Saturday, February 18, 2006
Unprinted
Poetry by Steve Fuller
Steve Fuller, in his own words, " grew up in coastal New Hampshire and began writing after watching U2 perform at Live Aid. He got over his Bono-complex after getting a beagle at the SPCA in Newport News and listening to her howls everytime he strummed his guitar. Now a Naval Officer, he lives in West Ghent with his wife and two kids. They expect a third child in September. He lets his wife sing the boys to sleep to avoid nightmares."
Read two samples of his work - Buy me a Guinness and Atlas and His Myths - below:
Buy me a Guinness
Buy me a Guinness.
or maybe,
I think,
a bottle of wine,
red wine
[blood]
I have always been partial
to the intoxication
red wine brings
the blood of the gods
poured into the heart
intensifies
the natural senses
replaces
what’s lost through open heart wounds
numbs
from the inside out
intoxicated
we reach for Rilke’s angels
unafraid
we fly for the sun
with wax holding on our wings
in the flash of a moment
our flight
rivals the eagle’s
when the great gods of
the ancient people
left the earth to
Adam, Eve,
their sterile God and
his virgin queen,
they retreated
into the dirt
their flesh grew into vines
we harvest their tiny hearts to
arrive one step closer
to paradise
inside our flesh
the skin of the immortals
grows into armor
we cannot be defeated
by these fragile bones
holding us up on earth
we touch the angel
we do not recoil in fear
a surprise
so close to perfection
we grasp
this perfect moment
in our hands and
give it the wings
off the angels back
RETURN TO TOP
Atlas and His Myths
“Atlas never had it as hard as we have
it tonight,”
She whispers in my ear,
from the edge of a cliff.
“Hold me and I will lift your sky.”
She releases my burden as
I reach into her for the wine
she pours.
I drink.
The intoxication
seduces me.
She puts three golden apples in my hands.
“Take them.
Plant the seeds.
Await your orchard.”
My first bite shatters teeth
the shards silence my tongue.
I cannot even offer a whisper
when the sky falls back onto my shoulders.
Pain falls from my eyes –
the only path that remains;
in a refrain of laughter.
(She is gone.)
In the sea my tears create
I capture a reflection of my world
and will it back into orbit
but, I cannot fly under this weight
and my fatigue does not distinguish
between myth and truth.
I collapse on to the beach
I built from the dirt I dredged.
I turn to you:
“Catch me.”
A drop of blood from my mouth
lands on the salt of the water.
In it I taste the essence of my pain.
I close my eyes to escape.
In the sleep the sand tosses me
my dreams churn in the surf.
Reach into the mud and
pull out my story
before the ocean steals it back.
I lay silent and let the sky crush me
so that my voice can bleed
out the violence
in the silence of my heart.
RETURN TO TOP
To submit your work, please visit our Submissions page.
Poetry by Steve Fuller
Steve Fuller, in his own words, " grew up in coastal New Hampshire and began writing after watching U2 perform at Live Aid. He got over his Bono-complex after getting a beagle at the SPCA in Newport News and listening to her howls everytime he strummed his guitar. Now a Naval Officer, he lives in West Ghent with his wife and two kids. They expect a third child in September. He lets his wife sing the boys to sleep to avoid nightmares."Read two samples of his work - Buy me a Guinness and Atlas and His Myths - below:
Buy me a Guinness
Buy me a Guinness.
or maybe,
I think,
a bottle of wine,
red wine
[blood]
I have always been partial
to the intoxication
red wine brings
the blood of the gods
poured into the heart
intensifies
the natural senses
replaces
what’s lost through open heart wounds
numbs
from the inside out
intoxicated
we reach for Rilke’s angels
unafraid
we fly for the sun
with wax holding on our wings
in the flash of a moment
our flight
rivals the eagle’s
when the great gods of
the ancient people
left the earth to
Adam, Eve,
their sterile God and
his virgin queen,
they retreated
into the dirt
their flesh grew into vines
we harvest their tiny hearts to
arrive one step closer
to paradise
inside our flesh
the skin of the immortals
grows into armor
we cannot be defeated
by these fragile bones
holding us up on earth
we touch the angel
we do not recoil in fear
a surprise
so close to perfection
we grasp
this perfect moment
in our hands and
give it the wings
off the angels back
RETURN TO TOP
Atlas and His Myths
“Atlas never had it as hard as we have
it tonight,”
She whispers in my ear,
from the edge of a cliff.
“Hold me and I will lift your sky.”
She releases my burden as
I reach into her for the wine
she pours.
I drink.
The intoxication
seduces me.
She puts three golden apples in my hands.
“Take them.
Plant the seeds.
Await your orchard.”
My first bite shatters teeth
the shards silence my tongue.
I cannot even offer a whisper
when the sky falls back onto my shoulders.
Pain falls from my eyes –
the only path that remains;
in a refrain of laughter.
(She is gone.)
In the sea my tears create
I capture a reflection of my world
and will it back into orbit
but, I cannot fly under this weight
and my fatigue does not distinguish
between myth and truth.
I collapse on to the beach
I built from the dirt I dredged.
I turn to you:
“Catch me.”
A drop of blood from my mouth
lands on the salt of the water.
In it I taste the essence of my pain.
I close my eyes to escape.
In the sleep the sand tosses me
my dreams churn in the surf.
Reach into the mud and
pull out my story
before the ocean steals it back.
I lay silent and let the sky crush me
so that my voice can bleed
out the violence
in the silence of my heart.
RETURN TO TOP
To submit your work, please visit our Submissions page.
