"crosshatch" poems - Hello Poetry

You said you would **** it this morning. Do not **** it. It startles me still, The jut of that odd, dark head, pacing Through the uncut grass on the elm's hill. It is something to own a pheasant, Or just to be visited at all. I am not mystical: it isn't As if I thought it had a spirit. It is simply in its element. That gives it a kingliness, a right. The print of its big foot last winter, The trail-track, on the snow in our court The wonder of it, in that pallor, Through crosshatch of sparrow and starling. Is it its rareness, then? It is rare. But a dozen would be worth having, A hundred, on that hill-green and red, Crossing and recrossing: a fine thing! It is such a good shape, so vivid. It's a little cornucopia. It unclaps, brown as a leaf, and loud, Settles in the elm, and is easy. It was sunning in the narcissi. I trespass stupidly. Let be, let be.

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11.5k

Sylvia Plath

Pheasant

You said you would **** it this morning. Do not **** it. It startles me still, The jut of that odd, dark head, pacing Through the uncut grass on the elm's hill. It is something to own a pheasant, Or just to be visited at all. I am not mystical: it isn't As if I thought it had a spirit. It is simply in its element. That gives it a kingliness, a right. The print of its big foot last winter, The trail-track, on the snow in our court The wonder of it, in that pallor, Through crosshatch of sparrow and starling. Is it its rareness, then? It is rare. But a dozen would be worth having, A hundred, on that hill-green and red, Crossing and recrossing: a fine thing! It is such a good shape, so vivid. It's a little cornucopia. It unclaps, brown as a leaf, and loud, Settles in the elm, and is easy. It was sunning in the narcissi. I trespass stupidly. Let be, let be.

24

A generation navigating illusionment: I am one. Excavation; i sift. Shaking a plastic basket. Round - and channel mouths spout a wire crosshatch. I Tap Against My palm. Fine flour lands on the counter and In my head I listen to the same songs because I already know the words. I look for a truth outside my mind because on weekdays I tell myself I’m not worth knowing. How do you stop hating yourself When you hate yourself because You hate yourself? When I slide my hand across the counter, White flour mist puffs and I listen: Mac Miller’s alive. He said he’s surviving on ***** almonds, and granola bars. Grasped in some five fingers A thin red handle.

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Apr 10, 2020

Apr 10, 2020 at 4:31 PM UTC

cremadrip

2020

A generation navigating illusionment: I am one. Excavation; i sift. Shaking a plastic basket. Round - and channel mouths spout a wire crosshatch. I Tap Against My palm. Fine flour lands on the counter and In my head I listen to the same songs because I already know the words. I look for a truth outside my mind because on weekdays I tell myself I’m not worth knowing. How do you stop hating yourself When you hate yourself because You hate yourself? When I slide my hand across the counter, White flour mist puffs and I listen: Mac Miller’s alive. He said he’s surviving on ***** almonds, and granola bars. Grasped in some five fingers A thin red handle.

23

I'd been trying to write a poem Just one ******* poem But he said *Just **** around* Swallow down a bowl full of squares Let’s play games with each other’s minds Spend a night lost in a house of cards Where the joker cackles despite your begging A reminder of what I could do without Shouting at the world from the white pavilion You suckers! With your skirts hitched up and tongues hanging out Gagging on a lover’s loneliness All I see is your undergarments crying for attention With a liquor solace barely down your throat Eighteen silver blades Smile at me with their perfect teeth One to mark each year that past A nineteenth will not be necessary Ready to drag Like the man trailing his head on a string Across the surgeon’s winking knife Tapping their toes on the bathroom counter Anxious to mingle with my flesh I’ve already scrubbed in The survival rate looks dismal The cotton reel loosens and my halo slips Down - the noose around my neck He sat across the room in plaid Remarked upon the crosshatch of red That drew the crooked red grin on the white of my thigh Like loops of raspberry liquorice Seeping out sticky tears He misses handling the vegetables Who ordered cocktails in lurid colours Well, I’ve a mélange of my own A collection of prescriptions from the doctor’s office Stored in a heart shaped box To swallow down like jelly beans I’m waiting for that deadly sugar rush Death’s been dancing on my doorstep Absent minded as I sit at the dinner table Head in hand, foot in grave There’ll be no morning migraine Perhaps a little mourning in the peripheral vision Swept up from beneath the climbing frame Under a soil blanket with a tomb stone mattress Coughing up the sand in my throat That I emptied from the egg-timer Those darling quadrilateral crystals Blissful in their ignorance Disturbing my quiet complacency Drowned in a glass of tomato juice That I poured from my skull Death holds my hand in the dark And I whisper to pass on the message Bury me with pyjama’s and a pillow

