Speaking to GodUnderneath the covers of the bed,Speaking to God by TheGlassIris
in the darkness of the single mind,
a bead of light grows. And from it,
a terrible signal, calling, calling,
beneath the sea of drowned stars,
we call it out. God.
His ancient stone face.
His terrible unmoving brow.
His eyes like black planets.
God, we call out, God.
Rooting around for a bit of incense,
a lamb, a nephew, for a neck to cut,
or a word to burn. No, it's
just a tawdry, meaningless bauble.
Never anything great to offer.
And he stands up and moves
across the sky, like an old woman
bones luminous as quartz or galena.
And he stands up and does not hear
our cries. And he is moving across
the empty room of the sky, a nurse,
an immigrant, a migrant crane,
a gossiping attendant, a feverish head,
a tax accountant, a distant, unfamiliar cousin
twice removed, who once,
without knowing your name or
looking up from his game,
refused to speak to you.
Eurydice In The DarkInto the darknessEurydice In The Dark by TheGlassIris
of summer, this fluid
drinkable sea, that swells
like the night stars, like mother's stars
the night we were born. Into
the ashwork, into the farms
that breed the terrible hyacinths
of the night, veined gigantics,
lost in their flowering nebula, where we
once dwelled. On and on without end.
Into the forest of the night. Go on
where the trees breathe and speak only
of static, that they may hover and flesh
in the air, the empty air that molests
and thickens in their shocked mouths
the honeyed words of death, the cradle call.
We have been tricked. We have been lured out
of our bodies, our haven of flesh. O Fate,
O short-termed husband. We beg
your regret, stay its course, stay
your mourning, the night
swells with apathy. It will do
no good to come after us. We
who once dwelled in the light, return
to that place where stones emerge
and ghosts drag their bodies, haunting
themselves with the heavy curse
of memory. Where the river runs
on and on, salted with tears,
BrueghelEverything is surroundedBrueghel by TheGlassIris
by the sun but at
the same time clouds
The trees and the farmer
are so faceless and idyllic
with their backs turned to the
it seems they are
the only ones
here. The tree
seems more important than
the farmer, the farmer's
red shirt seems more important
than the farmer himself, the farmer
himself seems important, but only so. Look
how the ox ambles away into the darkest
corners of the painting. Look
how the sea is spreading out
onto the earth like blue ink. Look
at the dead in the wake
of a still tide, still
struggling to free themselves
from their tangled bodies.
is too blue, the sea
is too big, the ships
are bigger and more
important, it seems. And if
you look to the sails, the wind
blows only when they unfurl,
not through branches, not
on waves, or through
the clouds' darkening
curls. There are
cities with their ports
laid out on top
of ruined castles sinking
day by day
through the mud
of the ocean flo
On Having Misidentified a WildflowerSorry about that, asOn Having Misidentified a Wildflower by TheGlassIris
a cloud punishes the air
like a starling
with a wash of song.
Forgive me, these are
my first steps
into a world
without such pretense as
the ambiguous modern
condition. A world made
not by man, not by God,
not by me. Thank heaven.
This network of veins,
this simplified form,
this grand fragmentation of root
and stem without resorting to
the ugly blade of separation or
detachment, this intrinsic needlework,
entirely your own.
A body like yours
not ruled by blood, brain, or
bone and its set calcification.
No, in you
the world, arising
without our laws to
harness it in some
or haunt it down
to a duller one.
I have to say
you surprised me.
I looked into the field book
and consulted the dictionary,
the telephone book,
the classical history,
and the holy texts as well!
The whole kingdom,
phyllum, genus, species.
All unknown to me!
I cannot tell whether you
are perennial or annual, though
you have emerg
more options available in dropdown menugoad your gods into breathing underwater.more options available in dropdown menu by scheherazades
quip quickfire quarry at your quintessential being:
hark, hiss, hush a serial name. a feared real pain.
a slow-speaking drain of constant osmosis, pull yourself
up out from among the fallen, pull tug twitch violent
virulent, vascular. clad your misery scantily, dress
your sadness with promiscuity. let the skin show
through the fabric, let the blood pulse&pump&pray.
counterbalance in syntax, in tandem, in tears: this
is something you understand. you, the boy -- wait,
no. scream. scratch your dresses from your closets and
rip your vocal chords up, bleed your chest dry, cry. fall
unweighted, backward. be sorrowful in order to keep
from apathy all that you are, all that you could or
will be. you cannot empower yourself, you have not
the strength, wasted it all on pouring your long hair
down the sink to tangle in the sewage, spent yourself
as a power source for other people. there is no fuel
or electricity to be found. your hips are too fuckin
Offering(for Gayle)Offering by greenbank
It was a harsh wind we felt that first time
blowing in the school of your breaths and through my footfalls
used poems as crumpled travel-brochures
cracks starting to appear in the world-stained walls.
your rule now runs all round my waiting hours.
They hung their flowers upon a dark tree, quickly, quickly.
White blooms and red rain over our shoulders
your smile hastens the moment now unfolding
catching me where I live. And I see
the startling chances your quick hands are holding.
