"inanimacy" poems - Hello Poetry

The comic convention has cardboard cutouts of all of the main characters of Harry Potter. Harry, Ron, Hermione, etc. All motionless in a river of people, glossy but worn down, bathed in cold white halogen. And one by one, the cosplayers— the Harrys Rons Hermiones, etc. Have their pictures taken with the cutouts, one cardboard cutout cut out and replaced with a real human being. Being human, we crave companionship, fear solitude, crave solitude, fear companionship. We try to avoid becoming cardboard cutouts of ourselves, but sometimes a retreat into inanimacy is what the animus needs. The cosplayers continue to shuffle forward in line each waiting to pose for a selfie. Each politely smiling at the living Harry Potter characters around them, but not striking up a conversation.

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Aug 3, 2014

Aug 3, 2014 at 8:35 PM UTC

Ira-Desmond

On being an Introvert

The comic convention has cardboard cutouts of all of the main characters of Harry Potter. Harry, Ron, Hermione, etc. All motionless in a river of people, glossy but worn down, bathed in cold white halogen. And one by one, the cosplayers— the Harrys Rons Hermiones, etc. Have their pictures taken with the cutouts, one cardboard cutout cut out and replaced with a real human being. Being human, we crave companionship, fear solitude, crave solitude, fear companionship. We try to avoid becoming cardboard cutouts of ourselves, but sometimes a retreat into inanimacy is what the animus needs. The cosplayers continue to shuffle forward in line each waiting to pose for a selfie. Each politely smiling at the living Harry Potter characters around them, but not striking up a conversation.

34

open ended, carved under the sky, before night arrests our bated breathing, a long line pulls taut. a single glimmer, thirty seven degrees to the horizon, devolves in absence; here, a heaviness. you tore the center of a dripping plum clean to ripples over fading plains, corners of streets where i stand, on one foot, against this architect's second-best: perfect still, bearings, city centre. lost. a kite string north, slight east, the rotation of points demarcating this pasture, a long line becoming cycles, tying tree-trunks like your handwriting in switchblade font; static inanimacy, a song for nothing, a five minute overhaul, the only meaningful composition the world will give up. years. taking up a pair of scissors, you make soft moves; kiss someone new a little longer kiss someone new a little kiss someone new, smile, skin as parchment, fine paintings, forwarding addresses, symbols glowing through the depths of night; a candle, alight, to have read you by. a short line comes loose, i fall down. empty. you fall asleep, smile.

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Nov 13, 2013

Nov 13, 2013 at 5:04 AM UTC

tom-mccone

ξεχνώντας

open ended, carved under the sky, before night arrests our bated breathing, a long line pulls taut. a single glimmer, thirty seven degrees to the horizon, devolves in absence; here, a heaviness. you tore the center of a dripping plum clean to ripples over fading plains, corners of streets where i stand, on one foot, against this architect's second-best: perfect still, bearings, city centre. lost. a kite string north, slight east, the rotation of points demarcating this pasture, a long line becoming cycles, tying tree-trunks like your handwriting in switchblade font; static inanimacy, a song for nothing, a five minute overhaul, the only meaningful composition the world will give up. years. taking up a pair of scissors, you make soft moves; kiss someone new a little longer kiss someone new a little kiss someone new, smile, skin as parchment, fine paintings, forwarding addresses, symbols glowing through the depths of night; a candle, alight, to have read you by. a short line comes loose, i fall down. empty. you fall asleep, smile.

43

art isn't a thing it is a fractured composure misunderstood by defiants yet rises to better expectations of reliance art is praised through the melodies of random kindness through the pictures of story-telling through the written speech of your imagination art is a soul that is purely intoxicated pre-judged with mere perfection consoling the lightworker in you art is you bestowed to eradicate mediocrity created to being inanimacy to life distinguished for an exciting simplicity.

