Eva Moe

Tag: rough draft

  • It’s Halloween Again / weather’s acting up

    It's a half-open otherworld lately. 
    Misty metallic air, an atmosphere woven with ghosts.
    Rain's electricity fragrance. 

    It's Spring, though. Says so right here. 
    The weather even searches for softball.
    			Pull a tarot card. 
     			Candles puff their ominous orange flowers
    There's a twinkle in the eye of every pond
    glitter in the inhale
    exhale 
    of dusk and dawn
     			and all of us can fly. 
    Trees crack their backs and 
     			All black cats can talk.
    Birds chirp.
     			Your window opens.

  • From the Notebook: King Arthur was a Tragedy

    “In the age of romance and chivalry, steam seeped through open hearts now it’s a gas leak up the nose and on fire. Love is now combustible. Love is now the library. Love is now the golden gilded spine of ancient text.

    July 1st 2017.”

    like: “love is now the library”
    dislike: “ancient text”

    Here’s the new version. As you can see, I’ve added a title and altered the imagery. This poem did not undergo a heavy edit, and that’s okay. Sometimes, I write a long poem only to keep one or two lines, or images, or ideas. Other times, like in this case, I keep it mostly the same.

    King Arthur was a Tragedy
    In the age of romance and chivalry
    steam seeped through open hearts
    now it’s a gas leak.
    Up the nose.
    On fire.

    Love is now combustible.
    Love is now the library.
    Love is now the golden
    gilded spine of mildew books
    that bury in your head
    songs and hatchets alike.

    Eva

  • A.E. Housman notebook poem

    It’s been a while since I wrote here and I’ll tell you why. JOBS. Two of them.

    This is newly written, and like my earlier stream of consciousness poem, I took a whole page and threw out some words.

    here’s a legible version:

    I to my perils
    came not like A.E. Housman
    clad in armor by stars benign.
    I swam to them in my PJs
    water logged, hair kinked
    and trouble was a bonfire.
    I was the mosquito and the jet was my blood meal.
    Whoever shaved before 8th grade wished too hard for time to pass
    and passing is the great curse and gift of prickly knees.
    I dragged myself through marshes by tufts of leg hair
    to which I gleamed a shining eye to Hope
    I’d not trifle with a fleeting love
    or mad money and me, the poet,
    the victim of my own desires.
    If I was a better friend, the last line
    would have been my own design.

  • Rubber Trees in Malaysia

    To me it looked like a regular young forest
    Liang said they’re Rubber Trees
    to be cut down on their fifth birthday
    i picture the entire forest falling down on the trampoline ground
    bouncing back into place
    a lumberjack’s nightmare