For some
Can inhabit and thrive without the dark
I am not one
It is my wont to roam
Feel the tickling urge of excitement
Trained out of obedience, dark crystal inside maze
Blister unused tongue on your soft edges as we blaze
However old I grow, the longing unquenched, as linen will wrinkle in the instant of wearing
a woman holding herself in cupped hand as she turns in twilight
To brave the sultry lights, bangled, hennaed arms above my head
Sate the drums pounding in my chest, find trance in your musk
Lie in perfumed beds with long female limbs
Some would say it’s hedonism
Others simply wouldn’t understand
Why a 9/5 existence I cannot swallow whole
Surely there are prices to be paid
A reckoning when the time comes
I’ve seen it in all children of the night
When their fast urgency catches up with them
Such terrors I do more desire, than you
So harness me, make me obey your rule
For nothing I do stops the scald
Consumes my sanity and sets me running
Toward music and the gloom of the periphery
Where we who are cursed must sup, to sate longing
Our blood is not content with daily ritual
We live close to death, in the fury of passion
Short our lives be, they are magnificent
Relics of a time before without constraint
Wild and thirsting for motion we spun the world
Off its bloodied axis
Reading this, there came to mind the French expression “La petite mort”, that says so much more than our English words for that moment. It came with the line, “We live close to death, in the fury of passion”. And now, that thought of a death petite or otherwise brings another poet’s voice, “Do not go gentle into that goodnight”*, and going with passion, with fire, being consumed and consuming.
*I’m remembering a recording of Dylan Thomas reading that, drunk as a lord, but reading clear and passionate, and then so close to his own departing.
Reblogged this on cabbagesandkings524 and commented:
TheFeatheredSleep – A wild and passionate sort of thriving
Your writing is incredibly astounding and beautiful, Candice. This is my favorite poem of yours I’ve read yet, and the meaning is so raw, visceral, it screams independence and freedom. Sometimes, we do not want the 9 to 5. Sometimes, we want the thrill and excitement and what others consider the darkness.
If it weren’t for those who were consumed by such intrigue, we wouldn’t have the professionals we have today–forensic scientists, for instance. You state this so eloquently, and each line is emotional to me. I especially adored these lines:
“However old I grow, the longing unquenched, as linen will wrinkle in the instant of wearing
a woman holding herself in cupped hand as she turns in twilight…”
This is an excellent poem about never inhibiting the self and always doing what one wants to do to explore and sate their curiosities and their interests (as long as it’s in a safe way, of course). Brilliant poem here. I love reading your work! 🙂
Dearest Lucy you honor me so much I am so very very grateful to you sweet one