SarahSmiles' Blog-a-go-go!
This is my rough and ready poetry site. Verse under construction or under review goes here. Mostly from my main page.
For perfect stuff, go to Tempi Duri I Vampiri!

The great broken stone
of the Scots' heart shatters
mine. Grey granite dispair
of icy blank betrayal invades
my silent vigil unrepentent.
Blue in my heart and
poisoned in my soul.
Pinnacled basalt lust
stands awash in saline tears.
posted by Sarah Smiles 6/29/2001

Tuesday, June 26, 2001

Edinburgh Elegy

{This is a rough draft (or fourth draft) of something I wrote on top of Arthur's Seat, one of the 7 hills of Edinburgh. Useful comments welcome}

I saw three stones on Arthur's Seat;
one for he, and each for thee and me.
In the midsummer's night, they seemed
to dance, those three; one for the present,
one for the past, and one for that which might be.
From these three stones, I thought I might
learn the path from me to thee.
But they only laughed and mocked my tears
with seeming delight and with glee.
I sat there all night, out of fear or spite,
awaiting some clue to my fate;
In the hour fore dawn, the moon's rays they shone
on the three stones high up on my hill.
And the shadows they cast, shone upon you at last
in the centre of Haymarket Square.

You were turning away from the first light of day,
towards me where the stones' shadows cast.
The gleam in your hair, your face pale and fair.
and your arms behind you were clasped.
The stones marked my shame
and my writhed midnight pain
at arriving back home too too late.

As the first gleams of the morning
over powered the shadows of night,
my love looked first north, then
east, south and west.
When she'd swung around once,
then again to the east, there
she paused almost staring at me.

I felt a rope around my heart
pulling tight as it might have pulled
round her neck long and fair.
And I sat in my tears, caressing my fears,
my heart beyond life and all care.
posted by Sarah Smiles 6/26/2001

Wednesday, May 23, 2001

Tempi duri per I Vampiri !! ! A response to Magpie's poem: to ache:
What is it to ache;
wracked with unrequited recollections
that sap the mind and soul
and break the will to wonder.

What is it to scream;
echoes' aching canyon cry,
voicing storied pain
of heart-crushed hope.

What is it to love;
dueling sweating lust,
intercoursing probing minds
of deeply twinning souls.

What is it to live;
sustained sanguine soul,
solitary midnight watching
for mourning signs of life.
posted by Sarah Smiles 5/23/2001

Monday, May 14, 2001

Daily News that Sucks

Saturday, May 12, 2001
I rejoinedFarmPoetry... after someone left. This is based on two wonderful poems already posted by Pigglet and Pitchfork...

Ode to a liquid drop of life

My thoughts upon that liquid drop of life
fall first casually, softly to regard
the source of misery and strife,
that keeps us from attaining our reward,
and lead us on an eternal endless quest,
as if we are enthralled at its behest.

The source, I know, of misery and fear
that keeps us from embracing what is dear,
is naught but our regret and our dismay
that all we have will someday fade away.
And we will be with less than when we're born
for gone will be our innocence by morn.

In endless night I cloak my misery,
as if to hide that which I'm wont to see.
But in the night the phantoms by my side
laugh and mock my dreams, and hopes deride.
For if I hope and pray my luck will turn,
my demons past arise, and all hope spurn.

But lo! I find each night I think of you,
my tiny fragile liquid drop of life.
And sing my pleasured plans out at your name.
And sing my sorrowed pains out just the same.
I sing that you may follow my voice home
from where and when you solitary roam.

For you, my drop of life, are not the blood,
the crimson joy that flows upon the flood.
Nay, you the drop of life are my own soul,
the one without whom I am never whole.
And if I see your smiling face again
my voice will never rise in rage and pain.
------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thursday, May 10, 2001
Piglett's Sty

(see below for rationale)

I didn't know you then, playing in your sty.
All engrossed with your friends, passing by the bye.
Cavorting with the farmyard set, the joy of farmyard life.
Playing in the farmyard mud, far from stress and strife.

I stood upon a dusty cliff, overlooking hill and dale;
in the midnight hour, I looked and looked, until the night turned pale.
Though from my cliff the view was grand, and my thoughts and verse did sail
they searched and searched throughout the night, for a home in some warm vale.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
II

Oft the thoughts and words and dreams got lost upon the waves,
and did alight on some sad blight with hope her verse would pave
a street of gold, a town of gold, and friendships deep and long,
but once again, the wind did send a howl to end her song.

At last, one night, she found the farm, and she thought her journey done,
for such a fast and friendly place there really could be but one.
And Sarah fast alighted from her cloud with joy and glee,
but sadly, truly, happiness was something not to be.
For as she went down to the farm, she did not go alone,
but on her tail a darkened voice silently did drone.

