Here's something I wrote maybe 4 years ago, I thought you might enjoy.
Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the Cheerful Dawn;
A dancing shape an Image gay
She Was a Phantom of Delight William Wordsworth
She laced her old and dusty shoes, her private pedestals
On which, tall and limber, she trod out the door
Slicking satin gloss over a pixie dusted perfect lip,
She spirals down the stairs feigning haste
The sooner she gets there, the sooner it begins
At the door, halted, gasping, she stops to stare
Snow twinkles at her feet, on the lawn,
Across the street, a sunset's colours, falling still
Before her eyes, upon her hand, onto her head and shimmers there
Like twilight to her dusky hair
Tall and limber and smiling sure, she hovers
Over sidewalks paved in platinum, her golden statue self,
Carved in light and love and alabaster she
Grips firmly onto the night. The City is hers to keep
It's key, though, loosely grasped, its weighty
Brass tarnished, green. Like its porter, it had once shone
Smiling sculpted sure towards the door, remembering
A time before when canvas painted was smile and stride
And grateful that by the days have gone
Where all things else about her drawn.
Smiling, sculpted sure she golden shines and enters
The dimly lit room where she glows amid the gloom.
Sheds her coat and shakes the twilight from her hair,
She leans against the bar and rifles through her purse
Plucks from it a slim, white cigarette and once lit,
Sits it on her perfect pixie dusted lip. Into her lungs and mind, smoke is drawn
And released. She looks to the empty floor and is taken
By angels, rapt, into the music and the rhythm
Dancing the night into day and again from dusk, moving, a graceful swan
From May-time into cheerful dawn
Dancing, her arms to treble rise and fall,
Her hips to bass sway left and right
She dances, laughing, smiling, sculpted sure
Her gleaming golden self. She lets the DJ polish
The tarnished green bits left from flatter days
And fingering beats like rosary beads, she finally can pray.
Oh, gods of dancing, gods of wine, gods of rock n' roll,
And gods of drugs, of smoke and bliss, her prayer on high she sends,
That forever young and smiling, sculpted sure she stay.
A dancing shape, an image gay.
VIEW 11 of 11 COMMENTS
valcapone:
Word. Personally, I want to be known under my own name just because I want to be the one who smashes the gender stereotypes. But I can see your point about taking a male name, cus I certainly don't want to be Women's Studied. Fuck the segregation; integrate that shit, yo! I think my 18th and 19th Century Lit prof does a good job of integrating female writers very unobtrusively. He talks about how being a female writer would have been a problem in those days, but doesn't make it seem like a problem NOW. He's quite good at that kind of thing, explaining these archaic issues while not making the overwhelmingly female class feel alienated. Especially because normally I check out a syllabus and go "man, man, man, man... why don't we ever read anything by a woman except as tokenism?" In most of my classes, that's standard, and incredibly lame.
lemonkid:
When I have a book of sea shanties, a proper captain and more money for canned goods.