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Holy Wild, News & Announcements, Poetry & Music

Dreamy, But Brief: two poems

Excited to share my latest publication with you guys! Two prose poems published with the awesome online journal Seven By Twenty, a literary magazine dedicated to pushing the edge of brevity with very-very-very-short fiction and poetry in less than 140 characters.

Check out my poems below! (And, you know, *heart* and RT if you like 😉

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Check out Seven By Twenty for more cool micro-fiction and poetry (I particularly enjoy their speculative and magical realism). You can find them on Twitter at @7×20 and follow their blog here. Also check out their anthology of previously published pieces (whew! alliteration is fun!) from Upper Rubber Boot Books, 140 And Counting.

Conservation, Current Events, Deep Ecology, Holy Wild, Muse in Brief, Poetry & Music

Natural Wonder

Last week, Trump pulled the U.S. out of the Paris Climate Accord. This poem is not about that.




Natural Wonder

In Morocco, the researchers confirmed,
hungry goats will climb into an argan tree
when they can’t find fruit at their feet
— clamber up and chow down,
ruminate a while, then spit the seed.
This is how it goes, what they call
dispersal, succession, the architecture
of regeneration: the corrosive juices of
the stomach, the bleating laughter, breaking
open and discarding what could not
otherwise long survive in an arid world —
first in the wild, then later, on YouTube.



Inspired by the article, “How tree-climbing goats help plant new trees


Photo Credit: “Argan Tree Goats,” by Mikel Santamaria (CC) [source]

Holy Wild, Muse in Brief, Poetry & Music

Bemused

Bemused

Petrarch had his Laura,
a phoenix feather for his pen.
Danté’s blessed Beatrice
sent him to hell and back again.
Rilke’s heart-sick panther.
Burns’ wee tim’rous beastie.
None tremble with the thrill I feel
whenever you retweet me.

If my listicles are funny
and my clickbait off the hook,
I know I’m getting through to you
when you like me on Facebook.
They used to call it courtly love,
a bard’s devotion to his muse.
The give and take of glances.
The re-blogs and reviews.

I seduce you with my humor,
I secure you with my wit.
I’m your chaste friendzone beloved.
You’re my one millionth hit.
My every headline is a soul-song,
like a ribbon from my hair
that you proudly wear to battle
as a #hashtag that you care.

But what terrifying angel
draws close to the sublime
— I’d never want to meet you —
it’s much safer here online
where you are just a stranger
and you don’t know who I am,
just the vintage version of myself
I share on Instagram.

Still I try to live the questions
like every question is a meme,
and the memes are in a foreign tongue
quoting shows I’ve never seen.
But my image in your Tumblr
seems to scroll so quickly by,
like how for the greatest poets,
the best muses always die.

So I wander back to Petrarch
and his flame-like quill and ink.
(If you don’t get all these references,
you can Google them, I think.)
Or like Rilke and his panther,
hungry for a change of scene
beyond these ones and zeros
in my heart and on the screen.


Photo Credit: “Keeping notes in the 21st Century,” by Michael Dales (CC) [source]

art, Holy Wild, Poetry & Music

Dear Copyeditor,

Dear Copyeditor,

I would have said,
my dear
copyeditor,
but god knows,
the nuances of affection
are lost on you.
I am writing you
this poem
the way a gazelle
must grow ever sleeker
and quicker
to escape
the indelicate jaws
of the lion.
You are a butcher,
a brute.
I have tried to tell you
all this before,
but you — lounging
there in the shade, twitching
a tin ear, lazily
licking between your
claws like commas —
have torn through all
my objections.
Look how casually
you have rent them in two,
making good, as usual
out of what
was once only
good as usual.


Photo Credit: “Furry Friends,” by Makia Minich (CC) [source]

Art & Aesthetics, Current Events, Holy Wild, Poetry & Music

Pieces

This post originally appeared on Holy Wild, at alisonleighlilly.com


pieces

When I said I read an article somewhere about jigsaw puzzles, how they can help with the recovery from post-traumatic stress, I think maybe you thought I was being flippant, even silly. I was four corners and almost all the edges in on a puzzle of clown fish, a swarm of them in all the otherworldly colors (even green), but when I asked if you wanted to help, you only smiled. Articles aside, I didn’t quite want to tell you — we just weren’t that close — that since November I’ve been having nightmares about the president raping me and my friends. You seem like the kind of person who likes to stay on top of things, who reads all the newspapers, and resists the new normal with all the composure of a bleached coral reef. And that’s fine. Nightmares aside, I am handling my shit, I am putting the pieces of my anxiety each in their appropriate place, arranging them into piles on the table according to color and line. The thing about puzzles is, there’s a moment between when you have all the edges done, and when you have enough of the middle filled in to see what’s missing, what’s left. I’m almost there. And when I am, I expect, it will get easier to forgive you — for the smile, I mean, and for everything you didn’t do.


This post originally appeared on Holy Wild, at alisonleighlilly.com

Contemplation & Meditation, Current Events, Holy Wild, justice

Pieces

When I said I read an article somewhere about jigsaw puzzles, how they can help with the recovery from post-traumatic stress, I think maybe you thought I was being flippant, even silly. I was four corners and almost all the edges in on a puzzle of clown fish, a swarm of them in all the otherworldly colors (even green), but when I asked if you wanted to help, you only smiled. Articles aside, I didn’t quite want to tell you — we just weren’t that close — that since November I’ve been having nightmares about the president raping me and my friends. You seem like the kind of person who likes to stay on top of things, who reads all the newspapers, and resists the new normal with all the composure of a bleached coral reef. And that’s fine. Nightmares aside, I am handling my shit, I am putting the pieces of my anxiety each in their appropriate place, arranging them into piles on the table according to color and line. The thing about puzzles is, there’s a moment between when you have all the edges done, and when you have enough of the middle filled in to see what’s missing, what’s left. I’m almost there. And when I am, I expect, it will get easier to forgive you — for the smile, I mean, and for everything you didn’t do.