"castrati" poems - Hello Poetry

rubicon hangover sherbert lemon sunrise butterscotch ******* with an afterbirth smile pastiche or phantom beautiful proportion cutting mothers apron the circle of time location location circumnavigation stylised continuum great britain is a lie mass for the masses blood on the carpet thank you for not smoking its a marvel we're alive thirty thousand drowning thirty fathoms counting suffer little children not in my back garden slumber in a haven sleeping with forbidden waterfalls and gravestones selfish over soil war americana revolutionara helicopter complex compliment our ego nuclear disaster what use is a master fall out over fallout tinnitus and drones avalanche of feedback pentatonic ***** slap abstinent castrati carry me away shiver orchestration gentle fornication sexually vacant naturally vague

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May 3, 2016

May 3, 2016 at 1:51 PM UTC

andy-blackwell

Untitled

rubicon hangover sherbert lemon sunrise butterscotch ******* with an afterbirth smile pastiche or phantom beautiful proportion cutting mothers apron the circle of time location location circumnavigation stylised continuum great britain is a lie mass for the masses blood on the carpet thank you for not smoking its a marvel we're alive thirty thousand drowning thirty fathoms counting suffer little children not in my back garden slumber in a haven sleeping with forbidden waterfalls and gravestones selfish over soil war americana revolutionara helicopter complex compliment our ego nuclear disaster what use is a master fall out over fallout tinnitus and drones avalanche of feedback pentatonic ***** slap abstinent castrati carry me away shiver orchestration gentle fornication sexually vacant naturally vague

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I distance myself from me away I move a million miles beyond the homicidal floor of self and its narrow dead sticky fly paper walls away from chatter castrati and miraculous mirrors away from vanity and horror and the voices of shadow I distance myself from me I step from lunary worlds and big blue marble and I have only myself a river of breaths like transparent shaped hands dominion of air in a cage of bones all petty fetters

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Feb 15, 2019

Feb 15, 2019 at 3:07 PM UTC

zebrablack

Myself

I distance myself from me away I move a million miles beyond the homicidal floor of self and its narrow dead sticky fly paper walls away from chatter castrati and miraculous mirrors away from vanity and horror and the voices of shadow I distance myself from me I step from lunary worlds and big blue marble and I have only myself a river of breaths like transparent shaped hands dominion of air in a cage of bones all petty fetters

18

The White House Staff & Boys’ Choir Gas-station shades, and identification Dangling from their necks like nooses at rest Ganymedes hoping to be noticed today Dancing attendance upon the Throne of Games Castrati commanded to tune their throats Each secretly fearing he will be next To be stripped of all for that walk of shame Passes and pass codes passed on to others Little Ken dolls flung about in childish glee, While decorative generals nod and agree

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Jul 30, 2017

Jul 30, 2017 at 1:25 PM UTC

lawrence-hall

The White House Staff & Boys' Choir

The White House Staff & Boys’ Choir Gas-station shades, and identification Dangling from their necks like nooses at rest Ganymedes hoping to be noticed today Dancing attendance upon the Throne of Games Castrati commanded to tune their throats Each secretly fearing he will be next To be stripped of all for that walk of shame Passes and pass codes passed on to others Little Ken dolls flung about in childish glee, While decorative generals nod and agree

11

I was born with wind locked in my tongue, a song half-made, half-drowned. Midwife said the cord was coiled like a small river, tight around my neck. I came out blue, gasping like a fish drug ashore. They rubbed me with cedar ash, cut the water’s leash, and the first sound I made wasn’t a cry, but something lower— like the hum of current under thaw. I used to sing in the register of weather. Pam laughed, said I was a castrati in another life. No, Pam. I was a horsewoman in the valley where the river bends around the bones of our ancestors. I carried Ho-Chunk children to school, Dakota women to the trading post, men drunk on corn mash and thunder. I wove baskets from river reeds- lightning stitched through darker bands to mimic the storms over Spirit Lake. At night we sang the Bird Songs, those long traveling prayers that teach the heart where home is. When the soldiers came, we hid in the limestone caves and sang quieter. Songs don’t die, they just change their address. When the city hums too loud, I hear the buried river- its pulse through pipes asking if I remember. I do. I remember the small fires inside my ribs, how silence can be a kind of singing, how grief is water looking for its mouth. I walk to the lip of light’s forgetting, half prayer, half river, the river speaks through me- blue, unbroken, home.

