Lady Lazarus

Lady Lazarus

BY SYLVIA PLATH

I have done it again.

One year in every ten

I manage it——

A sort of walking miracle, my skin

Bright as a Nazi lampshade,

My right foot

A paperweight,

My face a featureless, fine

Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin

O my enemy.

Do I terrify?——

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?

The sour breath

Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the flesh

The grave cave ate will be

At home on me

And I a smiling woman.

I am only thirty.

And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three.

What a trash

To annihilate each decade.

What a million filaments.

The peanut-crunching crowd

Shoves in to see

Them unwrap me hand and foot——

The big strip tease.

Gentlemen, ladies

These are my hands

My knees.

I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.

The first time it happened I was ten.

It was an accident.

The second time I meant

To last it out and not come back at all.

I rocked shut

As a seashell.

They had to call and call

And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

Dying

Is an art, like everything else.

I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.

I do it so it feels real.

I guess you could say I’ve a call.

It’s easy enough to do it in a cell.

It’s easy enough to do it and stay put.

It’s the theatrical

Comeback in broad day

To the same place, the same face, the same brute

Amused shout:

‘A miracle!’

That knocks me out.

There is a charge

For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge

For the hearing of my heart——

It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge

For a word or a touch

Or a bit of blood

Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.

So, so, Herr Doktor.

So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus,

I am your valuable,

The pure gold baby

That melts to a shriek.

I turn and burn.

Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash—

You poke and stir.

Flesh, bone, there is nothing there——

A cake of soap,

A wedding ring,

A gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer

Beware

Beware.

Out of the ash

I rise with my red hair

And I eat men like air.

Bubble Bath

Bubble Bathsoap-bubble-1983918_1280

The tub is full and the bubbles bobble on top

My legs have adjusted

but when the rest of me sinks in

it burns.

In the tub, I’m a lost soul

venturing from the heavens to a five star hotel

It is there I’m considered a holy whore with no divine gifts

My words

they float in front of me popping the suds

And here I soak

without a clue and nothing to give

Here I sink

soggy as a sponge in the pits of the ocean

 

-Saschia Johnson

 

Love Song

 

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I admire his persistence

and oh, how his howling soothes

like the thumping inside her womb

those vibrating drums birthed from her mouth

I admire his persistence

how her beats stretch across his howl

The night twinkles

bare, bare, bare, with dull blood

Dance in her womb, crawl on your knees, eyes shut

A mighty hand guides you to the unknown

 

-Saschia Johnson

 

Gracie at the Siege of Troy

Gracie at the Siege of Troy
By: Geoff Blanchett

Upon the battered shores of Troy
did Gracie arise
from the lapping waves.

As the armies of Agamemmnon charged
the walls, Gracie followed
in their wake, the marks of
her claws in the sand
the only trace of her path,
her triangular head
split wide in a grin,
her tongue lolling
almost to the sand,
her eyes bright
and eager.

She came upon
the fallen bulk of Achilles
face down in a pool
of seafoam and blood,
his last drops of life
leaching away
from the shattered remnants
of his foot.

Any true-hearted warrior would
have ended his misery,

but Gracie
was meant
for other tasks.

So she galloped away
into the billowing steams
of war,

and there, on a nearby dune,
mighty Hector
loomed over
the beaten Petrochalus,
his sword raised
for the kill.

One with hatred,
Or at least righteous fury,
in her heart might have come
to the boy’s defense,
and struck out with crushing blows
opposing the bullying hulk,

but Gracie
was lost in other thoughts,
and she passed on,

loping along the shoreline,
where the Trojan
and Mycaenean blood

was beginning to mingle
in rivulets
of bitter wine,
and the screams
of the dying
mingled with the ravenous squawks
of circling gulls.

At last,
with the city gates
looming above her,
Gracie caught sight of her quarry.

She let loose
a howl of joy and,
as her grin enveloped her,
dashed off in pursuit,

as just beyond her reach,
cowardly Paris
ran for his life, howling
to his gods for mercy

as Gracie’s hot breath
cleaned the sand
off his untouched heels.

