Discover Sunday: Where Beauty Resides/David Redpath

The bells of liberty
by your stockings rung
The deepest restraints
in my hands … undone
Like a flake of snow
your sacrament melting
upon my thirsting tongue
Quenched in the ocean
of love’s perfection
Down on bended knees
lost in the squeeze
of your wholly communion
To ride the high tide
of hard won freedom
Yet, I’m a captive slave
to your will being done

Your angels singing
a silent prayer
that rents the air
A rosebud opening
to the dawn
of a new morning
The Sun reborn
arising from darkness
The sweetest caress
A portrait in the painting
upon a canvas of wonder
The joining in oneness
The joy outstretching
to your throne of happiness
Fingers and toes
like tender tendrils
of a celestial ebb and flow
Above and below
ecstasy in the throes
My letter of love sent
The walls of containment
imploded and spent
upon your arriving
with the napalm
of no bodily harm
Chiming with the ringing
of your silent alarm
Fair land of contentment
wherever my beauty lies
In the arms of the beholder
forever binding
those loving ties

Wherever
our destiny hides
near or far
always and whatsoever
true beauty abides
Love triumphant
ever the prize
Lovers together
riding side by side
Our universe unfolding
through whispered sighs
Upstanding and victorious
under crystal clear skies
whatever the weather
It is always glorious
through heaven’s eyes
Here and there
as the eagle glides
Yet always near
deep in my heart
where your beauty resides

by david redpath © 2018

Watercolour by Salvador Dali

Discover Sunday: Bonfire Nocturnalia (Linoleum)/Willie Watt

(and) she asks me whether, “archetypical
beginnings
undermine the rest of
the poem?”

or
whether,

“their self-awareness

prevents
the poem
from discovering
something deeper? more
authentic?”

and
I said,

“it’s an academic question.
it doesn’t matter.
none of my poems are self-aware.”

(and) I’m on a mobius strip
magic carpet—

a syncopated wavelength—
and you duct-taped your brain to the linoleum
and wondered
at the way
things became so ashen
so quickly.

I lit your cigarettes
even when you blew the smoke in my face.

(and) the elevator is
going
down,

down,

down,

and it’s like those surreal childhood memories
(the floor is lava)
that you remember
when listening to an old song
for the
first time
in
a
long time.

(and) I’ve suffered through so many
nightmares—
bonfires of nocturnalia—
that the cracks
in the linoleum
allow the oversized
insects
into the breach.

(and) because
I’ve
asked you to kill me,
and because
I’ve
asked you to hate me,
now
might be a bad time to ask you
to make me
something
other than what I am, baby.

save me from the drunken diatribes
and
swaying lines.
save me from the postmodern cynicism
and
high tides.

it’s high time
we grew up
and grew past
these marijuana-colored skylines.

(and) your ghost
is the only thing
that eradicates the roaches nestling in my brain,
that saturates my vanity and sanity in concurrent saline solutions,
that draws blood from the lips of shame and memory and feeds vampiric on its undergrowth,
that wages war on agony
and always
emerges
bloodstained
but intact.

another relapse of reason
and I
can only bypass
the breakdown
when one of your phantoms
is near—

hidden
in the
linoleum.

Excerpt from Swear to Me


Willie Watt is a student, short story writer, and poet from Houston Texas. In his work he strives to capture the many contradictions and as-yet-unwritten phenomena of life in the twenty-first century. Currently an English major at the University of Texas at Austin, he plans to attend a graduate program in creative writing before going on to teach, write, and lecture professionally.”

Discover Sunday: Inhale/Willie Watt

Blood on the bedroom leaves.
Forest in every direction—juniper, oak, willow.
Autumn.

I haven’t been writing many
poems lately.

You’ve overcome so many corpse-strewn battlefields.
But I’m worried it’ll be my accidental shining reality that becomes the sword through your armor.

Writing seriously now, I guess. Prose. Careful edits. Peer reviews.
No time for natural gifts
or
free association.

Contrary to popular belief, I’m not opposed to happy endings.
Squinting, I can see one in your eyelashes—at least a bittersweet metamodern fadeout.

These have been my best works yet.
But will it be enough?
Have I set the target too perilously high?

I’d do anything to break your cycle of self-torment.
Well, almost anything.
I couldn’t compromise myself even if I wanted to.
Not anymore.
Too much is set in motion.

THC & Caffeine & Nicotine & Alcohol & Adderall.
I can write on anything.
It doesn’t matter anymore.
I’m becoming as good as I thought I could be, and its as real as it is unreal—as satisfying as it is shocking.

I know you love me.
You don’t use the word. Afraid of frightening me off, I guess.
Instead, you say, “you scare me.”
I wonder if you know that I’ve decrypted your code?—would you just out and say it if you knew that I knew?

I’ve become realistic as the golden days approach.
Ironic.
The more I understand my unrealistic greatness, the less I daydream impossibilities.
The long-shots have become not just possible, but probable.

I want to make it work. I mean it. Really.
I just hope we can keep ourselves in the process.
I know I will, for my part.
Can you do the same?
I like to think so.
Not sure, though. If I’m honest.

Ink on paper. Digital transcription.
So many hundreds of thousands of words.
I’ve got to be nearing that ten-thousandth hour.

Don’t panic.
Inhale.
We’ll get where we’re going.
One way or another.


