Tag Archives: musing

Poetry Tuesday: Bared Bones

Bared Bones

 

Grave bones dropping dust,

Crossed at the old master’s feet.

Creaking and bleating their lonely cries.

Left with unrest in their defeat.

 

Dry bone, marrow turned to stone,

Tossed at the blind king’s throne,

No One left at the hearth,

No Sons to take them home.

 

Cold bones, wrapped in parchment flesh,

Shuddering in the darkness, in suspense.

Not a memory of theirs remains.

Yet, still these ones draw breath.

 

Hot bones bathed in red,

Upon the soaked bloody ground, abandoned.

No tomb for them but where they fall,

In a field so far from home.

 

-Megan

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Resurgence

I spend the majority of my time caught between research and writing; if a piece lacks footnotes and citations, I begin to feel guilty for working on it when I have so much other work to do. I am driven, but I also have a tendency to prolong my work. I can begin weeks or months before the deadline, and I still find myself in a critical panic before submission, no matter how much time I invested in a project. As such, indulging in my desire to write for my own pleasure (Something which I first began as a child, caught in the awkward world of elementary and high school drama, where no one really has any idea of who they are, or who they want to be), comes at the cost of guilt, unless I have absolutely nothing on my plate. As a graduate student, working as a TA for multiple courses and instructors, this is a rare occasion. Still, I manage to squirrel away minutes here and there, hoping that the right muse will strike me; it is difficult when you end up being struck by Clio when you were hoping for Calliope or Erato, and vice versa.

Well, I have been saving up bits of my creative writing. snippets of incomplete stories, unedited poems, and so on. I just haven’t had the time to set them up for an audience.  I am going to post a few through-out the next couple of days, hoping that they are at least somewhat enjoyable for people other than myself. The internet is an amazing thing, really, allowing this kind of presentation, to reach a wider audience.

Enough with my rambling on, it seems somewhat melancholic in reflection.

Sunset Sky- M. Negrych 2013

Sunset Sky- M. Negrych 2013

The Fear of Truth
These fleeting pleasantries which we exchange,
Fraught with deep disquiet need, 
Cannot be lost on gusts of air between their utterance and their reception. 
Dark reprieve and emotional waterfalls, 
Trapped within the churning void of night, 
They drip heat from their lips. 
Can it be said that these words are empty,
When they are like the force of stone? 
Stronger than the pull of gravity,
These words are covers for the truth which begs to be hidden to save us all from exposure.
 
M

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Veil of Shadows (A work in progress)

I have been researching and writing academically rather exclusively, yet I felt that it would set a bad precedent for dedication to my blog if I did not create a post of some substance. What I present in the following short paragraphs is a work-in-progress, something that I wrote on an urge and the beginnings of an idea. As such, it is not fully realized yet, and the idea and plot are still in their infancy. If a story could have an explanatory preamble to shape it, this would be it. I encourage feedback, as this is a little bit different then my previous posts, as it is not a fully thought story nor an analytical reflection or insight. Likely, until I am finished the current research paper I am writing, I will post snippets of my writing in progress or poetry. In addition,

 Veil of Shadows

There are things in the dark. It is generally laughed at past childhood, but it is still true. In the corners filled with shadows everything exists simultaneously; from the smallest sigh to the largest nightmare, here they can be found. Even those things which we are no longer afraid of. I was eight when I stopped believing in the things that go bump in the night. I was fifteen when I went to New Orleans and left my mark on the Tomb of the Bayou Queen, as a joke. When I was twenty-one I started to believe in those moving shadows once more. Those shadows have more physical presence than any other being in reality.

The first time I began to question the existence of ghosts and the supernatural was after I had turned nineteen; this was also the time that my father died of lymphoma. Sitting there, in the hospital room next to the shell of a man who I hardly recognized, I began to see the shadows of the world again. Maybe it was punishment for so foolishly calling on the Bayou Queen; after all, what woman, even one long dead, would want to inflict such suffering on a child? That night, as my fathers breathing grew shallow, and the pall of death overshadowed the room, I saw them.

At first I was convinced that they were just hallucinations, brought on by the stress and grief I was experiencing for the first time in my life; but as the hours passed, they grew more solid. My mother didn’t notice them, climbing over his body, their long fingers running over his smooth scalp, pulling at the paper-thin skin covering nothing more than bone. I could only sit and watch as they shifted from wisps of shadow to full formed beings, sitting on his chest and making it more difficult for him to breathe. They paid the rest of us no attention, probably because we were not the reason for their foray into the physical realm. The more solid they grew the more my father’s vitals faded, until he was nothing but a lifeless shadow and they were finished with their task.

From that point on, I saw the world differently. The Bayou Queen has rewarded my foolish wish, giving me the ability to see those things that would rather keep themselves hidden. I could see perfectly, without need of the glasses I had detested as a child, but sometimes I saw far too much. In every shadow there were hands, in each secretive face a sinister shifting of skin. I could see everyone for who they truly were.

After my father’s funeral I moved away from home; my mother was inconsolable, and I couldn’t take it on top of learning to deal with this new, unwanted facet of my life. So I packed my bags and transferred out-of-state, out of country even. But even then, the shadows followed me. They sought me out, in acknowledging my own ability to see them, they began to see me in turn. Sometimes I was only there to be an ear to the voices in the night, to hear what held them to the coils of the human realm, what they had desired, or how they had come to be. Other times, well those could get to be much less pleasant than hearing about the fires of creation and the monsters that one only thinks of as being part of children’s fantasy.

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