Inky Poetry

I’m going to break this up into two posts, today and tomorrow. I like to write poetry and short stories, because any time I write more than a couple of pages of a story, I tend to kill my main character if not my entire cast. In fact, I think very few stories I’ve written have ended without them being dead. For some reason I find this really amusing – I like to think of it that I’m worse than Joss about that kind of thing.

Anyway, that’s for another post. I posted some of my poetry when I was graduating, and some screenshots of the art video for my Experimental New Media class, but I don’t think I ever posted the video itself.

So, I’ve re-exported it now years later so you can enjoy my angsty poetry from high school. Click the image to view the set of three poems in video form.


Here are some more recently-written ones.

Ink-spotted sleeves.
Smooth hands worn into scars and
a book of sketches
A saw and a stretcher for rest
Gouge and awl and bend, old wood
Tired and thread-thin
Fire and dark consuming
the drip of paint on stone floor
Creation gives a new life, renewal,
A new sculpture forming.

I know the saw line doesn’t fit that well, but due to some external influence, I couldn’t bring myself to take it out. I really just write this stuff for myself, so if I find something darkly funny, I tend to leave it in. Otherwise there are a couple of themes going on – see if you can spot them all!

Ink is a favorite topic of mine when inclined to write poetry, because I love the way it comes in different colors, and the way it can create or destroy, the way it gets all over the place and makes a mess, and the native artistic implications in using it as opposed to other media.

A tempest
bottled up
inside a beaker
waiting for release as the glass breaks,
drops spatter the floor and walls.
Burned holes like dragon worms
in the fabric smoke,
“Another one for rags.”
Another scar added to the laboratory.

After I showed Sarah HK some of my poetry earlier in the year, she basically had an intervention and explained to me that I may need to be a bit more conscious about clichés. I’m still proud of that Roger Chillingworth poem from high school: if you’ve read the Scarlet Letter, it was written from his point of view for a class assignment (the text is in the article linked above). Nonetheless, I’ve decided that I should probably get away from writing about ink and darkness. The results of that coming tomorrow!

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