Wednesday, April 8, 2015

NaPoWriMo 2015 with Magaly Guerrero, Day 8: It Hurts, but It Doesn’t Harm

Today, Magaly says to: "weave a poem that explores the difference between hurt and harm."

For simplification's sake, she narrowed it down to the difference between physical pain and physical harm. I think I know exactly what she means...

Leather loves the taste of sweat and skin
Whip thrills to the swift lash
Knife... well, everyone knows what Knife thirsts for.
Leather was the first; she knows the fleshlings best
She knows their play and she smiles
with an amusement bordering indulgence.
There was always joy in their noises
of mutual appreciation.
Whip came later, and got along with Leather pretty well
Knife was new, though... 
And Leather didn't know how to feel about that.
She wasn't particularly fond of the taste of blood.

"Ouch," said Knife, as something soft went past his edges.
Whip winced in sympathy; the fleshling's cries were far too loud.
Leather, restraining flesh bared for Whip and Knife, rolled her eyes.
Knife was new to the game; he didn't know what to expect.
Whip was a wimp, even though she liked to bite.
Leather knew the fleshling's cries well;
they were rather incoherent most of the time.
 The second fleshling, always unbound, always talked softly
but tonight something was wrong.
Tonight, his voice was loud.

Knife bit fleshling far too deeply, and Whip tasted the wound.
Fleshing cried out again, this time in terror.
The unbound one's eyes glittered
with an expression that Leather didn't like.
If Whip wasn't flying, she'd be covering her eyes.
Knife, again. Whip, again.
Until Leather gagged on blood
and choked on the stench of fear.
The unbound was snarling, rage and madness in its hands...
Until the only sound was the drip, drip, drip
of the blood's flow slowing
but Leather still couldn't see.

Leather felt hands; felt Knife and Whip bundled up next to her
They whispered in the dark to one another;
"What's happened?"
"I don't know!"
"Something bad," said Knife, and they all fell silent.
There was noise again, and then... dirt.
And then Leather could see, just a little.
Something orange and yellow flickered too brightly
And she knew fear.
Leather screamed as the heat began to touch her.
Whip wept and whimpered inconsolably
but neither understood
what Knife knew, all too well:
that there are some things
even Fire cannot burn away.

Sunday, April 5, 2015

NaPoWriMo with Magaly Guerrero, day 4: Feeling so Deeply it Hurts

(Yes, I skipped day 3. This is my attempt to catch up. I may yet go back to day 3. Yes, I am a time traveler. No, you may not hop a ride in my TARDIS.)

From Magaly: "On day 4 of NaPoWriMo with Magaly Guerrero 2015, I wish you to write a poem that shows how an emotion might increase physical pain, and vice versa."


Shake your head and turn away.
Close your ears to what I could not say.
Blind your eyes to what was right in front of you.
Blame me
Deride me
Pity me

Go on, it's only words
flung blindly from your hearts
oozing with ill-conceived emotions
and birthed from misbegotten loins.
Still, they slice like the knife
and burn like poison
and sear like fire.

I never lied, not once,
except to tell you I was just fine,
except when I told you
nothing was wrong.
Let's be honest now
you didn't want to hear it.
My truth
would have cut you deeper
than your words behind my back 
will ever scar my flesh
(and you should know, it will scar).

I embrace the torment
of your misunderstandings, 
flung like bullets through my unprotected Self.
I take it in and place it
alongside my own
so they won't be lonely.
I wrap myself around the pain
and keep going,
just as I've always done.
Because it's the only thing
I know how to do. 
Because it's the only thing
you've ever known how to let me do.

Until now.
I stand, I burn, I breathe
Take it in, transmute it, make it mine.
By Fire and Earth and Air
Transform woe into weal,
Forged, grounded, carried aloft.
By Sword, Stone, and Feather
I stand here as I am, to offer it up
-my own shed skin, rent asunder-
a sacrifice to show the world
(should it care to see)
that things would have been so much better
had only "I" become "we."