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Oct 8, 2025

Oct 8, 2025 at 8:37 PM UTC

Kiki-Dresden

Mouth of Water

I was born with wind locked in my tongue, a song half-made, half-drowned. Midwife said the cord was coiled like a small river, tight around my neck. I came out blue, gasping like a fish drug ashore. They rubbed me with cedar ash, cut the water’s leash, and the first sound I made wasn’t a cry, but something lower— like the hum of current under thaw. I used to sing in the register of weather. Pam laughed, said I was a castrati in another life. No, Pam. I was a horsewoman in the valley where the river bends around the bones of our ancestors. I carried Ho-Chunk children to school, Dakota women to the trading post, men drunk on corn mash and thunder. I wove baskets from river reeds- lightning stitched through darker bands to mimic the storms over Spirit Lake. At night we sang the Bird Songs, those long traveling prayers that teach the heart where home is. When the soldiers came, we hid in the limestone caves and sang quieter. Songs don’t die, they just change their address. When the city hums too loud, I hear the buried river- its pulse through pipes asking if I remember. I do. I remember the small fires inside my ribs, how silence can be a kind of singing, how grief is water looking for its mouth. I walk to the lip of light’s forgetting, half prayer, half river, the river speaks through me- blue, unbroken, home.

45

Just because something's a tradition Doesn't mean it's appropriate today. As times change, so do traditions. It's good that some are now passé. Duels--for example--to "defend one's honor" Were commonly practiced in the olden days. In modern times people get "Satisfaction" in other ways. At one time eunuchs were numerous in China, And many were employed in the Imperial Service. Would you do that for a government job? Yikes, the thought of it makes me nervous. Castrati, too, were praised in the past For childlike voices that were second to none. But those whose voices deteriorated Sadly lost out in more ways than one. Years ago a widow in India Threw herself on the funeral pyre Of her dead husband. That practice is one That people--thank goodness--no longer require. What about animal sacrifice? Let's hope it remains a thing of the past. People should try a less harmful substitute: Cut out chocolate; go on a fast. Some wedding traditions are simple and harmless; Brides wear something borrowed or blue. Customs that don't deny us our rights Or cause harm to others are ones to pursue. The list of traditions could go on forever; People feel they're a way to maintain Our culture. But clearly certain customs Are now outmoded or inhumane. As long as we move with the times, we grow. We learn from the past, but move ahead. Moldy traditions that don't embrace Love and compassion are better off dead. - by Bob B

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Oct 26, 2016

Oct 26, 2016 at 8:26 AM UTC

bob-b

Traditions

Just because something's a tradition Doesn't mean it's appropriate today. As times change, so do traditions. It's good that some are now passé. Duels--for example--to "defend one's honor" Were commonly practiced in the olden days. In modern times people get "Satisfaction" in other ways. At one time eunuchs were numerous in China, And many were employed in the Imperial Service. Would you do that for a government job? Yikes, the thought of it makes me nervous. Castrati, too, were praised in the past For childlike voices that were second to none. But those whose voices deteriorated Sadly lost out in more ways than one. Years ago a widow in India Threw herself on the funeral pyre Of her dead husband. That practice is one That people--thank goodness--no longer require. What about animal sacrifice? Let's hope it remains a thing of the past. People should try a less harmful substitute: Cut out chocolate; go on a fast. Some wedding traditions are simple and harmless; Brides wear something borrowed or blue. Customs that don't deny us our rights Or cause harm to others are ones to pursue. The list of traditions could go on forever; People feel they're a way to maintain Our culture. But clearly certain customs Are now outmoded or inhumane. As long as we move with the times, we grow. We learn from the past, but move ahead. Moldy traditions that don't embrace Love and compassion are better off dead. - by Bob B

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