Willie Watt is a student, short story writer, and poet from Houston Texas. In his work he strives to capture the many contradictions and as-yet-unwritten phenomena of life in the twenty-first century. Currently an English major at the University of Texas at Austin, he plans to attend a graduate program in creative writing before going on to teach, write, and lecture professionally.”

Guest Blog: Soshinie Singh – Scream

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There is a scream lodged

At the base of my throat

Looming like phlegm

Being rattled by an inner earthquake

That I feel it bubbling up and with it

An entourage of emotions vibrate

Threatening to spill

But yet, I swallow it down in fear

Of what this scream might do,

Should I actually let it out

To tramp on my body’s strength.


 

[ Soshinie Singh is a West Indian young lady currently residing in the United States of America. Though she suffered heartbreak, she deviates from writing strictly about love and hurt. But she utilizes the lessons she has learnt effectively through her writing. She has a drive to turn anything into an inspiration which many can feast on and boost their morale. There is no fixed time nor place that she writes. Most of the time, the words just come to her and keeping playing on her mind until she can get them down- whether it be on her phone, her iPad or the old fashion way of pen and paper.]

Blogsoshiniesingh.wordpress.com

Instagram: @soshiniesingh.author

Facebook: Soshinie A. Singh

Book: The Phoenix Letters: Letters to My Younger Self.

GUEST BLOGGER: Devika Mathur ‘The Wisdom is her’

Mother: You are a hyperbole of the moon and the star, a hubris of soliloquy.

Like floating wax, you extend your skin to my mouth, forming chains of bewilderment

chains of congruence chains of mammoth frills of hope.

You lie in the darkest of hours with a sparkle of holy water on your chin, the pink chin,

the orange chin, the grey chin where all the clandestine secrets are packed between

your teeth and the parched lips, you give blossom to my hair extending to my curves

the scarlet, metamorphosis pattern of face

Opulent serenity lies in your blood, I see my reflection

Time, death or a crooked tree, you put embroidery incumbent to survive the veracity,

harsh or simple.

Objects around you become opaque, hollows of orange skies

squares of white ice, the eye of Satan

I absorb all the conjectures knitted in the black of  your eyes

to the stars in your magical touch

the fidelity to produce a seed: a seed I shall carry

a seed I may fail

your liquid, pale truth of surviving I inhale in the morbid tales of summer

only to form the web of ink and paper burning inside your motionless,

sturdy, an amalgamation of Supreme Ant  intoxicating, all pouring inside

basket of void, dulcet, a white star.


[Devika Mathur is the author of the poetry book”The travesty of soul”. A teacher by profession and a poet by heart, her poetries have been published in Indian Periodicals, Evergreen Poetry Journal amongst others. She writes for her blog https://myvaliantsoulsblog.wordpress.com/.]

GUEST BLOG: A.G. Diedericks, “The Library Bandit “

She’s the clandestine love child
of Plath and Poe
Where it is dark
Her words will glow

You’ll catch her on every
Library’s most wanted list;
Armed with a loaded lexicon
Her paper cuts plagiarists
Nuances ciphered in arcane;
She transfigures
into the Bibliophile’s Cocaine

A Bonnie liberated
from Clyde
Enslaved by her soul..
She struts like a wildfire
at the ball of a debutante
Oh, the devil knows
she’s no dilettante.

The pyrotechnics of her chaos
rendered the sun jaundiced
She surfs on tsunamis
and dances with tornados
Ravenous hurricanes hunt
to copyright her name.

She pays the poet
with liquidated journals
of Iridescent nightmares
& cremated reveries;
scattering her history
in depths of poetry.

Her misdemeanors articulates
in solitude;
Where she silences her Demons
Hush, it’s story time..
A martyr for literature;
She fights for that killer hook
that forces the page to turn..
For she’s the book
that you’ll never return


[ “A.G. Diedericks: is a cinephile in the midst of being gentrified into a bibliophile.. Colonized by mediocrity, he moonlights as a clandestine writer. You’ll find him in a dark alley over at the cuckoo’s nest; where he often lays to rest in Cape Town, SA. If you’re reading this, then I’ve just been exposed to my first publication.” ]

Your Writing Wanted: Secret First Draft is accepting guest submissions

Are you a fan of 1Wise-WomanOloriel Moonshadow, Aurora PhoenixHudson Biko Mwalagho, Christina Strigas and  Zelda Reville?  Do you like Secret First Draft‘s new look and attitude?  Consider becoming a guest blogger.

Submission Guidelines for Secret First Draft:

  • Send up to 3 pieces of original writing in either PDF or Word document attached to an email that includes a brief cover letter (example: Hello, my name is Charles Baudelaire! I love absinthe and dark corners, here are some of my poems!) Although we prefer previously unpublished work, we will consider published work as long as it has ONLY been published on a blog. No e-zines, e-mags, e-presses, e-books, printed works.
  • Include a brief bio in the body of the email and a link to your website/where you write/where you want people to go if they’re interested in more of your writing.
  • Understand that you will not be paid for your submission. We are a small collective, and can only offer support in building your platform and showing your work to our own audience.
  • Understand we do not own the rights to your work, the rights are yours and yours only. We only publish your piece once, with the potential to reblog.
  • Allow up to 4-6 weeks for a response.
  • If you prefer to send a blind manuscript, do not include your name or a cover letter in the attached document.
  • Send submissions to: secretfirstdraft@gmail.com