And as she spoke her first fine words and listened at the farm,
the droning darkened deadly voice turned joyfulness to harm.
Because her presence at the farm brought darkness on her heels,
she ran back to her mountain top amid the laughter peels
of the darkened drone that drove her out, amid embarrassed cries
she is left up there, quite bereft, alone in darkened skies.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Piglet's two poems: Too Late and Beauty are the most witty things I've read this week, if I read subtexts... they inspired me to this poem... I'll post it in a second, when I'm finished.
posted by Sarah Smiles 5/14/2001

Thursday, May 03, 2001

Farewell

It seems my voice is broken
under the wheels of the man.
The weight of such oppression
has made me who I am,
a little twisted, slightly dark,
shunning all bright light,
and, if you look so succulent,
you'll find I also bite.
It seems that when I once did bark,
self-promoting out of turn,
I was firmly on probation placed,
lest madness still did burn.
I lived my bleak abeyance
prostrated on the ground,
and promised that I now saw the light,
epiphany quite profound.
I thought I'd passed the muster
returned unto the fold
but since my last rejection
I'm dumped out in the cold.
The last offending poem,
at sarahsmiles.com
is a bit of viper doggerel
presented with aplomb.
It is caustic and its personal
vitriolic and quite rude,
but totally appropriate
trashing some thick old dude.
Now I don't have harsh words or thoughts
to our moderating host,
he's been a perfect gentleman
appreciated most.
But I have neither heart
nor soul to suffer such restriction;
my voice must not be censored
or await for validation.
So, from this list I must shove off
which will bring cheers of joy,
casually cast as soft aside,
from those I do annoy.

posted by Sarah Smiles 5/3/2001

Tuesday, May 01, 2001

Part one and two are for a poem I posted to dark_poets@yahoogroups.com. I think they will refuse to post it, and I'll get nuked from the group. So, I thought I'd put it here. Hope it tricks the heart.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
This is a poem about someone named, variously, Akira Katana, crimson_shadow_dancer, and Indigo Dreams... she made a strange post, which is visible on dark_poets, and I commented, in full honesty, about how strange it was to see someone use a name like Akira Katana, likening it to MickeyMouse Switchblade, though that seems more interesting.

part one

One strange night a month ago
when sarah did awake,
she did not know that she'd embarked
on a particular path of fate.
That the crimson_shadow_dancer
of hotmail dot com
would post to her fave email list
with remarkable aplomb.
That crimson_shadow_dancer
was writing a special work
under the name Akira Katana,
"Oh, god!" I thought, "A jerk?"
Or just someone who had just not thought
the thought through to the end.
So Sarah chose to send a message
her ignorance to end.

When Sarah pointed out, gingerly
the problematic state,
and suggested somewhat markedly
that some mis-thought to date
had led this shadow_dancer
a crass faux pas to make.
Akria is a well known name of manga genesis,
and katana is a nice sword of folded steel plate.
Sarah thought that anyone who'd choose such a facile name
would rather someone told her, and thus avoid some shame,
and appropriating Japanese culture, without much regard,
was something somewhat moronic, that one should fast discard
------------------------------------------------------------------------
part two:
Then Akira Katana's trusty blade
a voice of phallic lust,
turned out to be a blunted knife
of plastic, rust and dust;
the illusionary illusionist
just pretends is was on purpose
and invents another moniker,
one equally thought- and worthless.

When one awakes from Indigo Dreams
and goes out into the night,
one realizes that one's voice of gold
was really one of spite, and
that one's carefully laid out plans
of grace and poise so clear
are really mewling caustic tripe
of ignorance and fear.

Thus sits sarah in her warm cave
below the bright chateau
and looks out to the town below
in search of friend or beau.
Another trollop's bit the dust
potential friend rejected
because of all the dross we throw
and of all the truths we trow
and gutter speaking trash we know,
how doth the list of the dead grow.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
posted by Sarah Smiles 5/1/2001

Saturday, April 21, 2001

I'm not angry but
when I see you standing there
wrecking your havoc of delusion and degredation
packaged as dreams of delight
on friends and foe a like, my
bile rises and spleen burts forth
spewing self righteous abuse and indignation;
venting voice of my powerlessness.
But I'm not ANGRY!

*I wrote this after reading a rant on another poetry list I'm on. The sentiments do not represent myself, my mood, or this site.*
posted by Sarah Smiles 4/21/2001

Friday, April 13, 2001

this is bad
Denatured eyelids,
tattooed circus smiles,
bat brief time with the
silent voices of an
accoustic maelstrom;
undulating thousand-yard stares
of movement and fashion.
posted by Sarah Smiles 4/13/2001

Thursday, April 12, 2001

Abused Romance v.2.0
Abused Romance, 2.0
The violent voice is silenced by a
nightmare, for the midnight
sun is black. The sinews of
my love snap as the teeth of
my unsatisfied desire bite deep,
releasing the unanticipated fluid life
that was refused in our love.
My body is now warm, as I sit
alone in the deepest midnight shadow,
hugging myself, loving my darkening
dream. I have drunk the sun,
consumed the day, birthed the
night. Taking from the body,
into my mouth, the soul.
posted by Sarah Smiles 4/12/2001

