The 18th Mystery
We are 18 mysteries, 18 poets. Together
in one place, we become a poetry writing class here at Chico State. To
help celebrate National Poetry Month, we have created this page to share
poems we have encountered, poems we have written, and "experiments"
we might call poems. We plan to add new material to this page each week,
so come back again and enjoy these mysteries.
It is now the end of National Poetry Month,
and it's a shame it had to be a month holding only 30 days. But in a lasting
tribute and a show of our gratitude toward the literary art, the 18th Mystery
decided to create poems that are a collective showcase, and at the same
time allow for individual efforts. We wrote group poems: A piece of paper
is passed around the class. The first person writes a line and passes it
along, letting the next person see the line just written. That person writes
a second line and passes it along, folding over the first line. The paper
makes its way around the room, with each new writer only able to see the
most recent line, until the poem is complete with everyone contributing
a line.
We created four poems. Here are two of them. You can see that what was
birthed from our individual lines is collectively amazing.
#3
There was a light that struck me, not from the
moon
but from the brick hand stuck through the window
She was not brick but a wooden
pawn being used and moved like
a monkey picking up a coke bottle left behind
the joints of your arms, bent back, a mock crucifixion,
this is the drama we sometimes mistake for passion,
the overripe peach that won't fall
to my lips, soft and full
all I could do was sigh
and wish for the moon in my hand,
in the twinkle of your eye I can see stars gazing in your heart
bringing the warmth to those starving in the darkness
they take all the rules, all the culture and turn it out of control
and opinions, like a game
Untitled
My blood is made of blue moon grass scent.
I can feel the power of pulse when my eyes lie shut.
The purity of blackness washes my mind like a wave,
crushing my soul under the tides of despair,
but my soul can swim -- a green mermaid
would do backflips in my organic pool.
Sparks and moths flying from my knees;
they have a way of tickling if you let them,
crawling over you like a caterpillar,
confronting the smooth terrain of your body.
My lips lick the braveness of your black chest,
the salt sweetness like the first ocean,
like warm tequila upon the shores of my lips,
like ten pounds of lust heaped upon my brow
and left to ferment.
IAMBS
(Each group has updated its page. This is week three.)
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