Week of Mar 10 - Mar 16
ZiLLah and Christopher Stolle
BECOME A POET OF THE WEEK
by e-mailing a few of your shorter pieces or one long piece to me ALONG WITH a brief bio. It's fun, it's easy, it's free. Impress your friends. Impress your mother.
Send to: POTW@PoetrySuperHighway.com
Zillah was spawned in Kiev, which is in the cold, murky land of Ukraine. She immigrated to the US when she was 8, and now resides in Benicia, California, another small asshole of the world. Zillah likes to write, play, and drift within the bay area... she escapes to San Fransisco and Berkeley whenever the mood calls... She has her own little zine, the Corpse in the Cupboard, which she likes to work on quite a lot, she plays guitar and keyboards, writes, talks to faeries and practices her craft. Her music includes gothic, industrial, punk, and classical sounds as well as many other types. She wishes she were a bat, but nonetheless, being human has it's fun (like cloves, chartreuse, and licorice whips!)
The following work is Copyright © 1997 and owned by ZiLLah and may not be distributed or reprinted in any manner whatsover without written permission from the author.
The last night of September
and the winds rush heavily towards the moist caves
and sunken cheekbones of the dark-haired girl
still cling to my memory like flesh to withered ribs
Water runs down the sides of my face, in an attempt to wash away
the sticky pains of midsummer loves
and desperate last attempts to heal an infected wound
her eyes are dark, glowing embers embedded in full black spheeres
telling all her little secrets with a breath of disillusionment
She escaped from my grasp in a second
crying out never to be heard in the thick brush on the red mountain
I have misplaced her, not knowing the intimate reason
Perchance it was my thick assurance that she would drown in sappy
of the thoughts that ate every last scrap of my heart
her voice, the shrill sound, like glass being broken on a cold winter
(a reminder of my sun-dried dreams)
still echoes, reverberating,
still echoes, everlasting,
Assembling lightly, pale shades of unearthly gray
light cascades winding through edge streets
a strange environment for life
swirls of tongues unspoken for centuries
shameful secrets bring lively whispers
stored in trunks of drunken willow trees
you've been there on episodes of bloated love parodies
and colored the words to make them recognizable
just enough so you'd know you were the last to see
the walls, trapping you inside your chaotic world of self discovery
peeking eyes crowding streets like a cracker jack box
so full of gluttony and pity, laughing discreetly
( as if not to be noticed )
while watching you disintegrate in the ashen light of morning
I'm a senior at Indiana University majoring in journalism and education.
The following work is Copyright © 1997 and owned by Christopher Stolle and may not be distributed or reprinted in any manner whatsover without written permission from the author.
I can write the words to make you feel me
(i don't understand anything about women)
I can paint the picture you have in your heart
(i don't know what love looks or feels like)
I can whistle the tune that let's you smile
(i don't think we realize the power of laughter)
I want to shadow the sun from your waking eyes
(i don't understand why you cry in the afternoon)
I want to battle your warriors when the moon sleeps
(i don't know what their plan of attack will be)
I want to chant the victory passages to your heart
(i don't think you can hear my soul beating)
I need to follow the path laid out before me
(i don't understand where these hands came from)
I need to lead the meek and shallow to freedom
(i don't know why everyone is afraid of pride)
I need to sing the song, but I've forgotten the words
(i don't think anyone will miss the middle verse)
I will do the things I can (you will understand)
I will be the things I want (you will know)
I will get the things I need (you will think)
And when we hold hands in the moonlight
I will kiss the smile you brought for my honesty
Because when love flickers, we must shade the wind
Before time blows out our candlelight passion
Feb. 1, 1997
few people knew he was dying
but someone saw it in his eyes
never thought he'd lose his glimmer
could not predict his agony
did not want to feel his pain
but genetic blood is empathetic
he's lying somewhere safe now
where warmth and compassion exist
and his soul speaks to my heart
keeping me on the hero's path
which my grandfather already walked
but his bread crumbs are stale now
and this silent laughter makes me cry
Feb. 2, 1997
tiny raindrops build
puddle rainbows -
driving mud into
where whispers flourish
tainted blossoms sing
their valley songs -
ebbing dew christens
their acre homes
as the fires from heaven
newborn deer trample
through forest swamps -
fog steams from underground
to shadow safe paths
when homeward bound
means to drown in mercy.
Feb. 8, 1997
This path is lighted by you -
The wind sings . . .
The sun moans . . .
Open wide your transient eyes!
To see . . . |
To feel . . .
To walk the light beam -
To follow the shadow.
Beat the drum -
Call the helpless children!
Walk arm in arm . . .
Soul to heart -
Freedom is a candle!
You must . . .
You should . . .
You can . . .
Light the way for God!
To find you -
When the road ends.
Jan. 29, 1997
Sunlit Baby In Blue Jeans
old-fashioned sunrise peaks
across the waking flesh
bends on the wide contours
contrasts the dull textures
slips under the sheets
rustles with the sleeping
tickling the barefoot soul
which is free from restraint
licking the delicate folds
reaching for swollen eyes
finds an empty space to fill
in the crux of the virgin's genes
Feb. 5, 1997