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Literature
Six Months
It's easy to write months and forget
the minutiae of minutes,
hours, seconds. Days.
It's easy to write six months on a page
and let them pass by - merely
the distance of one space
and nine letters.
It's easy to write
You will be gone for six months
and believe in the bridging power
of ink, paper, pixels,
spanning the concept of a sea.
But the reader knows that words are eternal,
time means nothing in a book,
and I do not have the luxury of living
within the page, beyond
the sluggish tick-over of time.
You will be gone for six months,
but really,
you will just be gone.
:iconarliddian:arliddian
:iconarliddian:arliddian 7 12
Literature
The absence of silence
There is no call
for the absence of my voice.
Silence is spacious
and I am tucked into the corner.
I do not have ticking clocks
or a watch on my wrist;
it is easy to believe
I am not waiting
for anything to happen.
I am listening to notes that press fingers
into nerves. Melodies push buttons,
dialling the number for the room where
my heart lies, idle, gazing at blank plaster
and trying to find shadows
where there is no light.
Telephone music sounds all-too-often
like the voice that is supposed to be
at the other end.
Are there mockingbirds in the speakers,
or do they nest in my ribcage?
Sharp beaks tear at vital organs and
my heart is connected to my ears.
We are preoccupied
with colour and volume and sound,
measuring distance with words:
We are two 'I love you's apart;
The quiet is too much
like thunder; You shine
a bright gold, but the gleam has faded
by the time it reaches me.
The metaphors are too vivid -
distracting camouflage
for plain and unadorned truth.
Sometimes we for
:iconarliddian:arliddian
:iconarliddian:arliddian 5 7
Literature
Your hair
You say I am silly to love
your hair (and I know sometimes you mean
to omit the last five letters).
But I have waited years
for hair that I can weave my fingers through
as joyfully as I thread them
through the rain after summer's thirst;
hair that I can sweep aside
as I do the curtains on my birthday,
revealing the gift long hoped-
yet unasked-for;
hair that I can tangle with my hands
the way I knot my fingers
into promises made with a child's
optimism, faith.
You say I am silly
to love your hair.
But I tell you I love you, and sometimes
I say it with five extra letters.
:iconarliddian:arliddian
:iconarliddian:arliddian 5 9
Literature
Downpour
I hurl raindrops at your chest
of earth. Gravity lends them weight –
they splatter; the dry dirt
is scattered.
You watch my eyes, the deluge pouring
from clenching skies. There is a storm
beating you, water doing its best to dent
your surface. Nothing grows
in soil so firmly fixed.
I do not know
how else to move you, mould you,
disturb and shape you.
I wish this was not what it takes:
a monsoon, a flood, so much water
-damage to re-form
your settled landscape.
:iconarliddian:arliddian
:iconarliddian:arliddian 2 13
Literature
the beauty of stars
Last night I swept my hands through the sky
and pricked my fingers on stars.
Here. I will show you the holes
pierced and cauterised by points of light.
You look at me and I can see
myself, reflected in the dancing glimmer
of your eyes: all soft curves
and diamond smiles and skin like jasmine
or baby's breath. And you,
you are a constellation
or maybe an entire shimmering galaxy.
You touch my wounds
and I ask, did you know
that beautiful things
hurt?
:iconarliddian:arliddian
:iconarliddian:arliddian 4 6
Literature
Advice for the Timekeeper
Caressing an hourglass and counting
each grain of time-soaked sand
does not make the seconds
more precious, more poignant,
more perfect.
Throw away the clocks.
Time is nothing
with no-one to measure it;
Forever has no need
for a personal assistant.
Mathematicians are not magicians.
Stop taking note of the numerals on your wrist.
Do not watch my hands
as they circle your face.
Close your eyes. Hours can pass
in one kiss. It does not matter.
Forget preoccupations
with firsts and lasts: numbers
only tell us what we know and have known:
     We are here,
           we are now,
                we are together.
:iconarliddian:arliddian
:iconarliddian:arliddian 1 4
Literature
Dental Work
I wear false teeth,
set in a white-washed grin:
my company teeth, for the business
of being with people.
You shake your head and your hands
form pliers, a chisel, a mallet.
You chip at my cemented smile, snapping
porcelain masquerading as bone.
Your lightest touch has the force
of a bird-laden, star-twirling fist.
I did not know it would hurt so much
to lose a part of me that never was
my self.
:iconarliddian:arliddian
:iconarliddian:arliddian 0 4
Literature
The reality of flying
Your heart is pressed against
my shoulder-blades, the steady beat
of wings. I am no longer afraid
of gravity: together,
you and I are defiant
in the face of heights.
