NOSTALGIA AND DEATH...*NARRATIVE POETRY* *CONCRETE POETRY* *WORDART* *PTSD*

NOSTALGIA AND DEATH...*NARRATIVE POETRY* *CONCRETE POETRY* *WORDART* *PTSD*


 

Word art or concrete poetry is something I got really into a few years ago but haven't done any for ages (for anyone unawares it is making an image/visual art out of words, in my case my poems)... Want to try & get back into it this year... This is my favourite series of poems, they are a series of allegorical and narrative poems about depression and anxiety in contemporary life... The story is told via the allegory of a love affair between my protagonist (in many ways a very autobiographical character, especially at the time I wrote them) Nostalgia and her lover, a darkly disturbing character called Death... I wrote these at a point when I was in some intensive therapy and battling with severe anxiety from what I discovered was having #ptsd... Yes, the poems touch on suicidal feelings I had, had been having for years and are hard for me to read sometimes... But the point is, I made it... And I feel grateful and lucky for that. My protagonist was perhaps not so lucky but as my therapist said to me, not everyone makes it, this is the reality with depression and mental health issues, that many do give in because the battle is consistent and wearing.

The music in the video is My favourite muse by Arab Strap off the Philophobia album .. this whole album sums up for me what it feels like to feel alone and isolated and depressed, Philophobia meaning a fear of love or intimacy, of falling in love...so, kinda sets the scene...

 

 

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ACT I

NOSTALGIA AND HER LOVER

And Death follows her
Like the clouds do the rain...
Come sunshine
Come brillig
Come snow
Come that old familiar pain
Of knowing.
It still falls
Like Autumn leaves do.

And she's been dying
For at least half her life
Tired wept broke
Amidst heartache and strife
She cries blood rather than
Close her eyes
Yet still the rain falls
Bleaching out all her cries.

And she's done lying
To herself and the world
Around her
Polite rules aimed
And bound her, to
Soliloques so sweet
(though dull)
The rain
The rain
The rain
Shone perspective
On this hull.

And she is soaked through
From this storm
Come from afar
Yet anchored within
This lady
Bathed in moonlight swims
Across borders
And oceans
And galaxies
And Sin
The rain it fell incumbent
At the same moment
She let go within
Beauty released.

And who is she -
This perfect creature
Made of dust?
Made of cloudless
Moonlit night skies
Made of ether
Greened in rust
She is Nostalgia
She is Persephone
She is Diana
Sisyphus
She moves through life
With painful balance
Aware her lover
Will not give up.

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ACT II

DEATH AND HIS LOVER

And Nostalgia hides
Amongst the trees of her night
From the length and breadth
Of his embrace
From a love that lies bleeding
Written wept upon
His face
Addicted to the darkness
Which is shielded by
Her grace.

Death knows he must wait.

And the torment
Turns every second
Into millennia
As he watches her edging
That heavy weight
(Of life)
Through the years
Feeling the pain of
His Eurydice
His Psyche
His sweet Lilith's
Wasted tears
Come to me
He whispers
As she dreams
Into her ears

But Death knows he must wait

And he is tired of this landscape
Once bleak perfection
To his abyss
Alone he walked through
Human suffering
Plucking life
As he saw fit
But now he craves this
Darkly lit one
Shining brightly in
What, his heart?
What are these feelings?
These new desires
This deathly rattle
As love embarks
Why can't he take her?
Force his Death deep
Deep inside her
Until she breaks
Death darling, is no parenthesis

My shadow beckons from the dark


ACT III

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FROM HERE TO ETERNITY

And Nostalgia wakes
Moonlight covering her like a sheet
Her senses alert
Awareness heightened and piqued.
A strange aroma
Invades her body
Soft and wet
Like Autumn leaves
A warm and silky
Ardent moisture
Upon her skin
Lays tenderly.

