Protected: Afterthought 1639—Saṃsāra Song

Posted in sonnet, sonnet cycle by maggie on 2017/04/06

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Afterthought 913—Sonnet -6

Posted in nothing special, sonnet, sonnet cycle by maggie on 2016/02/17
Conceived in doubt, whom he loves he must lose
his future to.  Another will come by
to pick it up for him.  He needn't try
convincing her to stay.  Another muse
will speak to his forgotten dream.  Excuse
him his regard for her.  Another sky
will open up on him.  Distrusting why,
whose child he fathers he cannot be whose.
My mother's nipple nursed me on his word
until my own kicked in. "Before he left
me stuck with you," she told me once, "He'd hoped
to live to see you cured.  I might've coped
with losing him, but not with your soul's theft.
Go after him. You'll know no other lord."

Afterthought 910—Sonnet -5

Posted in nothing special, sonnet, sonnet cycle by maggie on 2016/02/17
His mourning by the night's black prison walled
with complications, over which scars traced
the days of years authorities erased
from ghosts of former prisoners, forestalled
just long enough to crack into, he crawled
on hands and knees through poisoned blood encased
in scab.  His goddess crept inside him, chaste
as moonlight, cold as beds where they fell sprawled.

No mention of him made it to the news,
no recognition of the wave of grief,
depression, pain and shame in which he drowned
his solitude. His child was never found.
Such miracles are killed by unbelief
conceived in doubt. Whom he loves, he must lose.

Afterthought 908—Sonnet -4

Posted in nothing special, sonnet, sonnet cycle by maggie on 2016/02/16
The hell of every death she claims: she died
inside her mother's void, then died at birth 
without a cry, then every step on earth
died yet again. She took vows as a bride
and died. She died in every move she tried
to make. Be it deluge, be it dearth,
she died. She died until it wasn't worth
her dying further, death to her denied.
No autopsy was sought, no inquest called.
No funeral rites were held. No gravestone marks
the hillside where her body last was placed
facedown, a scrap of fast-decaying waste.
Run away, far off her dog still barks
his mourning, by the night's black prison walled.
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Afterthought 907—Sonnet -3

Posted in nothing special, sonnet, sonnet cycle by maggie on 2016/02/15
"So as," I said, "I don't expect to stay
the night, don't make room for me in your bed."
"Fine since," she stood to see me out, "you're dead
to me. I would have trashed you anyway."
"I know," I told myself, "I heard you say
as much. Keep any substitute instead. 
Give him all these words we never said."
"Laissez-moi tranquille s'il vous plaît."
Hard moonlight in my eyes, endless outside:
the distances press in on me, no hurt
embracing me, no poison to my blood
except drowned deep in contagion's flood,
abandoned like a common clump of dirt—
the hell of every death she claims she died.  


Afterthought 903—Sonnet -2

Posted in nothing special, sonnet, sonnet cycle by maggie on 2016/02/13

A poem or two here — every now and then
I'll leave a poem for you here. You won't know
quite what to make of it. Let's act as though
we mean it this time any more than when
it mattered. Come, let's give ourselves to men
as stiff as sonnets lined up row by row.
Let's play the game. Then when you tell me, "Go
away" again, let's throw away my pen.
How many have I written every day
since then, when I first heard that casting call
and thought it something suited to my taste
and talent. To my love. Ah, waste, foul waste,
the only thing one gets from giving all,
so as I said, I don't expect to stay.


Afterthought 901—Sonnet -1

Posted in nothing special, sonnet, sonnet cycle by maggie on 2016/02/12

This won't be how my word will be reborn 
like yours, all echo, pieces we'll forget, 
as randomly arranged as when we met 
like moonlight let loose on that autumn's morn. 

Like those, no doubt these too will earn your scorn — 
these touches you won't want, dreams you won't let 
act real, as real as poetry, yet . . . yet 
I'll hope this page won't get discarded torn. 

So let's just happen crossing paths again, 
a drink or two, perhaps enjoy a dance 
together, nothing one need bother keep. 
As you yourself have said, my talk is cheap — 
lines strung together from mere circumstance, 
a poem or two here, every now and then.

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Afterthought 271—North over Superior

Posted in sonnet by maggie on 2015/07/09

                Schreiber, Ontario
                July 2015
This way works. The children do ok if we don't overdo. We've still two weeks before you're back to work. Tomorrow speaks its mind softly, has no demands to say. This way really works. Were we to stay there, we'd all die again. The same techniques would execute the same judgment's critiques. For all concerned, best'll be this way. Where and when our midnight's never gone's not new to either one of us. I won't throw shadows on our love. Neither should you. Whatever, ON-17'll take us on through before we turn back home. Don't think I don't recognize our loved ones' needs and wants.
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Afterthought 173—A Doppelgänger’s Complaint

Posted in sonnet by maggie on 2015/05/09

If I possessed such magic as might weave
vibrations through the wind such as dare dance
the stars through myths and legends we believe,
my spells would cast our night its own romance
in gold and silver circles wrapped in ice
as delicate as light's transparent veil
revealing word in love's most secret vice
and love retracing blood's worst wayward trail.  

I don't. The surest song I try to raise
falls flat, chokes on its bone, avoids
its own reflection, pastes in hoary grays
on grays, finds beauty in its hemorrhoids. 

Obloquy suits the ear, no?  Let each word
be child unknown, unwritten and unheard.