:iconarliddian:arliddian
:iconarliddian:arliddian 1 6
Literature
What I am looking forward to
Boxes. Too many boxes, and not enough
time to arrange the furniture.
Arguments over the best place to put
the crockery, the television, my books,
your hands. Pressing my clothes, smoothing wrinkles
from your shirts with a second-hand iron.
Dishes, piled in the sink and waiting
for you. My lips, formed around words that are
sharp, like fingernails. Your eyes,
bright behind glasses and the pain of scratch wounds.
Choking on a mouthful of pride,
unable to swallow. Delayed forgiveness.
You, sulking. You, refusing to speak. You,
tousle-haired and bleary-eyed in the morning, still
sulking. Slamming the bedroom door and crying. Undressing
onions and crying. Leaning against your chest and
crying. Damp eyelashes and blotchy skin. Air warmed by
apologies, vibrating and humming. Shivering
gooseflesh where your palms cross my body.
Tying knots with fingers, tangles with limbs.
Falling asleep in your arms, the ring on
my left hand warmed by your skin.
:iconarliddian:arliddian
:iconarliddian:arliddian 2 5
Literature
Croaking
This heavy emotion, it is
something cold
and amphibious; unblinking, pulsing
voice steady in the rain as well
as under deserted skies.
It crawled over my chest. I tried
pushing it off, but webbed feet are sticky.
Change of tactics – ignorance
didn’t work; that rhythmic breathing
and damply throbbing skin proved too distracting.
I tried to kiss it
goodbye (fairytale transformation –
I hear it is most rewarding),
but as I leaned down it leapt
down my throat.
Now I cannot answer you
without choking. My words
must squeeze past,
slippery and pressed flat.
:iconarliddian:arliddian
:iconarliddian:arliddian 1 5
Literature
This is a story about...
How heavy it is, all this wait
-ing. It is a book balanced on my
head, thick with a story
with two familiar protagonists
and a mystery plot,
adjusting my posture,
cautioning my steps.
After all this time, my straightened spine
is almost natural – and yet,
I long to set this story on the table,
stop carrying it and
read.
:iconarliddian:arliddian
:iconarliddian:arliddian 1 2
Literature
This is how I love you...
By staring defiantly at passing cars,
face glistening under traffic lights
because you did not come.
Stopping at the top of the hill,
blinking at the moon like a TV genie
attempting to make you appear.
By trying to squeeze blood from
my pillow, like that is what it takes to
kill. By using scissors to hack
off my shadow and chase it away,
hoping it dogs you instead,
your own faded ghost.
By ignoring the part of your message that says
‘I’m sorry’, then crying because
you did not apologise. By touching my ribcage
and wondering if this feeling is
a heart attack, or something a little more
serious. A cave-in, or maybe a wormhole opening.
Staring at the part where you wrote
‘I love you’. By choosing to
shut my eyes and pretend I’m
all alone. Laughing because I know
I’m not.
:iconarliddian:arliddian
:iconarliddian:arliddian 4 4
Literature
Artist
I think you could be an artist,
the kind who brings imagined worlds to
life in finger-paints.
You trace my skin with your hands,
eyes intent and studious
as if, when you are alone,
you could close your eyes and draw
me into the room.
:iconarliddian:arliddian
:iconarliddian:arliddian 1 9
Literature
Fear of flight
With gingered fingers, I touch your shoulders,
afraid they might erupt with wings.
What use is the love of a girl
to a bird; the gravity-bound
to the sky?
:iconarliddian:arliddian
:iconarliddian:arliddian 5 6
Literature
First touch
You push back my layers:
hands pin the curtain of my hair,
lips part lips. This is the first
touch: our very centres brushing,
the sudden meeting of teeth,
bone to bone. And there it is,
the fabled electricity that crackles through
future lovers, tingling
from the first fleeting contact of hands.
The spark is soothed by your well-known tongue,
your well-loved mouth lingering on familiar paths
that now seem so new.
Our skeletons touch again,
no longer strangers.
:iconarliddian:arliddian
:iconarliddian:arliddian 3 2
Literature
Held
Inside the bowl of your hands, there trembles
my pulse, wound tight with a tangle
of teartracks and ink lines and feather-tipped quavers,
bookmark-ribbon and silver crucifixes,
the swirling curves of fresh-healed scars.
Cracked and chipped, so fragile
a vessel, you are too delicate.
The ends of me could slip out, unravel
through your finger-spaces; my heartbeat could drip
like ice cream – so cold, a useless mess on the floor.
But the One who set the rhythm of my blood
is holding together your fissured surface,
covering over your fractures,
smoothing your jagged edges with His fingertips.
If you were to split apart, I would fall
into His whole, unbroken hands.
Inside the bowl of your hands, inside
the cup of His, there rests
my heart:
      steady,
                 quiet,
                
