am I still ill?

A fissured father of stone,
poisoned by the vale, a bridal’s helm
rushing through the billow waves, I billow
blood from the clouds, awaiting for the frost
dead uncles in May with his ghost; dementing
in Autumn, what wilderness flooded
to the unvisited dream, the ocean’s ungues
cutting through faint music
like a lotus growing ill—I dream
than trench the hoar frost; I billow,
I nest into the mad tree,
leafed into the hoof-beats of the
poet’s nakedness, I don’t have anything left,
you can spend years in the abyssal hunt,
the haven of our gods like an apparition
feeding the rain—the poison I fall
and then hatch into the splintered egg
a void is born; ossify our dug up ghosts,
in icy air around the red chariot of our bones.

© 2020 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved.

Written for the dVerse prompt: Today we will incorporate music in our poem from the perspective of a synesthete.   Create your own Symphony.  Infuse your musical experience when listening to a band, artist or musical genre, with colors, sounds & textures.   Write a song filled with colors.

I was really inspired by the song Still Ill by The Smiths.

Reposted 7/07/2021.


45 thoughts on “am I still ill?”

  1. Good morning Lucy, such vivid imagery, and these lines I plucked out, because they conducted a music score into my mind…
    “I nest into the mad tree,
    leafed into the hoof-beats of the
    poet’s nakedness,”

    Liked by 1 person

  2. This is phenomenal writing, Lucy! I love; “I nest into the mad tree, leafed into the hoof-beats of the
    poet’s nakedness.” The imagery in your poems is always so striking 💝💝

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Love the depths of emotions here: I nest into the mad tree,
    leafed into the hoof-beats of the
    poet’s nakedness, I don’t have anything left

    My first time to hear that band – amazing sounds!

    Thanks for joining in!

    Liked by 1 person

  4. As Rob noted, your style is lusty, macabre, stirring, and magnificently yours. It matures and grows weekly. You have leagues to go before reaching your poetic apex. Your poetics have a dark through-line, but rarely do you repeat yourself. I wish I could say the same for myself.

    Liked by 1 person

  5. I liked Ivor’s lines as well. … poet’s nakedness, I don’t have anything left, This leads me to think of the truth, that poets really do reveal themselves until there is nothing left!!

    The splintered egg was a very nice image!!

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Dear Lynn, it is because you are correct; I also have a crow who rests upon my shoulder, that with each dip of the fountain pen to the inkwell as I write, he squawks.

      Thank you so much. 🙂

      Liked by 1 person

  6. I love the ending, it’s all feeding the rain, isn’t it? And then those splintered eggs and dug up ghosts, the visuals are all so visceral. I’m happy we have a red chariot at the end to carry off the bones. It’s a swish of color that sticks in the memory, great piece!

    Liked by 1 person

  7. All those deep textures create so many levels of feeling, and then you bring in the red chariot at the end which startles the senses because it’s an unusual colour for a chariot – the Red Death? Another strikingly wonderful poem, Lucy!

    Liked by 1 person

  8. Now that was unexpected, The Smiths! I haven’t listened to them in ages, at least not since my friend moved to France – she was a huge fan. You certainly got the colours right, Lucy! I love the alliterative ‘fissured father of stone’, the sound of ‘the ocean’s ungues cutting through faint music’, and the lines:
    ‘…ossify our dug up ghosts,
    in icy air around the red chariot of our bones’.
    I agree with Ingrid, the red chariot is startling.

    Liked by 1 person

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