=AzizrianDaoXrak

I am the Merlin, and he is me.

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National Poetry Writing Month 2012

Get excited for NaPoWriMo 2012! I will be writing one poem per day for the entire month of April! If you're coming here via the NaPoWriMo official site, feel free to wander around my gallery for a bit, or go check out my poetry group's blog for more prompts! ([link]

The PlungeWhat have we to look forward to
but a dystopian future,
lives of running along knife blades,
lives like cliff-diving
and searching for our seeds in sand—

will they be balls of string, leading us to the sea
or minotaurs ravaging our bones?

—seeds that we will christen ourselves:
deserts devoid of sun.The Plunge

Guardian AngelsI picture angels
like worry dolls, clustered
dancing on pinheads.Guardian Angels

TrajectoryI wonder what would have happened
if we hadn't awkwardly made out on my couch
that night.

What I most dread is that there was something
inevitable about it, that your mother
fitting me for her old wedding dress
dragged the whole thread of my life
inexorably forward.

That we were somehow built as
satellites; and all I can do
is think about all the other stars
I might have seen if some NASA scientist
had calculated the trajectory of my flight
just wrong enough, and set me free
of the earth's gravity field.Trajectory

Musicians are Nothing but Bad NewsMusicians don't deserve love stories -
they're nothing but bad news articles,
wet and clinging to your shoe soles,
never quite gone.Musicians are Nothing but Bad News

Puzzle Piece Childi. Childhood Memory

As a child, I took my world in
through my palms, took in monkey bar splinters

and made myself for the first time as a weed beside
Walden Pond, as a clump of tenacious leaves fearing anthills.

My philosophy began as a collection of wood posts
marking the limits of a man's life at a time in mine

when names were simply the sounds that belonged
to people, not the other way 'round, when the stories

didn't yet blossom from my head, were still
daisy buds or infant Athenas. But I have always been

a mottled creature, a moss growth of
corresponding shapes. As a third-grader, I

marked these shapes on a world map with
bPuzzle Piece Child

NaPoWriMo 21I picture sweat like
an animal, clear and quiet,
burrowing into my armpit hairs.NaPoWriMo 21

Not a Twilight ReferenceI have a heart that doesn't just pump blood,
doesn't just glow purple in your palm,
my soukougnan, my sweet blood drinker.

Its caverns are not empty.
Even crushed between your teeth
they are cathedrals that will remember you
long after I am gone.Not a Twilight Reference

Terraformingi do not know what to say to the moon when i
wander between the mesa shelves, a cliff
dweller and an unwanted library book
passing from hand to hand and never quite
brown or red enough to hide myself from the
coyotes. i remember something of the south-
west—my hands sticky with desert powder
and cactus sap, and a feeling i can't explain
without the gleaming scrub brush beetles to
draw my nazca lines. i can tell you, though,
of when i willed myself to fit within the
cracks of canyon walls and tried to sink my
toes down into the colorado river. terra will
not fit my form, so i must longingly fit mine to hers.Terraforming

Another Poem on InsecurityMy knobbly, milky knees hide
from an adolescent summer sun.
I wish I were a naiad,
brown, crawling from the surf.

If I can just bask myself golden brown
to perfection, perhaps my delicate pink
skin blossoms
will shrivel up and die.

The sun where it touches my legs smells
of baking grass, makes my hairs
stand electrically on end.
The sunshine will lift up all my dead cells,
my hangnails and split ends,
and by the sunkissed-brown
that I will not obtain
from a bottled elixir
snatched from store shelves -

by it I will be purified
and finally
beautiful.Another Poem on Insecurity

Losing my Head for the SummerI am wildflower,
a flame azalea drawing
its roots up from the asphalt -
an ox-eyed daisy,
ox-blood and whirling,
hair like the tops of cogon grass
caught in a
westward wind.

My head will come back to me
in September,
chased by the tornadoes
from across the Plains;
it will catch me up in time
for hurricane season

when I will don my hat again
to keep my head from spinning
and to ward off further freckling.Losing my Head for the Summer

On Account of that FrostingMy mom can't help chuckling
when people wax poetic
about the Smoky Mountain slopes in October.

Says they must've never seen the Berkshires,
glowing dreamlike and bonfire-frosted
in the autumn sun.On Account of that Frosting

NaPoWriMo 14Sat down with my girls for a cuppa tea,
talked about fifteen birds in five fir trees.NaPoWriMo 14

NaPoWriMo 13We've called in the cavalry, now -
witch doctors ready
to cure the illnesses witches make,
with pockets full of worry dolls
and bay leaves to rid you of
heartache.NaPoWriMo 13

Helen's BridgeHelen, come forth.

You never went as far as Greece.
Hell, you never left the mountains.
I found myself drawn to the road
that runs beneath your bridge,
my fear like an electric charge
dragging me in ever smaller circles to you.

