Urban Doe~

I was her

yes, I was the white doe

with those huge, marble eyes

lingering at the side of the tether

Pan behind me, his horns making gunmetal sounds

against the old trees

as he shook his head

I said, “Release the Kraken!”

and he laughed, my leash raining

from his open hands

 

I was the finger-painted heart against the skye

the girl with onyx polish

digging holes in the cloud of the left artery

her tears acid

on the grass

where the imprint of his gothic warmth

lingered as another disappointment

but there would be no poetry

just another angry girl who loved spiders

and hated boys

 

I was the stone effigy

the broken goddess

under the priest’s  ministrations of smoke

and cedar

as he went abut exorcising my right

to be

to be a Pan~ish kind of girl

with mischief in her threads

they didn’t like my ribbons

or how my pout

stood out during ceremony

and so, this bent little priest

branded his god between my thighs

in his fist, my sacral nerves became ash

 

I was her, yes

I was the white doe

who threw herself into the Hunter’s arrow

while Pan covered his mind with oak leaves and became a tree

while a disappointed girl with L’Oreal tears in black

stuck love

to her bulletin board with pins

and Priest with a thousand stains

found the color of his sins in holy water

turning red

in a golden cistern that mayhap

have fed

a thousand urchins

 

Sometimes we throw ourselves into the pain

and the blood

and the plumes of mist from a dying doe’s mouth

to understand the hunter

a little better

lest we become

one

ourselves

 

 

copyright:2011vssmd/amusemusepress

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

 

from UnFairy Tales From UnderLand

in bookstores at some point I suppose

Reviews

[Robin]

Your words are a temporal spice melange that take my imagination to the fractal dimensions of the mythological breeding ground of consciousness . Surreality as unfocus of reality , expanding concept into deeper meaning , pulsing our life blood through the collective heart .

[Larry Dyson]

yes...I do believe you fight with Horses and Deer...as a Man fights with spears and Arrows and swords...you weild the natural as if a blow from a hoof has landed a telling blow...

[Kerry O'Connor]

This poem speaks of the many manifestations of self - each a shiny facet of the whole gemstone.

[Ed Hart]

Dear Miss Chif, my little unfairy, would you like to come up and see my webbings? It'll just be Ray and Me, and maybe Fa...would you care for a latte, doe?

[asdarkeyesclose]

'I was the finger-painted heart against the skye

the girl with onyx polish

digging holes in the cloud of the left artery

her tears acid

on the grass

where the imprint of his gothic warmth

lingered as another disappointment

but there would be no poetry

just another angry girl who loved spiders

and hated boys'

i like the 'i was' format that opens the door to the mesmerising poetry that celebrates life in all its twists and colours and condemns the hunter. The poetry centres on the doe representing gentleness and freedom and we are brought right up close to the doe so close that the poet is the doe and we see its sabotage in full clarity as its death represents the death of the poet, brutal and senseless. the lesson is to see things through the hunters eyes however difficult even for only a fraction of a second. incredible writing :)

[LilyT]

You know, Selene, we've gone around and around this subject, and I still stick to my original opinion that your aim is the sharpest as a Huntress,


and he laughed, my leash raining

from his open hands



but you're weapon isn't as gritty and cro magnon-ish as a man's gun or sword or arrow (which are all phallic extensions to compensate for lack of confidence as we all know), and,at the risk of sounding poetic, you dip your weapon into your personal soul as well as the collective spirit of human kind before you let it fly in an endless stream of words in grace.

I was her, yes

I was the white doe

who threw herself into the Hunter’s arrow

while Pan covered his mind with oak leaves and became a tree

while a disappointed girl with L’Oreal tears in black

stuck love

to her bulletin board with pins

and Priest with a thousand stains

found the color of his sins in holy water

turning red

in a golden cistern that mayhap

have fed

a thousand urchins



I swear to goddess, you're the new age mass, the 21st century scriptures that may be enough to wake people up to their imminent self destruction. YOU're the Silver Priestess in her sacrificial grace and the wild Dacine in her rage against mankind. Those stories, now those stories, when you finally decide to let them be published, are going to worm their way into the human psyche instantly the same way as this amazing taste of it;


Sometimes we throw ourselves into the pain

and the blood

and the plumes of mist from a dying doe’s mouth

to understand the hunter

a little better

lest we become

one

ourselves

[RainQueen]

The most majestic anger and the softest melancholy at the same time.

The story you tell is everywoman, I think. Pan makes her and breaks her. The priest wrecks her, circumcises her - His comfort nothing but a cage.

The hunter is terrified of this doe, you know, even as she pours "L'Oreal tears" of his making. His blunt cruelty an admission of his fear of a creature he will never understand, never fully rule..

Don't they know, can't they see? The Doe rises as Athena. Her quiver full, her aim deadly, her dry eyes clear...

Serves 'em right

[Aidz]

Mmm what to write apart from the obvious.... let see, ah yes in the immortal words of the Sex Pistols and Tent Pole Tudor... "who killed Bambi?" .... never mind those bullocks ;)