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memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Tag Archives: sea poem

buckle

15 Monday Aug 2022

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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buckle, cunnilingus, drowning bliss, erotic poetry, moon tide, poem, Poetry, sea poem, sonnet, the sea, with your tampon between my teeth

I learned to walk when the rolling sea ceased

to roll like the earth. I learned to sleep on

billows when you taught me about your creased

lips that tasted of lime. With your tampon

between my teeth I ached for that other

low tide. I didn’t blame the moon, that time,

when you pulled your swimsuit aside. “Lick her.”

I won’t blame it now. Let the sea’s stars climb

the sky, I will not drown while going down.

Without sea legs I drank my fill between

your hips. Rising. Falling. Groaning

of a ship’s hull about to buckle. Drown

with your tampon between my teeth. Sea-queen.

Argos-eyed. You are the vast Deep, moaning.

barco (iii)

20 Wednesday Jan 2021

Posted by babylon crashing in A Girl and Her Submarine, Poetry, self-portrait, sonnet

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a girl and her submarine, conversations with imaginary sisters, dama de aguas oscuras, grave glow, loathy dark, santa muerte, sea poem, sonnet

Dama de aguas oscuras, last night

I dreamed of phosphor under a starlit

 

dome. Far above such unending ghost-light

the gales harangued (as gales do). Your half-wit

 

brat sat in low, loathy dark; wheezing down

the last air in his rust iron coffin.

 

Lady of dark waters, they say to drown

is abysmal, but if I can return

 

to you through your blessed sea or ill ocean,

then I’ll slip my box’d boat through opal waves

 

to rest my grave under high tide and slow

sea-swill. Lay me, if it’s your will, all shrunken,

 

alone, calling this dream fate. Glow of graves,

Santa Muerte, lost in the tidal flow.

][][

Notes:

The Bony Lady, Santa Muerte, has many names; “Dama de las aguas oscuras,” Lady of the dark waters, is one of them. The idea of this poem actually came to me several years ago when I was reading about the early attempts of the Imperial Japanese navy to build their own submarine. In 1910 one of their first prototypes sank during a training dive in Hiroshima Bay. Although the water was only 18 metres deep it proved impossible for the crew to escape while submerged. The commanding officer, Lieutenant Tsutomu Sakuma, patiently wrote descriptions of his sailor’s efforts to bring the boat back to the surface as their oxygen supply ran out. All of the sailors were later found dead at their stations when the submarine was finally raised the following day.

barco (ii)

20 Wednesday Jan 2021

Posted by babylon crashing in A Girl and Her Submarine, Poetry, self-portrait, sonnet

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a girl and her submarine, before the storm, Dama del Mar, gale's dirge, narco barco, santa muerte, sea poem, sonnet, squall's lament

Santa Muerte, I cannot pluck banjo

strings like Sal, nor compose on a guitar

 

like my brother. I do have magic, though,

of a different sort. I scrawl in the air

 

and the words jell and congeal. Even now,

Dama del Mar, with husky, haughty lips,

 

I reel across the deck each time we plough

through ten foot swells; each time salt water drips

 

in my eyes while sliding down swales to surge

up each peak. Below, in the engine room,

 

womb warm and sacred, one of your altars,

heart and cunt of this boat, keeps beat: gale’s dirge,

 

squall’s lament. Make this submarine my tomb

and I will gladly play shaman to sailors.

dispel

20 Sunday Dec 2020

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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coven's pride, dispel, filthy lucre, hubris, neon fused, poem, Poetry, sea poem, selling my gifts, sonnet, uncanny malform

Dry ground and graveyards pale next to the sea’s

verge when uncanny malforms crawl forth each

 

night and roam. The same infected city’s

haze of lights that drown the stars cannot reach

 

into that dark, cannot dispel horrors

that have only ire toward our neon-fused

 

age and benign witcheries. The breakers

mark me as a false witch, how I’ve abused

 

my gifts for filthy lucre and coinage.

There is no grimoire for sale that’ll let us

 

command the tide. Coven’s pride. Ghasts that feed

on brine-caked bones know this. You can’t sage smudge

 

the sea, they guffaw. They name us hubris

and crawl from the surge at the scent of greed.

requin

18 Friday Dec 2020

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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conversations with imaginary sisters, femme de requin, poem, Poetry, requin, sea poem, shark poem, sharkcallers, sonnet

Far-off wave, depraved. Nali leans over

the edge of the dugout, shakes her rattle.

 

She calls: “Big Sister let my Small Sister

come to me.” She does: out from the coral

 

shadows a shadow rising, a shadow

vast, vast as the tide’s rip, twisting current,

 

rising into song. I was there. I know

you don’t think women can do this. Pregnant

 

ghosts will scorn you for that. They love Nali,

though. I rowed. She sang and Femme de requin

 

came to have her snout rubbed, to feast on prayer.

Sisters swam here until men trawled this sea

 

down to its ghosts. The price of a shark fin

is when you call and only ghosts answer.

][][

Notes:

Femme de requin is French for shark woman. The inspiration of this poem came from watching Dennis O’Rourke’s 1982 documentary, The Sharkcallers of Kontu.

fathoms

26 Thursday Nov 2020

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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all that sluices, all that spumes, crew of two, crushing depths, fathoms, mine brine, sea poem, shark poem, sonnet

Build me an underwater boat a crew

of two might handle. I’ll be your gray god

 

among waves. Dreams of drowning, of rescue,

of shear waters. The same ghost shark that’s gnawed

 

on you gnawed me, I see. From a strange wave

we both were born. From the shark that chants, shark

 

that mourns. Build for me the boat that I crave.

To slip through seas. To plunge into the dark.

 

To sink. To descend. Crushing depths do not

frighten me. — Only being lost from you does.

 

Only a life spent on land. We: sea. We:

brine. Come: be mine. A crew of two. We’re what

 

ghost sharks dream of. All that spumes. All that sluices.

All that fathoms. Love deep as the high sea.

Quote

quote unquote

09 Sunday Sep 2018

Posted by babylon crashing in quote unquote

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quote unquote, sea poem, song of the master and boatswain, W.H. Auden

At Dirty Dick’s and Sloppy Joe’s
we drank our liquor straight,
some went upstairs with Margery,
and some, alas, with Kate;
and two by two like cat and mouse
the homeless played at keeping house.

There Wealthy Meg, the Sailor’s Friend,
and Marion, cow-eyed,
opened their arms to me but I
refused to step inside;
I was not looking for a cage
in which to mope my old age.

The nightingales are sobbing in
the orchards of our mothers,
and hearts that we broke long ago
have long been breaking others;
tears are round, the sea is deep:
roll them overboard and sleep.

W.H. Auden, “SONG OF THE MASTER AND BOATSWAIN.”

Quote

quote unquote

09 Sunday Sep 2018

Posted by babylon crashing in quote unquote

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langston hughes, long trip, Poetry, quote unquote, sea poem

The sea is a wilderness of waves,
a desert of water.
We dip and dive,
rise and roll,
hide and are hidden
on the sea.
Day, night,
night, day,
the sea is a desert of waves,
a wilderness of water.

Langston Hughes, “LONG TRIP.”

Quote

quote unquote

09 Sunday Sep 2018

Posted by babylon crashing in quote unquote

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by the sea, Christina Rossetti, Poetry, quote unquote, sea poem

Why does the sea moan evermore?
Shut out from heaven it makes its moan,
it frets against the boundary shore;
all earth’s full rivers cannot fill
the sea, that drinking still thirsts still.

Christina Rossetti, from “BY THE SEA.”

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