 

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Geoff Blanchette is a writer and actor based in Westerly, RI

 

Frayed Ends

Frayed Endscassiopeia-a-11180_1280

And what,
dear children,
is the end of the world?

Is it when
a hydrogen bomb is triggered,
and flesh and concrete
and body and soul
are brought to nothingness by the fury
of a stillborn sun?

Is it when
the rich finally get tired
of carrying the poor on their backs
(or, conversely,
when the poor
feel likewise
about the rich)
and drag them bodily
against the nearest convenient wall
(you can see it now, can’t you,
aglow in an aura
of weathered newsreel)
and shove a Luger
straight between their eyes
and blow their brains out,

plink

splat,

like wooden ducks at a carnival shooting gallery?

Is it when
the march of progress
tears apart the land

and poisons the water
and fills the air
with smoke and mercury
and electromagnetic waves
that carry only noise
and boundless ignorance,

aided & abetted
by the zombie hordes
who don’t really have a clear idea
about much of anything
(except, you know,
that they were promised
a new season
of that hot new show
and they really hope they get it
because, like,
that shit is pretty awesome)?

Is it when
a good friend
writes you a letter –

oh let’s be real,
the friend writes you an email
or a text
or a tweet
because who the hell has time anymore –

but for the sake of argument,
a good friend
writes
you
a letter,

itemizing in detail
the exact reason why
he or she
will never speak to you again,
delineating the lines
that you
so carelessly
crossed,
and wishing you
a long and happy life
without the burden of their
continued presence?

Is it when

your car breaks down,
or your phone falls in the toilet,
or the dog poops on your new carpet,
or the other guy at the office
got that big account that you wanted,
or the cute piece at the bar
seems a lot more interested
in that hot blond than in
your particular charms,
or your significant whoever is
mad at you again
because you forgot to mow the lawn or
wash the dishes or
suck them off
like you promised to?

Or:

Is it when you see
your newborn child
for the first time,
when you hear him propose,
when you hear her say Yes,
when you earn that last diploma,
when you meet a new friend,
when you forgive an old friend
for the sin of being human,
when you laugh with a good joke,
when others laugh with your jokes,
when you move into your own space
for the first time,
when you get your first real paycheck,
when you learn something
you never imagined before,
when you help someone understand something
that you know,
when you build,
when you love,
when you live?

And what,
dear children,
is the difference
between an end
and a beginning?

Written by: Geoff Blanchette (use link to see his wordpress) a writer and actor based in Westerly, RI

globe-2300135_1280

The Mason

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The Mason

He picked up a red brick

Brushed it off

and placed it on the wet cement.

He had sweat on his brow that

Drip dripped.

His overalls and long sleeve plaid shirt

Were a good choice that frigid morning

But mid-day it was 80 degrees under the sun.

He still stacked because if he didn’t nobody else would.

He spread the cement with a trowel

and placed another brushed brick.

With every stacked brick he gave it a tap.

That set it in place just right.

His back had an ache and his shin had a splint

but every brick tapped was one brick closer

To being complete.

 

-Saschia Johnson

Sleep, my friend

Sleep, my friendwoman-2714174_1280

I can’t keep my eyes open

The lids

they’re being pulled down by a crane

And the weightlessness of sleep washes over me like

waves

Some bigger than others

I want to skip all this creating and let my consciousness free in dreams

But I’m almost finished just a few more sentences

-Saschia Johnson

the drain sings lovely -Morality Collection

 

the drain sings lovelygirl-1358371_1280

some of us lose all the time
time after time
until our true colours have bled out
and we start to see things in black and white
question on which side our shadows cuddle light
which sun offers up a tanned braising against a weak pale puffed burning
eagerly the skin turns to paper
and we’re unsure if we can capture enough words
before we become curling ashes in our pyres
for some of us, art is the air we breathe daily, until we drown ourselves in the bathtubs of our failed accomplishments
the drain sings lovely songs
bubble babble trickle symphony sung in the voices of those held dearest
in places where physically none are held anymore
these empty arms and trembling hands remember the way we painted each other
stroke by stroke, our brushes one anothers blushes
crimson your cheeks
raw-red from the joy-cry of understood and accepted
and named true
with words lovingly whispered through actions unspoken.

