|Soul Aware and Unslept
They think her strange, the men
passing through her life and slender arms,
with her long curls and her feminine muscles,
an odd combination of fury and fluff.
They think her mad,
when she stands up at midnight,
walks alone toward the man-made dunes
and calls silently to the beasts
she can hear as they crouch
and scurry in the fields,
wishing they could speak to her
or that she could learn their
wild languages enough to let them
know that she is kindred, that her soul is wild.
They think she is all about illusion;
they love the poetry on the page
but they never stop to hear the words
that come from her lips moving,
busy as they are watching the curve of leg
and the rhythm of her hips in flight.
She is, in fact, all about illusion – smoke and mirrors
define her soul – she understands
that some women look better
in twilight than full sun.
Her lips, unused to speaking her poetry aloud,
close in a well-worn hum and the men rest
as she touches their skin with her fingertips,
slender fingers skilled in playing along keyboards
and humming with a life of their own.
4 Aug 06
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Thank you, Phoenix.
This is a very impressive poem. It has the sultry feel of the edge of a jungle where inside its dark interior something untamable and wild is lurking. I really thought you portrayed well what sits just below the facade some of us like to call social presumptions regarding the rol of woman in society.Oh and another thing Isabelle, why have you not e-mailed me? I rise in hope every morning only to have them dashed down.
Luv ya,your the best
Why, Larry, how charming a comment. (Check your e-mail.) I sometimes like writing about myself from the third person, somehow it helps me clarify that it's okay to be exactly what I am and not worry about being "different."
When you write 'they think she is all about illusion' your grammar suggests that it is 'the beasts' who think this. I am not convinced that this was really what you meant at all.
Again you don't tell us which are 'the beasts' she yearns to be kindred with. There is all the difference in the world between wanting to be a baboon and wanting to be a fieldmouse - and someone who felt she had the soul of a skink would be a very interesting character.
There were some promising ideas going around here - I think they would have come on stronger grounded in clearer imagery. Clearsight is as valuable in poetry as it is in any other science.
ferngulley, you make some great points. I will ponder them. I knew the beasts I meant but of course, you would not and if you've never read any of my Wetlands poems, absolutely you would not. Thanks.
Isabelle, why is it all of your work speaks to me on a personal level? Psh, why cares why -- I love that it does.
Watch the punctuation typo in L21, if the period is a typo.
Wonderful! I didn't want it to end. I don't understand 'Unslept' in the title though.
Whoa, good catch in line 21. I never noticed it - someone want my punctuation crown???
Unslept means the part of us that never sleeps, always aware, trying to make the unconscious part of us wake up and see what life is supposed to be. Most of us sleep-walk through our lives, don't you think? We wake up in small pieces.
Yes, Isabelle, I agree. Many sleepwalk through their entire lives. A cute word for this is somnambulists. I love that you are so awake, awake to the sensual blissfulness right here, in each moment.
this should answer the question in the thread.
"Who is Isabelle5?"