"Ekphrasis In The Louvre October 2014 And Other Poems" by Celeste Briefs
Standing among armies of stone faces,
fragments of forgotten triumphs and ecstasies
leaning gracefully, defiantly,
against the weight of ages;
half-mutilated, decapitated, still-sensual structures,
yet alive, though incomplete;
I stare, and my staring is met with
thoughtless contemplation,
dormant rumination,
ethos emblazoned immutably across their chests;
muted, thanatic sighs escaping smoothe lips,
while not a word slips past mine—
they speak more than ever I could.
My mind is on fire, burning memories, speech,
and reason; words built to endure,
to destroy the simplicity of stone, slip through
marble fingers, chiseled backbone, bodied songs;
trapped in forever motion, they reach out
to one another with resounding elbows and hips,
curving, twisting, bending towards union—
dissolution; a dusty, crumbling freedom.
"Lessons from Sylvia Plath" by Celeste Briefs
Poetry won't save you from pain—
That's what I learned from Sylvia;
she wrote these signs in red,
pointing to where her dreams had
fallen down,
down,
calamities that drew me in
like magnets,
like burning houses.
All the long gone darlings—
I asked her,
Did you always keep your things
by the door, tightly-packed bags
spilling out sweetness and sanity,
preparing to leave your
ruined apartment
at a moment's notice?
Cheated of the pyre and the rack—
Sincerity slept by her heart
in the bed,
brutality coiled, cat-like,
around her aching feet,
burnt-out dreams enshrined within
sober sanctuaries of hunger
and reckless hope
(or so she told me,
in so many words).
O she is gracious and austere,
Seated beneath the toneless water!
Gentle smoke puffs rose up
from the chimney of her
throat, as though her
soul were afflicted
with one final
spark of
silence
It would take more than a lightning-stroke
To create such a ruin.
They taught me to be silent
in the presence of abounding anger,
that persistent, rough-edged
blade, threatening to cut
through the tender flesh of my innocence
with paper teeth.
That muted boom, that clangor
Far off…
But she told me:
Scream!
As if your ghost is preparing
to take leave!
As if the shadow is fingering
your charms,
promising quiet death!
So I tell them,
Do not take it out on me!
I can help you carry it
if you hand it over gently.
Some people are just overachievers,
and I suppose that was you as well,
wasn't it?
Perhaps you considered yourself an oracle…
So young,
taken up from the wild root
out of lost soils,
(burdened now by your
body's cold fragments)
and cooked over a low, burning
fame.
The fountains are dry and the roses over.
Come back down now Sylvia,
we've been waiting a long time
to hear you speak again,
lay your weary wisdoms
to rest.
I shall be good as new.
Variation on ‘The Lakes' by Taylor Swift (after John Murillo)
Take me to the lakes, where all the poets went to die
I don't belong, and my beloved, neither do you
Those Windermere peaks look like the perfect place to cry
I'm setting off, but not without my muse
—Taylor Swift
Tell me,
where do all the poets go to die?
Someplace haunted, shaded in
willow trees and susurrating grasses,
holding their muses close,
loves heavy enough to drown with.
Those lakes of mystery where
gossamer mists swept like silken
nightgowns, crystalline cardigans,
over softly quilted Windermere
peaks, like young bodies
laid to rest, where
the water lapped at the shoreline
like it was answering a prayer.
We went barefoot to the edge
together and wept
our wounded poetry
into the listening skin of the lake.
Where do we belong, my beloved,
you and I?
I asked you one day,
the very last of autumn's gold
in my eyes, in your hair. You said,
We have dreamer's hands,
no hunger or thirst, only words
in our bellies and our lungs.
Take my hands, help me to taste
the sad prose of an aurora-painted sky;
if nights could always be like this,
I think I would bury my grief
under your sleeping body,
let my cold feet sink beneath the stream
of your dreams.
All I ask is
call me Calamity, Wisteria,
or my own name.
Don't call me Lover like I am some
secret rose pulled from your heart
(the roots are still there);
don't call me Elegy or Baby
like a poem you recite
only to forget.
Most of all,
please don't call me Poet.
I don't want to die here
without you, my muse.
Celeste Briefs is a Junior in college, attending the University of Colorado in Denver, and an aspiring writer and poet. Since grade school she has made it her goal to be a published poet. She is working towards a Masters in English with an emphasis on Creative Writing and Literature.