Her heart beats fast
Is she alone?
In this -
Her private sanctuary
The moonlight
Leaves no corner hidden
No other being
She can see
Yet somewhere
Lurking in the shadows
Of her darkest fantasy
She can feel a presence looming
Her secret lover
Come for she.

Nostalgia burns
With extant passions
Despite the coolness
Of her skin
The moisture coveting
Her body
Comes from deep
Beyond within
(So far beyond in fact Nostalgia
Is unaware, it comes from Him)
A wanting calls her
Grows in discomfort
Will not allow her back to sleep
Her mouth is wet
Lips part, desirous
Fingers painting sweet relief.

Death he watches
From the shadows
His lover parts her silvered thighs
The smell of galaxies and oceans
The sounds of urgent gentle cries
Diana bathes her, leaves her
Open
Wanting, ready to receive
In this moment; love comes immortal
From petite mort
Eternity.


ACT IV

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THE PAIN OF KNOWING

Nostalgia ;
The pain of knowing -
The glory left behind
This
Is her given name.
This is the story of her life.
Nostalgia's pain
Shrouds her in darkness
But the Darkness
Senses light.
He sees a beauty in her not present
Throughout the history
Of Mankind.

Death knows the waiting's over
Knows that the end is very nigh.

She awakes
The morning after
A sleepless night
The Sturgeon Moon
Memories of her incantations
A night of peace
Over too soon
In the moonlight
She sensed a darkness
That released her from her woe
Twas the Oblivion
She had been seeking
So to her lover
She must go.

For Death, the waiting's over
The end is nigh, this much he knows.

So in a cloudless sky
What else is she to hunt
But this reverence?
The dull pain of living
No longer holds any recompense
As she wades through the days
Like honey
Life is to be lived to the full
In this land of milk
And honey!
But all she can taste is the bile
Of emptiness
The pain of what it is
To know.
She prays to return home
To her eternal amore
Enter the void
Through that final open door.

Death knows he need wait no more.

 


ACT V

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HARVEST MOON

And she watches
With detached curiosity
As this cheap imitation
Writhes and groans
Beneath her
Her face breaking over
A landscape of
Moons and lies
As he pushes himself further
Into the graveyard
Of her desire.

Nostalgia feels nothing at all.

Not love
Not passion
Not relief
Merely the indifference
She experiences to all attempts
Since that Sturgeon moon set her free.

And this inertia cuts much deeper
Than simple pain ever could
Each night the blood
Tastes sweeter
As she aims to stem
The flood
But alas
There is nothing in this world
That can take away the memory
Of His sweet kiss
That can remove from her the melody
His love whispers in the mists
Of these shadows.

Nostalgia wants pain to engulf her.

And she can sense this boys
Need
To make her feel something
To just make her feel
As he tries desperately
To push life
Into this barren hull
But Nostalgia just feels numb
Prostrated on all fours
With the Harvest moon
Shining in through the window
Nostalgia knows that it is time
The silver dagger beneath
Her pillow
Feels alive
As the boy gives in to his primal cries
Shatters life into the
Barren landscape
Of Nostalgia's funeral pyre

Her heart envelopes the glittering light
Of the silvery moon
Reflected
Like a lover
Taking it whole
And deep
Minus any form
Of reprieve
This kiss of Death
The very relief
She had always sought.

The final petit mort
Her earthly body receives
Leaving her mortal lover
Relieved
Making him believe
(For that moment at least)
That he had at last made her feel
Something...

As he lies there
Sated
Empty
Triumphant
Unaware

Death takes his bride across the threshold
To consummate
Their love affair...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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(S)llew la Wulf
(S)llew la Wulf

Yet another artist screaming (colourfully) into the void. I like to dance. I write. I do self portraiture and i draw... I cover topics ranging from racial bias to female sexuality to capitalism to rape culture and of course, love ❤️


Llewella_the_poet
Llewella_the_poet

Poetic is indeed a perspective but a poem is a poem is a poem...here are some of mine.

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