Hidden in the small flame
I will remember
My father is looking for your father
They know they drove nails through everyone’s
Hands
Words, not my own
Hidden in the small flame
I called
Whore mark
Hair Fragrance
Dry feet
If you remember
I admire you
I was very small
When it comes to me
Press your hands on the ground
I accept night
You must remember
These low, these tears are for you
Hidden in the small flame
Written in response to Big Tent Poetry’s Monday Prompt for 21 March 2011, though I used Google Translate.
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Very dreamlike interpretation… this will have to get a few more reads to put all the pieces together, I think. “When it comes to me / Press your hands on the ground” = really cool.
It would be interesting to see e original to see how the translator changed the language,
It’s actually a poem from my first book, but the truth is that I sort of sculpted this out of the translation.
I really liked this…it is mysterious and the narrator seems to be playing a little hide and seek with memories
Mystical and magical. I love the feeling of quasipower.
I’d like to see the original, too. Be nice to know where the nails in hands, dry feet, hands on the ground all come from. They don’t seem accidental the way some things you get from generators do.
(I have a batch of riffs on riding hood. She’s useful)(do you realize that there is a line in your tags that reads “sexual assault shaving cream”?)
Well, I was using a translator, and the original poem deals with Crucifixion (this title came later).
The line of tags is an unfortunate result of alphabetized phrases I’m afraid.
Reading your poem always make my day!
Here is mine:
homing
The use of the repeated phrase binding the sections together gives this inevitably mysterious poem a kind of lyrical authority. It’s haunting and disturbing in a pleasing way!
Indeed a haunting piece.
Well written, Elizabeth.
Pamela
Just enough to feel I understood and little enough I could create my own story with your images. I liked this.