at night
unable to sleep,
he stares up at the stars.
He dwells on a bone chilling thought -
that maybe somewhere in a distant land
there is a map being made of his home town
and some undiscovered other
has labeled it -
“Here Be Monsters”.
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 12:24 PM UTC
Mist-minded, clouded thoughts
Can't seem to focus, or keep rapport
Importance is relevant, irrelevant I dwell
In this cartography, well-drawn Hell
Zipped up lips, verbiage tripped
The spoken, delivery, edge unclipped
Harsh and cold, worn limestone
Regardless of polish, I'm overgrown
What feels real is this heart of steel
All else surrounds, of fabric, of gown
Dressed up nice to masquerade
False-tipped smiles, dead parade.
The forge burns true, just underneath
My love, my Sun, I shall bequeath
Hardened and cold, aftermath of the craft
Add a little heat and reveal my heart.
May 12, 2021
May 12, 2021 at 9:05 PM UTC
to pluck out his eyes and
stain the earth with vitreous humor.
to separate the lonely wind from its
counterpart in my soul and its
thickness choking my lungs—
to escape the death grip of
the twisting jaws and
****** talons of the
sharks that rip us raw
hawks that
streak from the sky
harpies
harbingers of
to eat the flesh that
drips like candlewax from our
febrile skin
to hold morality in one hand and
maps in the other
to learn the general principles of cartography
one must commit genocide.
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 11:27 PM UTC
i remember someone on this site a long time ago.
they would write unrelenting epic poems that
always made my fingertips tingle in that way
they do when you're surprised art made you
feel something again, you know?
i arrive back here tonight because i've been
doing a whole lotta feeling and far too little art
and i've stopped letting it surprise me.
i keep oversharing when people ask, "how are you?"
i keep wondering who i'm supposed to be at this point on this long path of becoming. i don't know, i've never liked the phrasing but it resounds so cleverly from forebrain to nervous system it's uncanny and unavoidable and ineffable. who am i am i am i am i am i ...
i want to make a map,
a cartography of memory,
charting the granite and
soil, marrow and moss,
river foam, abusers,
flower gardens, wild blackberries --
the purple dabbed away from those
soft parts that blackberries might stain
to wash deep berry blood off
in the public pool bathroom
where she first made you a novelty
to scrape darker
from under his fingernails
with bark from the tree she
made you hide behind
the same park you grew up in
a spot you always caught the sunset
a spot he caught you and the sun seemed always then to set
still haven't gone back
it's time to make a map
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 10:40 PM UTC
My fingers trace
your contours
in my thoughts.
The highs and lows,
your inclines
rise and fall.
Spaces in between
grow distant
from ridge and valley
to coastal plain.
Through uncharted territory
I follow the beaten path
till trail turns to sand
and desert meets ocean.
Contours fade
and wash away.
You slide into
the deep blue
and cross the border.
r ~ 7/5/14
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 6:06 AM UTC
the flay.
With smiles and lies
and fists full of scalpels,
she opened my chest
like priests open chapels.
Grasping my heart in her fist
until it gave its last beat.
Looked in my eyes,
and dropped it at my feet.
why.
"I came here to love you, to hold you above..."
"Oh didn't you know?
That's how we say goodbye to the ones that we love."
grey.
Shuffling the pieces, applying the patches
and the verse falls to the soul,
like soot to the ashes.
cartography.
stitched the walls back together.
stitched the bandages;
stitched the cream;
I stitched and I stitched,
forever it seems.
madness.
I rock on my knees
staring at the young, in-love, and naive.
I rock till the bones in my hips fall apart,
and out falls my heart, now just a spare part.
The stitches, I suppose, were not as sound as I thought.
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 3:55 AM UTC
The evening star hung upon the northern glacier of the inaccessible point and shone through the perpetual darkness as the lone light twinkled it's last light years away unto this desolate tundra. Cliffs of infinite floating upon the charcoal abyss of the uncharted seas stretched around the ragged edges like plains of liquid abyss. Freyr hath forsaken this world of ice along with any other deity held dear in the fires of men's hearts and the uproar of their Hellenistic chants, which never reached the ears of the men here as there was no call of the Gods powerful enough to covet this outcast. No covenant to follow as all hope was wildly foreign to this aperture of Providence's cartography.
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 6:19 PM UTC
** good lad!
Say, do you seem to remember where I have left my slab
of glab,
Stop. The glabular slab appears.
Granular cartography.
Marsh, swamp and boggery,
all over naught but a slab!
Aug 21, 2011
Aug 21, 2011 at 12:51 AM UTC
My tears; your pillow,
An unmapped territory.
Will you help me chart this new country?
Or leave me - unto myself -
An island of sorrows?
Mar 10, 2019
Mar 10, 2019 at 12:44 AM UTC
Don't ever let distance trick you
into thinking that things would all
be so much better otherwise.
The things I hated about you
from all those miles away,
are still the things I hate about you
standing face to face.
Jan 8, 2022
Jan 8, 2022 at 3:20 PM UTC
The keenest traveller of your bodyscape,
I deftly carved my favourite trails
and over shared cartography thought:
*How could these plates collide so hard
and still be separate?*
I carried my curiosity to a valley
and lingered in the undergrowth
til a river rushed through like the first day of spring.
Separate, but as wondrously married
as mountains.
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 12:00 PM UTC
With contour lines of touch,
starting at your shoulder,
down your arm,
overlapping to your stomach.
Slide my fingers across your back,
down your straight shot spine,
you shiver,
kiss my neck,
pull me closer,
breath is heavy,
nails across my back,
mark my skin with your presence.
Lets measure each other depths
in foreign waters,
of these sheets.
I want to see the color of your soul,
everytime you smile.
Up your shoulder blade,
to the back of your head,
trace your defined jaw
ending on your lips.
Eyes meet,
they're cloudy you say?
I think the rain is lifting.
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 9:54 PM UTC