Young as our times are, still we take the risk.
In your classroom is the glint of fighting knives
yet unable to hold back (half-willing anyway)
I lay before you all my foretold lives.
Trusting your grace
I bring the shy tokens of untried powers.
These I bestow with wreaths of hopeful words
with aircraft music from the painful skies
these I bestow to urge your arms around me
and win the summer of your tendered eyes.
These I bestow to bind you closer still
so all c
i hear knives in the windsomething in the timbre, tall heat,i hear knives in the wind by nawkaman
sugar licking palm fronds fat cats
wash the salt; wash the afterburn it
like we planned you never
say the words plain, only
mm if we ever could we maybe stay
we always tried but couldn't shake
the open space we make the world a-
nother shape as we stand among the
timbertall sugar licking palm fronds
til heat escapes.
inked and reachinghair in reverse brown-blonde ombre,inked and reaching by introverted-ghost
hacked short and curling beneath
wind and personal inattention:
untamed, it spirals into itself and
wreaths a semi-pale face,
whitening from the indoors.
eyes undecided on colour
but firm in their distance,
swallow worlds just to spit them up again,
reflavoured and etched anew
in a cramped hand.
a nose, partially uplifted
as if it were a deer in another life,
brought to death in the middle of scenting danger.
lips, perpetually preparing to turn down
as if they were covers upon a bed containing lovers;
occasionally, when lifted high enough,
the sun bleeds through them,
milk-white and startling.
Astronauti.238,900 miles away
the Earth gleams in the darkness.
A cat's eye, opalescent blue
flecked with terra verdant,
fifty-two cream colors
Under a heavy lid of night,
it glares. Angry.
As if to say to the Sun:
I was dreaming
of all the fish
in my seas.
As if to ask why
it had to be woken.
Thoughts are protozoan here;
with glass-thin skin
transparent as the first lie
he ever told as a child.
I didn't steal that candy bar.
He can see the mechanics,
They divide like dreams,
Whole and unbroken
as they tear apart. If
he could stretch far enough,
he could pop his home planet
like soap bubble.
he's too small
to make much
of a difference.
238,900 miles away,
there is a small click.
A tiny latch
as his 14-year-old daughter
slides her seatbelt
She's learning how to drive,
and how to feel a new kind of terror.
of collision. Of bone
or brick breaking,
Lightyears at SeaHis whispered goodbyes caught fire
in the whites of her eyes as wild dogs
and empty oceans devoured him.
Standing still for years, she with
a waiting heart and waiting fingers
gave birth to ghosts with feathers.
Haunting in his sleep, swinging like
sharp jewelry and pendulums
carving cryptic messages upon his floor-
'You, with your tattooed baptism skin
and slithering tongue of sweet poison
left her aching ashes to mix with gunpowder.'
Hi, I'm Andrew Liu. I'm 19, a student at East Los Angeles College and Pasadena City College, and I love to write. That's me in the picture, staring at the Lansdowne Herakles held in the Getty Villa. If I look bemused, it's because he doesn't have a dick. I've been writing since middle school and I started taking it seriously around senior year, so, sixteen or seventeen. My favorite genres are urban fantasy (Harry Potter, Percy and the Olympians, Fablehaven, that sort of stuff) and fantasy (Cry of the Icemark, American Gods, Good Omens). I mostly write poetry. I switched over from prose because I could never manage to finish writing short stories. And I mostly write as a hobby. |
I'm also an English major. My favorite period is American Modernism. I've read T.S. Eliot, E.E. Cummings, Robert Frost, Wallace Stevens. I'm a big poetry buff. My all-time favorite pieces of poetry are pretty varied though: Cathy Song "Cloud Moving Hands", Sharon Olds "The Elder Sister" & "I Go Back to May, 1937", Sylvia Plath "Mirror" & "Fever 103", Mark Doty "Tiara", Elizabeth Bishop "The Fish", and Muriel Rukeyser "Song for Dead Children."
If I were to summarize my writing style in three words it would be: lush, dream-like, and intense. People have always told me that I'm very good at imagery and description, but not so much at editing or making sure my work flows effortlessly.
Other hobbies I have include video games, anime, and more reading I guess. All time favorite video games: Folklore (PS3), Bastion (PC), Dust: An Elysian Tale (PC), Persona 4 (PS2). All time favorite animes: Natsume Yuujinchou (Natsume's Book of Friends), Puella Magi Madoka Magica (Magical Girl Madoka), Nodame Cantabile, Ao no Exorcist (Blue Exorcist-manga only), and Magi (again, manga only). All time favorite books: Caramelo (Sandra Cisneros), American Gods (Neil Gaiman), The Great Gatsby (F. Scott Fitzgerald), Asterios Polyp (David Mazzuchelli), Like Water For Chocolate (Laura Esquivel), and Fahrenheit 451 (Ray Bradbury).
I swear I read and watch more than this, it's just I'm really picky and have strangely specific tastes. Ask me for writing critique and feedback. I'm more than happy to give advice.