Submissions by The_Silly_Sibyl
POEMS AND SHORT STORIES
Poet Introduction I appreciate all kinds of poetry. I think any form can have value if it's used well, though I hate the notion that poems are just outpourings of emotion. Even free verse needs a craftsman's eye.
SELF POEM
Published
4th Oct 2019 11:16pm
4th Oct 2019 11:16pm
A Cold Bastard
The poison lingers on my lips
like salivation, uncontrolled,
and waiting to ruin everyone’s day.
I get it from my dad, I say,
which certainly isn’t a lie.
But really, ugliness is me,
as near the Divine as I get.
Some people reach it perfectly,
projecting only thoughts and deeds
to make an angel blush
redder than a teenager,
on watching with his parents that
scene in the movie where
the leads take off their clothes.
That isn’t me.
Sarcasm, and bitterness,
the lowest form of wit: ...
like salivation, uncontrolled,
and waiting to ruin everyone’s day.
I get it from my dad, I say,
which certainly isn’t a lie.
But really, ugliness is me,
as near the Divine as I get.
Some people reach it perfectly,
projecting only thoughts and deeds
to make an angel blush
redder than a teenager,
on watching with his parents that
scene in the movie where
the leads take off their clothes.
That isn’t me.
Sarcasm, and bitterness,
the lowest form of wit: ...
#dark
52 reads
1 Comment
LOVE POEM
Published
18th Sep 2019 11:46pm
18th Sep 2019 11:46pm
A Prayer to Mother Radcliffe
[Sir Walter] Scott himself said that [Ann Radcliffe’s] prose was poetry and her poetry was prose. She was, indeed, a prose poet, in both the best and the worst senses of the phrase. The romantic landscape, the background, is the best thing in all her books; the characters are two dimensional, the plots far fetched and improbable, with 'elaboration of means and futility of result'." - British Authors Before 1800: A Biographical Dictionary
Mother Radcliffe, seated in
a great armchair of deep
and churning red velvet,
the dowager alive
with castles and ...
Mother Radcliffe, seated in
a great armchair of deep
and churning red velvet,
the dowager alive
with castles and ...
#gothic
37 reads
1 Comment
STORY POEM
Published
16th Sep 2019 7:25pm
16th Sep 2019 7:25pm
Heather of the Dean
Heather [West, murdered daughter of serial killers Fred and Rose West] ... expressed to [siblings] Mae and Stephen her desire to run away from home and live a nomadic lifestyle in the Forest of Dean, and to never again see any human beings." - Wikipedia (entry for Fred West), quoting Rose West: The Making of a Monster by Jane Woodrow, p. 236, 2011
Such cruelty cannot be countenanced.
A simple truth.
Yet countenanced it was, and is,
and will in circles of despair
decreasing, hopefully.
I cannot broach your tenderness,
the rawness of your flesh ...
Such cruelty cannot be countenanced.
A simple truth.
Yet countenanced it was, and is,
and will in circles of despair
decreasing, hopefully.
I cannot broach your tenderness,
the rawness of your flesh ...
#tragedy
64 reads
3 Comments
SPIRITUAL POEM
Published
12th Sep 2019 6:29pm
12th Sep 2019 6:29pm
simple furnishings
we languished
underneath
a tree
talking of things
that couldn't be
and then died singly
in rooms
with simple furnishings
-
I remember church:
with deep carpets
and white pulpits,
flowers and coffee
in the tiled lobby,
colourful Bibles
on shelves.
The generations tidied up
and plastered stony walls,
installed stoves,
de-splintered pews,
upholstered God
from beard to robe,
and scented Him
with fresh lemons.
...
underneath
a tree
talking of things
that couldn't be
and then died singly
in rooms
with simple furnishings
-
I remember church:
with deep carpets
and white pulpits,
flowers and coffee
in the tiled lobby,
colourful Bibles
on shelves.
The generations tidied up
and plastered stony walls,
installed stoves,
de-splintered pews,
upholstered God
from beard to robe,
and scented Him
with fresh lemons.
...
#religion
59 reads
4 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
2nd Sep 2019 4:34pm
2nd Sep 2019 4:34pm
An Englishman
An Englishman is thus defined:
by whom or what he's left behind.
Be it Empire or state,
when Englishmen at Peter's gate
are asked what makes them jolly well
above the denizens of Hell,
a quid they'll say their "heritage".
Be it a home or simple hedge
that's trimmed to stoke envy,
more than anything you'll see
a lot of passed on property.
by whom or what he's left behind.
Be it Empire or state,
when Englishmen at Peter's gate
are asked what makes them jolly well
above the denizens of Hell,
a quid they'll say their "heritage".
Be it a home or simple hedge
that's trimmed to stoke envy,
more than anything you'll see
a lot of passed on property.
#satirical
90 reads
3 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
31st Aug 2019 00:48am
31st Aug 2019 00:48am
When you were ugly
a prayer for Essex
When you were ugly, and broken,
never quite human,
you closed your eyes and wished
that as you opened them
the world would turn
to something more compatible,
where what was ugly and broken
suddenly made sense.
Here in witch country,
in bedsit-and-benefits land,
where buildings old and ill-maintained
carry black-and-white snapshots
of when those same structures were new,
as if to emphasise decay...
Here among the fields and pubs
and churches and arcades
beauty is
the...
When you were ugly, and broken,
never quite human,
you closed your eyes and wished
that as you opened them
the world would turn
to something more compatible,
where what was ugly and broken
suddenly made sense.
Here in witch country,
in bedsit-and-benefits land,
where buildings old and ill-maintained
carry black-and-white snapshots
of when those same structures were new,
as if to emphasise decay...
