Author Archives: Witty Fay

About Witty Fay

Poetry is my compass.

Mom

The luminous clarity of you,

Evanescent and easy when held,

Unsheltered. I remember it to

Be a fair part of my continuum,

The way I strove for balance,

Among the lithe rope walkers

And substituted fear for grace.

Such flickering precision,

Of the lips, the fingers and the

Eyes spoke of a lovable version

Of life itself in its many layers

And I took it all, on the cusp

Of losing myself to the merits

Of you, plentiful and alive.

Self-portrait

I keep porous dreams

And vapid lovers.

I measure myself

Against their ticking

Mouths and unfed

Gazes, their warmth

Rendering a sense

Of mysterious desert

In search for grapelike

Raindrops of oasis.

And when the fat,

Indulgent rain showers

Away the errant steps,

I storm the skyline

And cloud the touch,

I whisper the malice

And bite away the cry,

I am humanly unsound.

Dreams float, lovers

Beckon at stray smiles,

The world and I nod

In matching approval.

 

Lower case love

in my remembrance of you
a sea of things is lost, yet
lingering at eye corners,
between minute skin fissures,
along lithe lifey threads,
elusive of varnished smiles
and calloused half-hearts,
there stands a whole, articulate
language of you meant to escape
my grasping, sweltered lips.
de-vowelled and unveiled,
a clatter of fallen sticks,
dispersed far and wide
shouts our own dismantled
runic spasms, jabbering.

Outlining doubts

I am looking for a language

That grows and shrinks

Within the very weak of me,

Independent of rules, grammar

And stance. Almost too flippant

To inhabit a mind or a heart,

Always channeling the other

Like a spring that splits time

Anew and naturally fails.

It would stand untranslatable,

Organic, washing ashore

All radiant attempts at asunder

Practices of forgetting, failed

Once more. Such coiling tool of

Appropriation would much render

The many facets of us into

A slender vanishing act.

Unforgettable me

Like an afterthought of little stance and weight,

I slip beneath your skin, biting a yawning wound

Inside layers of familiar twill, finger compliantly

The folding warmth, before the veins loop me internally.

I stand your Achilles, stretching from ankle to heart,

Glowing on arcane search parties in and out your width,

Across the mangled temptations of self-sufficiency, at large-

One thing flies higher than any windless kite on your skies.

Feral woman

You love the comfort of being wanted

And flirtingly elude your cares of heart,

Muscular pain in place of rainbow want,

And predatory lips speaking of compliance.

You know there is no redemption in evil

And no undoing in the face of normalcy,

Yet you bandage me inside your anemone

Of warmth as if I were a blind swimmer

Inside an uncovered sea of walking limbs.

 

Details

Take Ides of March, my foe,

In revelry and feast above all,

Let the slaying for the dusk.

Never mind the tremor of the sigh,

I belong still to the quiet hands

Of some blind root that keeps

Love inside cork-lined mornings.

I shall peel off layers of affectation

Before the blade pierces the core

And the pleasing nature of absent

Things, fills the contemplating eye.

Get this

What makes a ghost visible?
The possibility of the unseen
And the chance to be noticed.
Against wind and tide, the vows
Not taken, the road not spoken,
My illness is time. Time unspent
And unlived, unhealed and unwed,
The discernible ghoul of my traces
Into the multitude of us, unborn,
Unfed, unmet, unloved, unbroken.
Awkward and imperfect, yet salient
To my eyes, full of wraithlike combs
And joyful slopes of cuddled marks,
Such treacherous snake coils at dawn
And counts my femaleness in gulps.

The mores of our time

You picked the day and the mood,

I kept to myself, bashful and ripe.

Then, the stance of the yet unlived,

And screening of the probable sun,

Under the vacant skies, pierced

Front teeth, whitening the distance

To intended ears filled with coarse,

Still familiar, brutal words of love.

Later on, I picked the fights, the sighs,

You entertained the silences and rues.

It was naked poetry, toppled with play

Enough to shake the fruity, scented world.

And when the ink turned air, we signed

For odd, uneasy creatures, one heart short.