:iconarliddian:arliddian
:iconarliddian:arliddian 1 4

Random Favourites

Journal
In The End - Poetry Competition
Philip Larkin said far too many writers rely on the classic formula of "a beginning, a muddle, and an end". So we decided to muddle things up by giving you the ending to your poem before you even start!
Below are the end lines of four poems. We'd like you to choose one of them and use it not just for inspiration, but as the actual end of your poem.
This isn't a competition to replicate the original poems. We want you to create something entirely new and fresh.
:pointr:Choose one of these four endings:
her voice half heard as something overhead
-- a splash of white against the wavering sky --
drones through the clouds, mechanical, bereft.
--John Burnside
EDIT: due to conflicting versions of the Burnside ending, either 'light' or 'white' is acceptable in the second line.
her voice half heard as something overhead
-- a splash of light against the wavering sky --
drones through the clo
:iconimperfect:imperfect
:iconimperfect:imperfect 59 136
Literature
you're the only secret I have
there is no sorrow
like the sorrow of a sunny afternoon
stretched out in the hollows of your life
where once the past preferred to play
we've now made way
for forced foundations of the future
the hour grown more than a little late
for the latter day saints of comfortable modern living
and when last we saw love
back bent
walking the fine line
crooked
he simply stared out over our heads
pointing in absolutely no direction
though the wonder of it all does not escape me
it's the unending questions
that linger longer than the answers I long for
it seems I've sunk all ships
all shapes
all sizes
when all I wanted was someone else's voice
or a face to fill my eyes
my time
my hollows
and I'm tired of asking
why couldn't it be you?
(but why couldn't it?)
:iconYouInventedMe:YouInventedMe
:iconyouinventedme:YouInventedMe 15 38
Literature
Sharing Eden
Sometimes, I think about John.
I grew up in my grandparents' garden. It was fairly large and brilliantly colored in a way Crayola could never compare. I spent my days running through the pods of flowers, jumping from rock to rock, or simply laying on the grass, watching the birds, the bugs, and the days go by.
In my childish mind, I thought that God had one day decided to add Eden to Heaven, but accidentally dropped that forbidden garden on the way home. Eden shattered into pieces, and those beautiful shards fell to the Earth. When He saw how beautiful those fragments were, instead of sweeping up the pieces, he decided to leave them there as samples of Heaven. He sent down angels to care for the gardens so that they would flourish even when the area around them turned uglier and uglier.
I thought my grandparents were angels. Unlike most people, my grandparents did not plant healthy flowers. They had the remarkable ability to reconstitute withered and dying ones; weeks were marked with
:iconMalumSempur:MalumSempur
:iconmalumsempur:MalumSempur 112 139
Literature
untitled
-
All the books you gave me
reel around my room at night
because I have no safe place
to put them, because they are
like you.  
Among and beside the waiting secret;
despite the years of ironing useless records
into the air above
are you not still the radiator
in my elsewhere, lifting up your head,
the best,
the loveliest
and I want to be that true to you,
that awakening.
-
:iconAnnaInAdottedDress:AnnaInAdottedDress
:iconannainadotteddress:AnnaInAdottedDress 4 3
Journal
Unknown Artists: August Feature
         