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Apr 8, 2012

Apr 8, 2012 at 6:23 AM UTC

clemence-huet

Pre-Mortem

I'd been trying to write a poem Just one ******* poem But he said *Just **** around* Swallow down a bowl full of squares Let’s play games with each other’s minds Spend a night lost in a house of cards Where the joker cackles despite your begging A reminder of what I could do without Shouting at the world from the white pavilion You suckers! With your skirts hitched up and tongues hanging out Gagging on a lover’s loneliness All I see is your undergarments crying for attention With a liquor solace barely down your throat Eighteen silver blades Smile at me with their perfect teeth One to mark each year that past A nineteenth will not be necessary Ready to drag Like the man trailing his head on a string Across the surgeon’s winking knife Tapping their toes on the bathroom counter Anxious to mingle with my flesh I’ve already scrubbed in The survival rate looks dismal The cotton reel loosens and my halo slips Down - the noose around my neck He sat across the room in plaid Remarked upon the crosshatch of red That drew the crooked red grin on the white of my thigh Like loops of raspberry liquorice Seeping out sticky tears He misses handling the vegetables Who ordered cocktails in lurid colours Well, I’ve a mélange of my own A collection of prescriptions from the doctor’s office Stored in a heart shaped box To swallow down like jelly beans I’m waiting for that deadly sugar rush Death’s been dancing on my doorstep Absent minded as I sit at the dinner table Head in hand, foot in grave There’ll be no morning migraine Perhaps a little mourning in the peripheral vision Swept up from beneath the climbing frame Under a soil blanket with a tomb stone mattress Coughing up the sand in my throat That I emptied from the egg-timer Those darling quadrilateral crystals Blissful in their ignorance Disturbing my quiet complacency Drowned in a glass of tomato juice That I poured from my skull Death holds my hand in the dark And I whisper to pass on the message Bury me with pyjama’s and a pillow

57

i because instead of slipping away, i can feel you stretching away through the lines of electricity that used to run from hand to hand finger to finger seamlessly clasped and lightning touch but now, the distinct, archaic electricity wires; through the state line that makes 144 miles 2.5 hours in a car with traffic, 3.5 hours in a train with horizons seem like the years that we spent not knowing each other; through the lines of shadow that keep me up in the middle of the night, pulling me down when i’m short enough already, thanks; through the line that was once binding us, which was only there to make separate forms somewhat distinct— the line which now feels like us dissolving thinning, holes becoming gaps becoming gasps, then melting into tarred and feathered feelings, and the knowledge that even poetry can’t make me feel what you felt today. life line, my *** ii some days, i feel like a ******* camel. not only because i have to stumble bleak miles over thankless tundra under the blue sky of distinct impossibility that in reality is heaven on earth, but in reality doesn’t have your smile; not only because i have to do this with memories of you stored like water in humps— the way you look when we press up nose to nose and laugh, the way you feel like something new and something never-ending the way you conduct lightning though my spine and make thunder sound in my ears all of which has faded to a distant sloshing; not only because sometimes i see a mirage, that palm tree lake luau oasis, that glimpse of the curve of your jaw or whisper of the sound of your voice that makes me turn around but is really another sand dune; but because when i see other couples with their hands interlocked and their eyes aligned and their feet in step like their life is a stage and their world is a musical, i want to ******* spit. iii. but sometimes i realize that stretching is growth is elasticity; that because the kinetic momentum of matter is the fusion of what i want to want with what i need to need, it doesn’t matter because either way, i can’t complain. that because i’m at home in the sound of your voice and because i haven’t been homesick at all, but lovesick and yousick and healthier than ever because of it— it makes me smile whenever, at the end of every conversation, we say: i love you i miss you.