Here among the fields and pubs
and churches and arcades
beauty is
the...
#home
95 reads
3 Comments
SPIRITUAL POEM
Published
12th Aug 2019 11:13pm
12th Aug 2019 11:13pm
The Scouring
The slanted avenue is washed
with hard and scouring sunlight.
A glorious inquisitor,
the molten sky rips out
all of Nature’s medicaments,
its mesmerist witchcraft.
Passing by yet bound
I drink the leaning trees, the ground,
with eyes that briefly, then,
are clean. And when
the passing is complete
a dim-lit thought remains:
I never felt nearer the gods.
with hard and scouring sunlight.
A glorious inquisitor,
the molten sky rips out
all of Nature’s medicaments,
its mesmerist witchcraft.
Passing by yet bound
I drink the leaning trees, the ground,
with eyes that briefly, then,
are clean. And when
the passing is complete
a dim-lit thought remains:
I never felt nearer the gods.
#nature
113 reads
2 Comments
SPIRITUAL POEM
Published
3rd Jul 2019 7:38pm
3rd Jul 2019 7:38pm
Visiting Emmanuel
Gathered in the lobby.
Ticketed and scanned.
A ritual. A recitation
of barcodes - once deplored
by Christ’s army and now
in their churches.
We’re taken to the lecture hall.
Cast out devils. Heal the sick.
Voice of Heaven
circling the dome.
Contrasting shades of oak
enshrine these passages
and bring the scent of Anglican domain.
In such a place we seem
like sinners in the melting pot.
Ticketed and scanned.
A ritual. A recitation
of barcodes - once deplored
by Christ’s army and now
in their churches.
We’re taken to the lecture hall.
Cast out devils. Heal the sick.
Voice of Heaven
circling the dome.
Contrasting shades of oak
enshrine these passages
and bring the scent of Anglican domain.
In such a place we seem
like sinners in the melting pot.
#religion
#Christian
84 reads
3 Comments
SPIRITUAL POEM
Published
29th Apr 2019 11:53pm
29th Apr 2019 11:53pm
An Evil Justified
#religion
#mythology
115 reads
0 Comments
EROTIC POEM
Published
18th Dec 2018 7:37pm
18th Dec 2018 7:37pm
sexuality expressed through literary cliche
- and in the lilac-scented room, fingers on
my hip, you’re tall and bearded, muscular,
and I own teardrop pearls, teardrop earls
like wraiths about our dance.
It’s innocent, at first, yet dominance
and submission are clear in small gestures, and
a little temptation goes a long way,
‘til all is dirt and spenditure.
The vicar making “violent love”
to Emma in the coach,
the blushes and the arrogance
of countless purple characters
in countless lit-rich-ore...
A schizoid sexuality
develops ‘hind the eyes. I’m ...
my hip, you’re tall and bearded, muscular,
and I own teardrop pearls, teardrop earls
like wraiths about our dance.
It’s innocent, at first, yet dominance
and submission are clear in small gestures, and
a little temptation goes a long way,
‘til all is dirt and spenditure.
The vicar making “violent love”
to Emma in the coach,
the blushes and the arrogance
of countless purple characters
in countless lit-rich-ore...
A schizoid sexuality
develops ‘hind the eyes. I’m ...
#erotic
198 reads
3 Comments
SPIRITUAL POEM
Published
17th Dec 2018 6:33pm
17th Dec 2018 6:33pm
The Whore of Bethlehem
Her perfume is the charred-black ghost
of subterranean brimstone,
her dress a peaches-and-cream snub
to modesty and mother’s milk.
The silken attitude she wears would make
a prophet warn for years
of just such sweet daemons.
Only whores and mothers, all,
the women of the Testaments. Leant
in the doorways of the troubled soul
as prostitutes of ghettoes where
the Ghost has given up.
I see her, my embodiment of this,
and feel her odd power. To be ugly and tempting,
serene and chaotic, a slap ...
of subterranean brimstone,
her dress a peaches-and-cream snub
to modesty and mother’s milk.
The silken attitude she wears would make
a prophet warn for years
of just such sweet daemons.
Only whores and mothers, all,
the women of the Testaments. Leant
in the doorways of the troubled soul
as prostitutes of ghettoes where
the Ghost has given up.
I see her, my embodiment of this,
and feel her odd power. To be ugly and tempting,
serene and chaotic, a slap ...
#religion
#Christian
#feminism
179 reads
2 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
13th Dec 2018 9:02pm
13th Dec 2018 9:02pm
Sonnet for the Sensible Eater
Fizzy sweets and creamy cakes,
red meats fried to give the very sky a stroke,
the angels clogged-up ventricles,
and God a struggled breath.
Bathe my soul in a wire basket,
French fries my down-y quilt.
Make me as fat as Medici, the last
of which would barely leave his bed,
too entertained by boys and food, food, food.
I’ll gorge myself on everything
the sensible despise.
Crispy bacon on white bread,
Battered fish between two jam doughnuts.
Better than sex. Not that a fatty would know.
red meats fried to give the very sky a stroke,
the angels clogged-up ventricles,
and God a struggled breath.
Bathe my soul in a wire basket,
French fries my down-y quilt.
Make me as fat as Medici, the last
of which would barely leave his bed,
too entertained by boys and food, food, food.
I’ll gorge myself on everything
the sensible despise.
Crispy bacon on white bread,
Battered fish between two jam doughnuts.
Better than sex. Not that a fatty would know.
#food
#EatingDisorder
113 reads
2 Comments
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