The primary focus of the Unknown Artists Project is to expose talented, yet underrated, artists on deviantArt.  In spirit of that goal, we will present to the community a monthly feature showcasing unknown artists in photography, traditional art, digital art and literature.
:pointr:garrit's picks

:pointr:<3 The Community picks
Struggle by AwiBeautiful Dehydration by jaypolaski:thumb21439223:im just gonna be like you dad. by maddreamerFocus by DimensionSevenThese Eyes by princessmorgan
:pointr:^superkev's picks
Song Breaking Series: 9 of 16 by nomusenation:thumb5868564:Refrain by Traspae:thumb21288656::thumb15912585:STEPS OF LIFE by 8088:thumb20708783:Fishin' in the Mist by Lidodido
:pointr:
:iconMoonbeam13:Moonbeam13
:iconmoonbeam13:Moonbeam13 11 1,259
Journal
News! News?!? NEWS!!!!!
News! News?!? NEWS!!!!!
News. Hot button issue, or more accurately, a hot topic issue. The news system as of right now is very…chaotic. People are going willy nilly with it and posting whatever they like and for a while it was even appearing in your message center. Let me address that quickly. A fix was made so that users can no longer submit to Hot Topics, DA Blog or Notices, so no more goofy spam showing up there anymore. If something shows up in there is has been posted by an administrator. So that should clear up some immediate clutter and abuse potential.
Next, things will be getting tweaked so things can be down voted, thus leaving things of a higher quality to rise to the top. Speaking of quality, I understand you are all excited about being able to submit news on your own now. But does this mean you should simply submit an article that says “I don’t know what to submit?” No it does not. You, as an individual need, need NEED! to take a bit of re
:iconlolly:lolly
:iconlolly:lolly 283 308
Literature
sign
-
there is a tree with finger branches
that touches with relentless force
whoever trespasses his heart into
the holy folds, met Yahweh on a hill
met Yahweh on a hill
there is a banner to be raised up
standing in my magnetic field awaiting
a rod of iron to strike the nations
he will know me by the birds and bread
of Elijah laying in the riverbed
the chariots of the earth are his alone
so we leave
our households behind to meet
weeping in the room filled with one
enormous seam
and the loudest voice
the dream of your heart oh God
the dream of your heart oh God
-
:iconAnnaInAdottedDress:AnnaInAdottedDress
:iconannainadotteddress:AnnaInAdottedDress 3 11
Literature
and the love you're sure...
I'm in the process of painting a picture
wide as your smile
and a thousand
feet
tall
imagine
all the words
I'll save
:iconYouInventedMe:YouInventedMe
:iconyouinventedme:YouInventedMe 94 93
Literature
words just words?
now
I'd heard nothing before
just never so abstract
with the full force of facts
and figures of speech
it was a firm return to form
and
function
be damned!
and that's fine
but
I've never been much for finality
truth be told
I've never been much at all
it seems
I dream
too loud
laugh
too wrong
and suffer from a heart
unfiltered
(who says)
"you
can
ask the stars
for more than a peek"
and
"why wait to speak
until spoken to?"
(while your rolled
eyes say)
"that's
so
you"
:iconYouInventedMe:YouInventedMe
:iconyouinventedme:YouInventedMe 5 15
Literature
adaptation for two
it's not the first time I've spun
unrequited (and right)
writing my own second chances
but
love
I do believe
you're enough to be last
or
at least
lasting
the past pushed precise
to put you in my path
with the pure poetry of coincidence
now
I'm
convinced
and almost sunk with the wait
of the life that led you up to me
still I'll sit
quiet
on the sidelines
smile as your reflection
if keeping company
requires
keeping my mouth shut
I'll shout words
where you can't hear
just so
you know
I'm here
:iconYouInventedMe:YouInventedMe
:iconyouinventedme:YouInventedMe 23 20
Literature
the proper title's a giveaway
I'm bound to be found somewhere
spitting out words
with
second-rate shoe polish shine
always
(at least)
half-surprised at the sounds they make
marking time
tiring of old cliches
diligently developing new ones
all it requires is responsibility on your part
participation
from the awkward audience
playing along at home
that place
I heard you left your heart
and they
have
to let you in
once you want it back
yet
somehow
I'm past that
grateful for gasps
and the emulation of attention
and if it's laughter you want
a jester's gestures you'll get
while behind my own back
this poignant poetry takes place
but never precedence
and it's an often unkempt secret
that I'm planning your triumphant return
to the tune of locked doors
because I want what's yours
(to be ours:)
heart
via
home
via
those same standing cliches
I keep clinging to
:iconYouInventedMe:YouInventedMe
:iconyouinventedme:YouInventedMe 9 10

