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First of all, I want to state that it is not my intention to use this page solely for the purpose of promoting my own poetry. I think this page will be far more interesting if others (and that means you, too!) submit their poems as well. If you feel you have something to contribute, please write me an e-mail and I will put your poem on this page, with a link to your own homepage or e-mail address.

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Contents of this page (so far):
Wednesday's child
A portrait
This disproportionate sun...
Nothing but an empty desert...

Wednesday's Child (For K.)

Soren deSelby

The apparatus of the world creates
A mongrel soul from love's unwanted parts.
A child of rotted minds and shriveled hearts,
Inheritor of failures, spites, and hates.

Engulfed in pain, the psyche compensates:
Abuse and beatings left the body scarred
but purple bruises made the muscles hard.
Her will grew strong beneath two massive weights.

And still she says her nightmare ne'er abates:
"My trust was ground from gristle, fat, and blood,
twisted, boiled, compressed, and wrapped in mud.
Abandoned in a box, it incubates."

My eyes and ears are closed. I'm still afraid.
If you love sausage, don't ask how it's made.


use the night on me
kiss the stars goodnight
and ask for pillows of darkness
silently to cover us

unravel my imagination
knowledge is not a prudent guide
at the edge of intimacy and

unless you promise my name I'll
keep my guard up
arming my sensuality with
swords of adultery

us as individual as two
kinds of stars
all you can see is

A portrait

Nothing stirred within his soul but a cold and cruel and loveless lust

Cold cold young Daedalus
Marked out by a two of hearts
—But as you had remarked
There is no such thing
As a one of hearts—
Put on my Icarian wings
And the wax will be
On your golden head
Your maiden head
Sealed off by its substance
Below the swirls and billows
—Resembling ebony
Snow down covered—
Upon your pitiful soul

Let me be the renegade
Ocean child’s remembrance

This disproportionate sun
cannot be peeled
or satisfactorily consumed
so I could state it
is not like an orange

But halfway down the
rainbow of inequality
it is still orange
between extremes of hot and blue

nothing but an empty desert till he whispered to me
never believing in this oasis within my heart
the young scorpion asleep there since the old one was slain
existence as a secret silhouette underneath a tumbleweed
leafless and harsh underneath an empty azure dome

the shadows pale
the dust aroused by a raindrop
the whisper of a golden brown thirst
deep and primitive

I had never felt the cool mud upon my bare skin

smooth and moist promises pulsed deeper
a cascade of beautiful pearls went down into my desert
my instinct half shrank from its supreme joy
the sand became misted with invulnerable kisses
and yes ... the touch of this wet embrace
makes me want to shiver and hide
makes my belly quiver with soft silence
blossoming with orchids and clean white lilies
full of gentle perfume and glistening honey

then ... from a far cliff
he suddenly plunges into me
I as defenseless as fragile spiders
my cry suffocates the desert and

then dawn refreshes me
so delicately


     And I would wander around in these streets, thinking, "What about this sky? What about these concrete walls? What about this tear in my eye? It's only dust." And had we still been apart, you would have said, "I don't want to think about it. I just want to creep and cuddle away."
     You'd cuddle into someone's mind and sleep the dreams of the ignorant. You wouldn't have noticed the strangeness of passers-by as I would now. And the beauty of one woman whose eyes are suddenly drawn to a window that opens on some fifth floor and sets free a wonderful song. As she and I would both forget what had been waiting for us, we would have to drink in that song, blending our lives with each accumulating note. And then, as the first warm, heavy raindrops touch our skins, and Peter's hand shuts us out, we would part without looking.
     But you who are now a part of me might not have been aware of all this. If you would just once slip out of my mind, I might remember everything. And I would recognise that look caught by beauty in those womanly eyes, if I wandered alone through the streets of this September city, and sang the song that had climbed out of another life to ours. And that would be because for one single, immeasurable amount of time, that woman and I would have been one thought, as you and I never will be. But would the memory make any difference?

Other sites where you can publish your poetry online are:
Snakeskin Poetry Webzine
Devour My Voice
The Poet's Haven (here you can also submit other works of art)
So It Goes
Interactive Poetry
The September Rotation (although it hasn't been updated recently, you can still submit poetry if you really really want to, and the page looks very nifty)