Written by: Michael Morlock, a father, artist, and time traveler from New England. You can find him @themancalledmorlock on Instagram

 

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Wanna read more? Here’s another great piece in our Morality Collection Frayed Ends by Geoff Blanchette

Frayed Ends- Morality Collection

Frayed Endscassiopeia-a-11180_1280

And what,
dear children,
is the end of the world?

Is it when
a hydrogen bomb is triggered,
and flesh and concrete
and body and soul
are brought to nothingness by the fury
of a stillborn sun?

Is it when
the rich finally get tired
of carrying the poor on their backs
(or, conversely,
when the poor
feel likewise
about the rich)
and drag them bodily
against the nearest convenient wall
(you can see it now, can’t you,
aglow in an aura
of weathered newsreel)
and shove a Luger
straight between their eyes
and blow their brains out,

plink

splat,

like wooden ducks at a carnival shooting gallery?

Is it when
the march of progress
tears apart the land

and poisons the water
and fills the air
with smoke and mercury
and electromagnetic waves
that carry only noise
and boundless ignorance,

aided & abetted
by the zombie hordes
who don’t really have a clear idea
about much of anything
(except, you know,
that they were promised
a new season
of that hot new show
and they really hope they get it
because, like,
that shit is pretty awesome)?

Is it when
a good friend
writes you a letter –

oh let’s be real,
the friend writes you an email
or a text
or a tweet
because who the hell has time anymore –

but for the sake of argument,
a good friend
writes
you
a letter,

itemizing in detail
the exact reason why
he or she
will never speak to you again,
delineating the lines
that you
so carelessly
crossed,
and wishing you
a long and happy life
without the burden of their
continued presence?

Is it when

your car breaks down,
or your phone falls in the toilet,
or the dog poops on your new carpet,
or the other guy at the office
got that big account that you wanted,
or the cute piece at the bar
seems a lot more interested
in that hot blond than in
your particular charms,
or your significant whoever is
mad at you again
because you forgot to mow the lawn or
wash the dishes or
suck them off
like you promised to?

Or:

Is it when you see
your newborn child
for the first time,
when you hear him propose,
when you hear her say Yes,
when you earn that last diploma,
when you meet a new friend,
when you forgive an old friend
for the sin of being human,
when you laugh with a good joke,
when others laugh with your jokes,
when you move into your own space
for the first time,
when you get your first real paycheck,
when you learn something
you never imagined before,
when you help someone understand something
that you know,
when you build,
when you love,
when you live?

And what,
dear children,
is the difference
between an end
and a beginning?

Written by: Geoff Blanchette (use link to see his wordpress) a writer and actor based in Westerly, RI

globe-2300135_1280

Would you like to add your opinion? Instead of commenting on this post please write/create something to be shared with the community.

Placeholder Image

 

Wanna read more? Here’s another great piece in our Morality Collection, I Want It All by Geoff Blanchette

When Feelings Collide with Words

dadaepo-beach-2826172_1280

She came And She went
She Left. She never Said Goodbye
I Meeean
I Said It To Her From Behind
But With Her Back Turned To Me
I Didn’t Have Much Confidence
That We Would Meet Again
Like If I Got To Say It To Her
While Looking In Her Eyes
And I’m Just Going Off My Senses
But Something Tellin Me
My Last Kiss
Was Last Night
So I Had To Send This
And I Didn’t Want to Express This
Fearing I May Come off Desprate
But I Guess Ima Keep Speaking
She Came At A Tough Time
She Woke Me Up
When I Was With Her
I Found Breath To Keep Breathing
But Maybe Something Wasn’t True
Now I Guess I Could Keep Sleepin
Cuz Maybe The Answer Wasn’t You
So I Guess I Will Keep Dreaming

-Marco Anthony Fabretti

Check him out on Instagram @marco4him  or  Facebook