Friday, April 3, 2015

NaPoWriMo with Magaly Guerrero, day 3: Indulgences

From Magaly: "Craft a poem about spoiling your Self or the Self of another. Let decadence run wild."

To honor my Dragon.

Dragon's Hoard

Our hearts
flowing with love like rivers of gold
keep you close and and dear.
Our eyes, bright as gems,
sparkling in delight, excitement, joy
gaze upward to your face, well loved.

Our arms draped about your neck
like strings of pearls
to hold and be held.

Our minds as one
in knowing you;
with our lips we bless you
with words:
Guardian, Comfort, Friend
Teacher, Playmate, Protector
Father, Lover
We, your treasure hoard, name you

Dragons' Treasure by Skye-Fyre on deviantART

NaPoWriMo with Magaly Guerrero, day 2: Creativity and Pain

"How do you use (or imagine others can use): Creativity to make Pain bearable? Today’s 'poem should explore creativity as a healing salve, as a shield, as a weapon, or as a negotiation method to use when dealing with physical and/or psychological pain.'"

I don't live with physical pain like many I know. Magaly, my Dragon, his father, my grandmother, my dad.... and others. I have had pain: migraines, birthing pains, surgery recoveries. I cannot begin to imagine the insanity of living with pains like those every day.

There are pains I know well, however; pains of the heart and mind. I'm a mother, I'm an artist, I am a woman... who was it that once said something along the lines of "women bear the pains of the world" or suchlike? Women know pain... wise women embrace it and turn it to their purpose, to make something beautiful out of something horrific. The Japanese know the concept. I'm sure you've seen this meme floating around the Internet, or one similar:

To be a woman, an artist, a mother, is to live this idea, every day. We have three daughters. The first I gave birth to at seventeen - both joyous and terrible an occasion. The second was years later, and a happier occasion, as was the third... though all three were unplanned, they were gifts. The elder two live with my ex-husband, the youngest with us. Long story short, I didn't have the money or means to make life turn out the way I wanted it to, the way I believe would be best for my children. The ex had the money to make his ideas happen instead, so here we are.

This is about that first child, and the others - they were all C-section:

Don't push, not yet  
Breathe again
Don't cry 
Fear... don't fear
Don't think
Just breathe
Fourteen hours
Living cry
Small cry
Sweet cry
She lives
She breathes

Thursday, April 2, 2015

NaPoWriMo with Magaly Guerrero, Day 1: The Birth of Your Art

(and introducing my Inner Snarky Writer)

Hello, your beloved (I hope! :D) Artful White Fox here under a pen name; you can call me Minerva, Min, or just Fox. Or Ms. Pendragon, if you'd prefer something a little more formal. But really, we're all friends here, aren't we? 

What brings me out of my den today? Why, April is National Poetry Writing Month, of course. And Magaly dearest  has decided to take the pointy end of her broom and poke all of her delightfully creative friends and followers (really, Magaly dear, we might as well start calling it your Collective!) until something artsy and interesting leaks out of various appendages... mouth, hands, what-have-you. No, wait, strike that... it sounded dreadful. What's the polite and proper word? Oh, yes, she's decided to "inspire" us all... and we all know what that means. We're all going to end up digging deep and pouring forth who-knows-what to further our own artistic ends, means, and egos (in that order, of course). 

Challenges like this are wonderful, especially when we get to stroke each others' artistic egos. Now, I've missed the first couple of days, but I can catch up quick as a cat, just you watch me. 

A bit of dreamy whimsy : The Birth of My Art

I started with a pen in 1993
Or did it start with me?
Inspired by a small robot named Norby
pen and paper
A doodle here
a small phrase there
and grew and grew in my garden grey(matter)
Sprung, I hoped, from Mr. Asimov's creative loins
Suckled at the breast of Ms. Norton's enfolding vision
And nursemaided by Mr. Roddenberry's dreams
Robots, starships, psychohistory, Forerunners, and far-flung stars
My heroes, I held firm in my thoughts
my Muse, like the whip's cruel caress, whispered through her sharpened teeth
I envisioned
and my fingers moved
and words flowed
and flow still.