Activity


deviantID

arliddian
that's 'milady' to you.
Artist
Australia
Current Residence: the sunshine state
Favourite cartoon character: Daria
Personal Quote: Listen to what I mean, not what I say
Interests
  • Reading: Rhubarb - Craig Silvey
Well, hello. It's been a while, hasn't it?

1. I wrote a poem. It is the first complete poem I have written in over a year.

2. There are poem-pieces in my old pink notebook, and I am thinking that I need to create the rest of the pieces so that they can be whole. This may or may not be one of those ideas that never take flight.

3. I have been in a relationship for one year, ten months and sixteen days. If we're lucky, it will keep going until I've lost the ability to count.

4. Doctor Who (the revival) is the only television shows that I feel particularly motivated to collect on DVD.

5. Holidays are even better when spent enjoyably productively.

Comments


Add a Comment:
 
:iconyouinventedme:
YouInventedMe Featured By Owner May 11, 2013   Writer
happy birthday! :cake:
Reply
:iconarliddian:
arliddian Featured By Owner May 11, 2013
Thank you! <3
Reply
:iconyouinventedme:
YouInventedMe Featured By Owner May 11, 2012   Writer
happy birthday!!!
Reply
:iconarliddian:
arliddian Featured By Owner May 12, 2012
Thank you muchly, Shane! xo
Reply
:iconsamanthalindholm:
samanthalindholm Featured By Owner Jul 1, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
Hi! I tagged you in this journal entry: [link]

You may have to scroll down a bit to find the "Tagged" heading, but now it's your turn if you'd like to do it! Have fun :)
Reply
:iconyouinventedme:
YouInventedMe Featured By Owner May 11, 2011   Writer
happy birthday! :cake:
Reply
:iconarliddian:
arliddian Featured By Owner May 11, 2011
Thank you!! :)
Reply
:iconzombiesateus:
ZombiesAteUs Featured By Owner Jan 10, 2010
thank you for the :+fav: on false transmissions!
Reply
:iconarliddian:
arliddian Featured By Owner Jan 11, 2010
It was my pleasure. :)
Reply
:iconyouinventedme:
YouInventedMe Featured By Owner Jan 1, 2010   Writer
thanks for the :+fav: on untitled


xo!
Reply
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