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Oct 9, 2011

Oct 9, 2011 at 3:50 PM UTC

maya-gold

crosshatch

i because instead of slipping away, i can feel you stretching away through the lines of electricity that used to run from hand to hand finger to finger seamlessly clasped and lightning touch but now, the distinct, archaic electricity wires; through the state line that makes 144 miles 2.5 hours in a car with traffic, 3.5 hours in a train with horizons seem like the years that we spent not knowing each other; through the lines of shadow that keep me up in the middle of the night, pulling me down when i’m short enough already, thanks; through the line that was once binding us, which was only there to make separate forms somewhat distinct— the line which now feels like us dissolving thinning, holes becoming gaps becoming gasps, then melting into tarred and feathered feelings, and the knowledge that even poetry can’t make me feel what you felt today. life line, my *** ii some days, i feel like a ******* camel. not only because i have to stumble bleak miles over thankless tundra under the blue sky of distinct impossibility that in reality is heaven on earth, but in reality doesn’t have your smile; not only because i have to do this with memories of you stored like water in humps— the way you look when we press up nose to nose and laugh, the way you feel like something new and something never-ending the way you conduct lightning though my spine and make thunder sound in my ears all of which has faded to a distant sloshing; not only because sometimes i see a mirage, that palm tree lake luau oasis, that glimpse of the curve of your jaw or whisper of the sound of your voice that makes me turn around but is really another sand dune; but because when i see other couples with their hands interlocked and their eyes aligned and their feet in step like their life is a stage and their world is a musical, i want to ******* spit. iii. but sometimes i realize that stretching is growth is elasticity; that because the kinetic momentum of matter is the fusion of what i want to want with what i need to need, it doesn’t matter because either way, i can’t complain. that because i’m at home in the sound of your voice and because i haven’t been homesick at all, but lovesick and yousick and healthier than ever because of it— it makes me smile whenever, at the end of every conversation, we say: i love you i miss you.

80

ever since i could form a thought- i knew of this phenomenon called god. at least that's the name it was given. but i could never think of god as a person, a figure to look up to and are ultimately afraid of. god was never my best friend, never something i devoted my life to nor someone i gave anything up for. god was the force that willed the plants to grow upwards from the ground. god was the recklessness that pushed me to forget my reasoning and follow my gut. god is how you can make sense of the past, how your heartbeat and inhales and exhales synchronise with the ocean how you know what it means to feel electric. god is what made my wrists stop bleeding at the right moment. it made my father cry when he saw the flaw in his production. god is what refused my angelhood and allowed me to breathe and live. i still had time to grow. so i prayed. i surrendered to the magic of the universe. i gave it my undying loyalty.

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Jan 31, 2016

Jan 31, 2016 at 2:54 PM UTC

jaanamj

chi // crosshatch 3.11.15

ever since i could form a thought- i knew of this phenomenon called god. at least that's the name it was given. but i could never think of god as a person, a figure to look up to and are ultimately afraid of. god was never my best friend, never something i devoted my life to nor someone i gave anything up for. god was the force that willed the plants to grow upwards from the ground. god was the recklessness that pushed me to forget my reasoning and follow my gut. god is how you can make sense of the past, how your heartbeat and inhales and exhales synchronise with the ocean how you know what it means to feel electric. god is what made my wrists stop bleeding at the right moment. it made my father cry when he saw the flaw in his production. god is what refused my angelhood and allowed me to breathe and live. i still had time to grow. so i prayed. i surrendered to the magic of the universe. i gave it my undying loyalty.

26

I recall counting the crooked lines that ran the length of your palm, noting how each and every one ran on and on and on before petering out into crosshatch and creases. Remember when I came to yours, that first time? We watched an inconsequential film, made inconsequential small talk as we lay on that rough-lined sofa of yours. I stared into your bright-blue eyes as you glanced up at mine (murkier, sea-floor brown tinged with green - “Harry”, you called me, jokingly) and we kissed because at the time it seemed of consequence. Later, we petered out somewhat (creased and crosshatched as we were), but even now, as I trace the lines of my palm, I can’t help but feel that something that day was of consequence.

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Feb 18, 2012

Feb 18, 2012 at 4:57 PM UTC

nick-c

Tracks

I recall counting the crooked lines that ran the length of your palm, noting how each and every one ran on and on and on before petering out into crosshatch and creases. Remember when I came to yours, that first time? We watched an inconsequential film, made inconsequential small talk as we lay on that rough-lined sofa of yours. I stared into your bright-blue eyes as you glanced up at mine (murkier, sea-floor brown tinged with green - “Harry”, you called me, jokingly) and we kissed because at the time it seemed of consequence. Later, we petered out somewhat (creased and crosshatched as we were), but even now, as I trace the lines of my palm, I can’t help but feel that something that day was of consequence.