Sunday, April 08, 2001

NULL EXCHANGE
Recompense denied by
the unremitting regulation of
your smile.
NULL EXCHANGE
Undulating withdrawal from
insinuating gestures of
my thwarted touch.
NULL EXCHANGE
Thunder-shaken glance of
a soft-spoken word from
your twisted tongue.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Voice
One voice
of two breaths
sing the chord of the other-
a vacuum inhalation of
spirit singing memory.
posted by Sarah Smiles 4/8/2001

Tuesday, April 03, 2001

From A to B and back again.

You scream at night to unseen voices,
and hope someone respects your choices.
But no one's listening, no one's there.
No one gives a fuck or care.

Though deep inside you hate yourself,
you pompously bloat and flaunt your wealth
of badly worded caustic shit
and mewlings of a pathetic twit.

When words and voice and heart and power
and love beneath some dark blessed bower,
could open your soul to nocturne delight
but you just turn all to rancid blight.

You made your choices, built your hell
for fear, no doubt, that knowing well
of your nasty temper and vapid mind
would bore the rest of us half blind.

A brat corrupted stressed out being,
rancorous malignant sight unseen,
can fester, stew and boil and thunder
while the rest of us can sit and wonder.

What makes a shit walk, stand and talk,
and spew out nonsense by the crock,
I vaguely give a second thought,
just wipe your ass and toss the blot.
posted by Sarah Smiles 4/3/2001

Thursday, March 01, 2001
Robert Louis Stevenson... Another canuck born, died in France.... NOT!

I met an ugly vampire while on a midnightís trek.
I pittied this dear vampire, who was quite a sorrowed wreck.
When I asked her what had befallen her to bequeath her this sad fate,
she looked at me and smiled, and offered to realte,
the Ballad of the Ugly Vampire, a tale the bones to chill.
As story of dark love lost and death, a tome the soul to thrill.
posted by Sarah Smiles 4/3/2001

Sunday, April 01, 2001

Ok, I'm bad. I am on a punctual rant these days. It is Neph's fault, I think... anyway, here it is...

Punctuating the Darkness

Verbs, they are just action words
for the living and the dead.
Nouns, they are just bloody knives
and corpses full of dread.
Prepositions locate death
from above or from below.
And pronouns mark our fate
at the hands of one we know.

But punctuation is something
we should never, never touch.
Periods such an evil affront
to the eldritch gods, and such.
And commas are a lazy pause;
our fast highway to hell.
While ellipsis are too elliptical...
the dead will never tell.
Semi-colons are all so fake;
really just half there.
Colons though are violent
cuts: to love, to hate, to fear.

These nasty tools are too too much
for the poet and her kin.
And using them we should
equate with nasty gothic sin.
So let us all just string our
words together hear and there;
hoping no one ever will
notice it or care.


posted by Sarah Smiles 4/1/2001

A poem I posted to someone ranting about hating poetry, and then writing a nice poem. I love motivation.

Pity me, cause I'm so gothic.
It's not that I am so nostalgic,
but that I am so pathetic
that I need a diuretic.

"You wonder why I'm such a goth
lounging, whining, such a sloth.
Pretending that it's blood I quaff.
Fluttering like some gilded moth."

"Gothic is not a group of Huns,
Or architecturally important ruins,
Or early romantic sublime thought.
None of that really gets me hot.

Gothic is about my fears;
keep them close and keep them near.
Gothic is about that game;
the one we play to keep us sane.
Gothic is about myself;
neurotic twisted self-centric elf.
posted by Sarah Smiles 4/1/2001

I just got home for the first time in days;
hiding and sleeping and crawling and seeking.
Never expecting to make my way home;
watching and waiting and haunting and hating.
Never expecting to find him alone;
driving and cursing and thirsting and drinking.
Home in my hole happy and warm;
smiling and purring and digesting and sleeping.

With love and terminal affection,
Sarah
Originally: Monday, February 05, 2001
posted by Sarah Smiles 4/1/2001

Testing, 1, 2, 3

Welcome to Sarah's Poetry Workshop.

Somehow the template can't be changed right now. So you're stuck with this prettiness for the time being. But I may grow to like it. Be afraid. To get back to the main page, try this.
posted by Sarah Smiles 4/1/2001

Left.
My foot alights softly on the cold
polished stone, slippered heel falling
audibly behind. Velvet hip
swinging forth, crushing all
opposition. Leathered body sinking to
the divan, elbowing into personal enclaves.
Shoulder shruging off all question, tossing
head casting off inquiring stares.
Teeth sink into your flesh
with the inevitable mating of my
hunger and your soul.
Originally Tuesday, February 13, 2001
posted by Sarah Smiles 4/1/2001