Monday, February 15, 2010


...was the one I meant to post yesterday. Published somewhere sometime. Took a screencap because I'm thinking it'll be a bitch trying to format it in html, so I didn't even try. Yes, it's probably what you think it's about. (Click on the image to view it at a more readable size.)

Sunday, February 14, 2010

Digging up an old poem because I haven't written a new one in ages

Yeah yeah, snort and chuckle all you want my friends. I can almost hear you now. Oh what have we here, imogen the cynic posting a loooove prose poem on Valentine's Day. After not having blogged in ages! First off, it's not exactly a love poem, is it? Well, yeah, it's a different aspect of love perhaps. I was going to post a real love poem (one of the less cynical ones I've ever written) but then hah, apparently my files are not in this laptop. I've managed to find only this one. So.

No, I have not written poetry in ages. Yes, I have still been thinking of getting back to it. And no, I have not done anything about it yet. By the by, I might be able to write again. Don't rush me, that will only serve to delay it.

So for now this will have to do.

At the Reading

This must be how it feels they think, at a mountain summit, when all you have is rarefied air, as they watch him, study him intently as if he were on exhibit, on display. He, his face, his body, is a map as familiar as their own. It is a cartography that charts the precise beatings of their blood. He is the shore upon which their stares have ebbed and flowed, have lapped and beaten, waves upon waves, raging and restless, a vast ocean stretching infinite and boundless. But they are not at sea, not now as they view him, watch him, as tentatively he raises mug to mouth, fingers like lithesome vine imitating the graceful curves and delicacy of teacups. Ridiculous it seems to infer this from a man whose mere presence makes every woman catch her breath. Rather: long coarse digits caressing china, he raises it to mouth, the interminable interval before it reaches his lips mimicking a slowness with a too familiar agony they wish to share. Their gaze burns a path along his angular jaw, traipse down the prickly stubbles that cover the breadth of his chin, touch his neck, the adam’s apple that screams his sex. He raises the cup again in salute, takes a sip. From behind its wet rim he fixes a stare, eyes changing hue. They suck in the beginnings of a moan, jagged and strained, pain as sheer as the edge of a blade. Just as slowly, he puts down his drink, devilish lips curling, creases forming at the corners of his eyes. The room heaves a breath, generates heat as thick as skin, feints a swoon. All this and he has yet to utter a single word.