excerpts
Poets Media isolates the most poignant, powerful, and exquisitely composed verses and quotes in the universal poetry canon.
Projection as a new man
For once, I don't care about my shadow. I do not watch it dissolve into quiet jade earth. It is too late to turn around & ask questions against the light. It is late dusk when the mountain range, first to darken, is stripped of boulder and definition until it is as flat as the porcelain moon growing inside. So black that it is no longer a mountain, but a mouth, a tunnel dug into the clear coral hour. Where is the way in? the pale breeze carries only salt in-
By Jason Kang5 years ago in Poets
Coffee: the arcane ingredient in the evolution of a demi goddess
Created from the university library My first sip of coffee was awful, but after I downed the entire cup in desperation to complete a final in a class I never attended it launched me into a space where ancient Romans, origin of the stars, and the entangling of religions twisted into my brain cells and I was flying through notecards and highlighted notebook pages like I’d entered the Twilight Zone of Mt. Olympos. By the time I had went back to the silver canister of coffee with a hand-written sign next to it that said “Free Coffee” in black marker three times that evening, and each of those times the process started the same me making wincing face, taking another sip, and turning the page of a textbook trying to memorize every word on the page.
By Alexa Chiefari5 years ago in Poets
Scattered Fragments
One time, somewhere in that field of possibility; time and time again, we sit a while. Just this once, without getting anywhere; maybe again tomorrow, if it comes, we will have to see. We could be doing anything but there is just thought, or the idea of more, we can dream for a moment. Not again. What are we doing? I’m not even sure it matters. Time is the observation of change but I’m so unobservant and it all changes anyway, so what does it matter?
By Obsidian Words5 years ago in Poets
Fragments of a Shattered Soul
I will examine all the fragments that I have gathered on these pages; each acting in the theatre of nostalgia or remorse. I will hold each portion under my internal microscope and distinguish the details of their frozen scenes. I can see that some are aged and some new-born. A few are worn and weary whilst some leave scriptures on my skin, and write sequels in the scars they sketch afresh. I have written an abundance of heartache in each shade I’d claim to know, but that’s a pebble to the moon in retrospect. No matter how I try though, these pages won’t sit flush and they seem to be re-written over time. So my story will stay shattered and scattered about the lawn like so many Autumn leaves; and I shall lie among this library rebellion with whoever allows their fluttering.
By Obsidian Words5 years ago in Poets