26

To keep a routine, that's the thing, that's what keeps it at bay. But is that not just playing a game - the shaving, the brushing, the toenail- trimming every four weeks? I think depression is no more than the sudden dropping of pretence. You keep up your image, because that is what works, and then when you should be at your happiest, it comes like meteors come - not with the cold efficiency of a mechanical bird, but like the damning hellfire of a heavenly body curved off-path. Say you are going for a walk, and it is Spring, and say your love-of-the-moment is a short distance away, as silent as peace because she knows how you can get. Say it is the first bright day, but still chilly - the moon, having been on a binge all night, holds a silent tune so blissfully, a dog whistle in the deep blue, and say the fields are endless sheathes, the crosshatch reeds of farmed corn forming a mosaic riddle on the ever- stubborn mud, and there are ghostly rainbows in the hidden puddles, and it is joyful unlike anything, and there's the feeling of being lost as a child is, comfortably lost, unphased and focused only on the patch of ground in front - the only patch that is, not a patch on what's behind. And say you feel a smile arrive and you feel too clean, if anything, too new and looked after, like a baby, and just as quick you think: this is not the idea, this is not my retirement, how dare I pretend I deserve a moonlit walk in the middle of the day, how dare I play this game? What next? Will I drink the sun?

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Jan 20, 2014

Jan 20, 2014 at 6:33 PM UTC

c-b-heath

Depression

To keep a routine, that's the thing, that's what keeps it at bay. But is that not just playing a game - the shaving, the brushing, the toenail- trimming every four weeks? I think depression is no more than the sudden dropping of pretence. You keep up your image, because that is what works, and then when you should be at your happiest, it comes like meteors come - not with the cold efficiency of a mechanical bird, but like the damning hellfire of a heavenly body curved off-path. Say you are going for a walk, and it is Spring, and say your love-of-the-moment is a short distance away, as silent as peace because she knows how you can get. Say it is the first bright day, but still chilly - the moon, having been on a binge all night, holds a silent tune so blissfully, a dog whistle in the deep blue, and say the fields are endless sheathes, the crosshatch reeds of farmed corn forming a mosaic riddle on the ever- stubborn mud, and there are ghostly rainbows in the hidden puddles, and it is joyful unlike anything, and there's the feeling of being lost as a child is, comfortably lost, unphased and focused only on the patch of ground in front - the only patch that is, not a patch on what's behind. And say you feel a smile arrive and you feel too clean, if anything, too new and looked after, like a baby, and just as quick you think: this is not the idea, this is not my retirement, how dare I pretend I deserve a moonlit walk in the middle of the day, how dare I play this game? What next? Will I drink the sun?

43

Occasionally I feel the curious mystery that sustains in khaki bows and the mystery of planes as an emporium of leaves immerse the night swallowed in the open plains of plaid or locked in the wood behind the walls in home on the range a wonder of crosshatch and deliver in the answer I curiously consider "what thing would dispel such a calming emulsion?"

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Nov 4, 2014

Nov 4, 2014 at 2:43 PM UTC

thibaut-v

Wonder

Occasionally I feel the curious mystery that sustains in khaki bows and the mystery of planes as an emporium of leaves immerse the night swallowed in the open plains of plaid or locked in the wood behind the walls in home on the range a wonder of crosshatch and deliver in the answer I curiously consider "what thing would dispel such a calming emulsion?"

12

Feeling chest heave Not to cry in public I sometimes hate How emotional I am Those words spat A thousand daggers Why am I so sensitive? Fresh, frosted chocolate Plate of dozen doughnuts Fat. Catastrophic crosshatch More red marks than pencil I’ll never pass. Avoiding line of sight Two souls elapsing. When? Thinking and breathing a task sometimes overbearing Because...

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Feb 25, 2016

Feb 25, 2016 at 9:47 PM UTC

decem

doubts

Feeling chest heave Not to cry in public I sometimes hate How emotional I am Those words spat A thousand daggers Why am I so sensitive? Fresh, frosted chocolate Plate of dozen doughnuts Fat. Catastrophic crosshatch More red marks than pencil I’ll never pass. Avoiding line of sight Two souls elapsing. When? Thinking and breathing a task sometimes overbearing Because...

20

A broken hinge rests alone as freedom ripples in the wind. She stands tall beside the red tricycle, fenced in white and rusted green. Snapshots fire sepia-toned memories. Farther down the road, where the crossroads hit the stop sign... phones lines cross the skies.

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May 17, 2019

May 17, 2019 at 10:55 AM UTC

ZeroZen

Crosshatch

A broken hinge rests alone as freedom ripples in the wind. She stands tall beside the red tricycle, fenced in white and rusted green. Snapshots fire sepia-toned memories. Farther down the road, where the crossroads hit the stop sign... phones lines cross the skies.

2