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Jan 18, 2015

Jan 18, 2015 at 3:51 PM UTC

elijah

Art

art isn't a thing it is a fractured composure misunderstood by defiants yet rises to better expectations of reliance art is praised through the melodies of random kindness through the pictures of story-telling through the written speech of your imagination art is a soul that is purely intoxicated pre-judged with mere perfection consoling the lightworker in you art is you bestowed to eradicate mediocrity created to being inanimacy to life distinguished for an exciting simplicity.

16

Rapturous and overjoyed with the prospect of bridging innocence into essence. Preparations and organisations as the raw love and affection fill your aura. Guiltlessness chastity swells and animates inside the womb. A blank page ready to embark on life, never before experienced the sensations that should follow. The words don’t reach the blissful state of mind at first. Realising the reality of the dreadful situation collapsing into an abyss of hate. The once shinning beacon of life and innocence lost into inanimacy. Still birth is no option; stress and depression are ripping the edges of the soul. Crumbling like stale bread, horrid and sadistic thoughts begin to bloom like mould. The structure of everything positive begins to decompose like the departed carcass inside. Rid of the tiny dead beast that has caused such pain. The hatred begins to mingle with the guilt and the shame. The specialists give negative reactions towards the longing for detachment. Bad they say, recovery is essential now, detachment is the later. As you arrive into the kitchen, the harsh taste of alcohol lingers in your worthless mouth. Neither God, nor the devil will grant forgiveness for what happened next. The half shattered bottle of poisonous alcohol embedded in the belly. The tiny lifeless carcass still not quite developed lay peacefully on the ground. Broken but departed the doctors were right. Twisting the bloodied bottle to the jugular the eyes close. From love to death the pattern will follow. The mercy of above is non-existent. The heart stops. Life ceases. By Joseph Burns

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Jun 25, 2013

Jun 25, 2013 at 6:38 PM UTC

joseph-harry-burns

Innocence Lost To Death

Rapturous and overjoyed with the prospect of bridging innocence into essence. Preparations and organisations as the raw love and affection fill your aura. Guiltlessness chastity swells and animates inside the womb. A blank page ready to embark on life, never before experienced the sensations that should follow. The words don’t reach the blissful state of mind at first. Realising the reality of the dreadful situation collapsing into an abyss of hate. The once shinning beacon of life and innocence lost into inanimacy. Still birth is no option; stress and depression are ripping the edges of the soul. Crumbling like stale bread, horrid and sadistic thoughts begin to bloom like mould. The structure of everything positive begins to decompose like the departed carcass inside. Rid of the tiny dead beast that has caused such pain. The hatred begins to mingle with the guilt and the shame. The specialists give negative reactions towards the longing for detachment. Bad they say, recovery is essential now, detachment is the later. As you arrive into the kitchen, the harsh taste of alcohol lingers in your worthless mouth. Neither God, nor the devil will grant forgiveness for what happened next. The half shattered bottle of poisonous alcohol embedded in the belly. The tiny lifeless carcass still not quite developed lay peacefully on the ground. Broken but departed the doctors were right. Twisting the bloodied bottle to the jugular the eyes close. From love to death the pattern will follow. The mercy of above is non-existent. The heart stops. Life ceases. By Joseph Burns

3

So many moons ago, before the tides of your love changed me, the November grey of ink which surrounded my groggy limbs pulled me down. I was drowning, always. Yet all it took was for me to see that the ink had power to do something more - to stain and change the paper beneath it instead of destroying it. It will take away the blank inanimacy of the white and make something storming, wild and capable of feeling. It will make something different. I will use this ink to make something beautiful to be remembered by instead of letting it defeat me.

0

Apr 6, 2017

Apr 6, 2017 at 3:49 PM UTC

scarletniamh

The Painter

So many moons ago, before the tides of your love changed me, the November grey of ink which surrounded my groggy limbs pulled me down. I was drowning, always. Yet all it took was for me to see that the ink had power to do something more - to stain and change the paper beneath it instead of destroying it. It will take away the blank inanimacy of the white and make something storming, wild and capable of feeling. It will make something different. I will use this ink to make something beautiful to be remembered by instead of letting it defeat me.

11