I should tell you:
I am afraid of heights. The thought
of a single length of rope suspended from the bridge
as all that keeps me from crashing against the asphalt below
makes me shiver.
I am not your daughter. Do not take me with you.
Perhaps I may discharge the energy that keeps us bound
with burning sage, a respectful nod and
a quartz crystal thrown into the ravine.
May it fill your gaping heart hole Helen's Bridge

Anatomy of a TeacupI weary of stories
that lay out destinies
like long tunnels of pain,
incurable by a few mere pills
and a cup of tea before bed.

I cling close to my teacup womb:
A cup tipped over, upset by careless elbows,
and as the liquid spills out,
I wear realization like a crown that is
free will in a world haunted by God.Anatomy of a Teacup

Microcosmia UniversaMicrocosmic:
prepare yourself for the plunge.
Now—take a deep breath.

A microcosm,
silent iceberg tip,
silent like stars.

Prepare yourself for the plunge.
Lacking the stamina of
sea lions, you may drown.

Now take a deep breath;
heart as nebula,
as hydrogen gas.

The oxygen leaves
lungs flat as comet tails.
Preparing for the plunge,
lacking air for a breath—
micro-cosmic.Microcosmia Universa

Pygmalion's BrideWe're all fixated on death—
arrows, all, streaking towards our targets.

Ovid understood it,
understood the metamorphosis
of sinew and bone to soil.

A one hundred foot long
pink lightning smear stretched
along the highway
where the reaper reached out his hand
and plucked a rabbit from the side of the road.

The day when target, arrow, bow and hand become
one and the same—
transformed to something more than stone
and less than flesh—
for now is small,
a mayfly I may swat away
with a complaint about the open window.Pygmalion's Bride

Wilmington, NCYou talk
of the properties of seashells,
gesturing with hands
pale and knotted as oyster shells.

A sand devil,
bored with our conversation,
kicks up his heels and flies away
up over the sand dunes,
laughing in the sawgrass.Wilmington, NC

FigsWe dragged ourselves from the earth's
purpurous hollows,
with pomegranate seeds in our bellies,
the violet light of dusk blinding us.

Marked, we were.
Purple as death—
slathered with mulberry juice,
fresh as the womb.
We pressed potpourri to our eyelids,
crushed lavender in our fists
and drowned our fingers
in the quiet amaranthine soil.
Our fingernails came up
dyed indigo.

And one day we blossomed figs
and cried
when we split them open and realized
we still had pomegranate seeds inside.

We are barely a shallow line in the sand
between here and never-been-born.Figs

NaPoWriMo 6Grandmother used to sit me in her lap and tell me
the story of how Momma Moon taught our ancestors to weave,
how she sent her drop-spindle down to us like spider's silk.

And I imagined Momma Moon climbing her way back home
across Appalachian pine trees.NaPoWriMo 6

When I am Old I Shall be Like Vincent Van GoghWhen I am old
I shall go about in an old straw hat
with my ears bandaged, for I will not need to hear.

I will lie in hayfields
and watch the crows fly into a sky so blue
it reflects the hell that is waiting for me.

And I will cackle to myself
and wait to become an ornery old scarecrow
with a stick so far up my ass it keeps my aging spine from slipping.

At last,
when the darkness comes for me, I will put on my purple funeral dress
and lay out tea and cakes for the reaper, for I can't see a reason
not to be civil about the whole thing.When I am Old I Shall be Like Vincent Van Gogh

Devil Woman BluesI love my ole man, but he goes out every night.
Yes, I love my ole man, but he goes out every night.
He better watch his back, 'cause I been watchin out, all right.

He slinks in early in the mornin, thinks he's sneaky as a cat.
Oh, he slinks in early in the mornin, thinks he's sneaky as a cat.
But I've caught him when he's sleepin—my perfume don't smell like that.

I know a lady who'll help me to set it right.
Lord, I know a lady who'll help me to set it right.
No, she ain't known for mercy, but she's sure a pretty sight.

I got a date with my sweet lady, way out in the woods.
I got a date with my sweet lady, way out in the woodsDevil Woman Blues

The Wedding of Sparrow and FoxOne morning,
Fox left his den in search of food.
He searched the ground and found nothing,
and searched the trees and found nothing,
and finally looked to the sky,
where he saw a sparrow with lovely, shining feathers.

For a while, Fox simply watched, gathering his courage,
then finally he stepped forward and called out,
"Hello!
What are you doing up there?"
Sparrow whirled and wheeled and called back,
"I am enjoying the feel of the wind in my feathers
and the sun on my back."

Then Fox asked, "Won't you come down to earth and speak to me?"
Sparrow looked at Fox's lustrous, russet fur
and thought of Fox's kind, soothing voice.
BThe Wedding of Sparrow and Fox

JanusOld Nick,
he says he misses the thistles in winter,
says he rides the potatoes like brooms to the surface.

On the shores of Devil's Lake, he has two faces—
one to bewitch, and one

that is a battlefield crow stretching its wings.Janus

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