surreal poetry
Surrealist poetry embodies the essence of poetry itself, drawing upon shocking imagery and lyrical incongruities to comment on the inner-workings of the mind.
Faerie
There once was a girl who loved fairy tales. She loved fantasy of any kind. Her mother introduced her to Jim Henson, Brian Froud, Steven Spielberg, George Lucas, and many others. She grew up in fantasy. She loved faeries, dragons, elves, goblins, swords, a bow and arrow, daggers, and mystical powers. She loved songs and dances too. She loved all the colors of the rainbow and believed in freedom. She dyed her hair pink, green, purple, blue, and yellow too. When she grew older she got tattoos and piercings. She read many books and wrote lots of stories herself. She loved to go to rivers, beaches, and lakes. She loved the forests. She'd sit on huge fallen trees and look at the sun as it filtered through the upper branches. She wore platforms, heels, fishnets, corsets, and wings. She wore skirts, tunics, colorful glittery shimmer and dramatic dark eyes. She wore fluffy hats, mittens like cats, gloves, and scarves two sizes too big for her. She wore pretty delicates that no one would ever see. But in the forest she would always go with bare feet. She took photos of herself all dressed up. She drew, painted, photographed, wrote, and composed. She cried, got angry, and got deliriously happy all over again. People stared at her, condemned her, chastised her. People made her sad, angry, and scared. Suicidal sometimes. Music made her happy, complete, spiritual, and not alone. So she danced outside her door, down the grassy hill, and into the woods. The wind blew her colorful hair all around. She danced through the trees, with them, and whistled with the wind. She kicked off her shoes and danced on the delicate grass and soft dirt. She jumped into puddles and squished mud between her toes. She looked up and followed the sun through the trees as she danced herself into a clearing. She looked down and saw herself inside a faerie ring. She smiled and danced excitedly. She spun in circles, lifted her hands to the sky, and closed her eyes. Then the ground shook. It broke apart beneath her feet. She let out a happy gasp as the earth swallowed her and closed back up. Somewhere a tree sighed.
By Amanda Lyons4 years ago in Poets
Kindling
The pages whisper and rustle, sharing the dreams of dead kings, the mutterings of philosophers, the fancies of writers. The smell of the books evoke living history, crackling manuscripts. The marks on the smooth, creamy whiteness, from your brain to mine, across time and space.
By Ali Howarth4 years ago in Poets
