Two Poems, Saturday
Apr. 24th, 2021 07:08 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
highlyeccentricMost importantly, it is now safe for me to wear the fedora, because I have had my hair dyed very bright colours. That is why we pay the hair wizards good money, and get up at 5.50am to trek intercity to boot. I have also seen the Magnificent Mr Mercury, who doesn't want to cuddle, he wants to wiggle and bite and put his claws in things. His sister Tiddlywinks is much better behaved, while Chester is now also a fiendish fussfresserchen. The hole in my sock is bigger than it was before it met Chester.
Prisoner's Cinema with Saints Catherine and Lucy
Susannah Nevison
“Prisoner’s cinema” is the term given to visual hallucinations reported by prisoners confined to dark cells and by others kept in darkness for long periods of time.
Lit by a million specks of light,
all your dust turns holy.
What’s rotten in you burns
and burns. You, a shadow-
you, gone glowing
Catherine wheel, a spoked
gloaming. You know lead can lodge
into an animal’s skull, turn
the skull into a lit temple
of its wanderings, and this is how
you understand the fabled bowl
a saint carries, its hollow lit
by the eyes it cradles and the saint
eyeless and God-filled. You are not
eyeless and God is nowhere
to witness how you become
the wheel and the body it breaks,
a spectacle of light you cannot fathom
until you fathom it—flooded
as you are with shadow, darkness
taut as an animal’s shank
until it ripples at your touch. Pools
in the bowl your hands make.
Then breaks.
I also recommend, but will link to rather than copy out because its topic, Black grief for untimely Black deaths, is A Lot right now, Starr Davis - Mourning Sex.
Prisoner's Cinema with Saints Catherine and Lucy
Susannah Nevison
“Prisoner’s cinema” is the term given to visual hallucinations reported by prisoners confined to dark cells and by others kept in darkness for long periods of time.
Lit by a million specks of light,
all your dust turns holy.
What’s rotten in you burns
and burns. You, a shadow-
you, gone glowing
Catherine wheel, a spoked
gloaming. You know lead can lodge
into an animal’s skull, turn
the skull into a lit temple
of its wanderings, and this is how
you understand the fabled bowl
a saint carries, its hollow lit
by the eyes it cradles and the saint
eyeless and God-filled. You are not
eyeless and God is nowhere
to witness how you become
the wheel and the body it breaks,
a spectacle of light you cannot fathom
until you fathom it—flooded
as you are with shadow, darkness
taut as an animal’s shank
until it ripples at your touch. Pools
in the bowl your hands make.
Then breaks.
I also recommend, but will link to rather than copy out because its topic, Black grief for untimely Black deaths, is A Lot right now, Starr Davis - Mourning Sex.