Tina Simpson

In Issue 4 on October 31, 2009 at 7:59 am

A Dreamscape

At a pinnacle, crown in space–
in a closed room,
of only mirrors.

We admired the reflections all around.
Watched them split and roll,
split and roll themselves
again and again.

There were many mornings looming,
and even-tides breaking
by guiltless, divine aggression.

Still there was Grace, and Mending.
Frequencies lilting–
One billion tiny pulses weaving light.

An instant entrancement off swirling zephyrs–
Jade to violet, to cerulean, to gold.
Like many kaleidoscopes bleeding,
churning and seething
with sweet scent of dew,
and demise.

At a pinnacle, crown in space–
in a closed room,
of only mirrors.

We admired the reflections all around.
Watched them split and roll,
split and roll themselves
again and again.

Save the words to tell us
because we already knew,

Our Silent Mind Skies Eternally Streaming
along to a cadence felt identical
in our veins.
We knew–
This was making Love,
and sinking.
and rising.

This was war,
and acceptance.
and mourning.

This was arrival,
and departure.
A Wildflower’s efflux,
and death.

And when we awoke,
we were flooded with warm refulgence–
A new learned endearment
toward these fragile bodies,
trying to contain.

From Here

I saw it writhing. I saw torches and kings.
I saw it learn beside itself,
I saw it beside its own dank pit of polished reason–

to never become another apathetic groove in a modern thimble.

You speak of the storm assailing you, always
how the remorseless squealing steals inward
through breaks in the squalid coop,
where you stay, where you curl–

one inverted feather on your back,
twitching codes between the skies.

I watched you blend into your Want– like blood of black tar.
I watched the Want as it crept over your peripherals,
dimming your heart and window senses.
I watched the shadow spill forth a mephitic companion
to all your days.

Then mania–
stirred by some sacred bond to your compass,
and giant stethoscope placed to every rip of the earth.

My Dangerous Angel, my Sempiternal Love–
I never made such a promise,
claiming righteous filter to the Wind

and I have been long unreasoned by a twin flame–
by a single finger gliding down my vertebrae
stopping to press the hollows
stopping for time, untold.

and the slides of ever-running iridescence,
and the gorgeous cavalcade
soaring eons behind the glint– the glint
the single violent split
reflected always in our eyes now, a yellow blaze.

Were our entire lives to be just as subtle
as a scintilla dwelling in the intersection of All Remembrance,
accepting the simple, but golden ‘hellos’
from older, now brighter friends?

and can we–
can we leave our doors open throughout this night,
fear not the loss of these senses,
and fly off with the collapse of poles?

Says a red fidget rising through all quiet things
nothing chased will fill you, nothing cupped will ring.

*1st Prize Winner of the 2009 Numinous Magazine Poetry Prize


Jupiter is visible tonight.
People are busy walking, counting minutes,
crunching minds,

while a vagrant in the park
with a golden-painted face
and feathers in her hair
climbs the bronze wing of Minerva
crosses her ankles, then curtsies slowly
keeping her eyes fixed
on the white-blue gem in the sky.

She elegantly, knowingly extends
her arms above her head
like two hollow reeds–

the white-blue pours through them
and welcomes her to becoming.

The four Gallieans
make Love at two and ten.

Love Me Better by Silence

All of these things, and covetous Lovers
they leave my hands ashen,
and starved.

Do not pour your name into me.
Love me better by Silence,
with me.

Do not go roaming in my ruins,
with intent on tracing me there–
that tiny coal city deserted and charred
where I once wickedly blazed.

Do not go searching for the thing blackest in me,
so you can face it toward the sun

or hold it tight to your chest as if it were yours to have.

It will hiss,
and scatter to the wind
leaving your hands ashen,
and starved.

Tina Simpson: For as long as I can remember I have let fragments of my mother’s telephone conversations or snippets from someone’s lost shopping list waltz around my mind until they became golden, secret codes for the magic that this world possesses. I spent almost the entire summer after my twenty-first birthday in the seemingly enchanted St. Francis Woods behind my mother’s house releasing words to the wind and listening for their echo to return, revealing new meanings and richer realms of existence. I began working them into poems and short prose pieces, sometimes filling an entire notebook in just one week. By the end of that summer I craved the inspiration of the city and enrolled at Columbia College Chicago where I currently major in Creative Non-fiction, and minor in Poetry. I am fascinated by human consciousness, energy work, and cosmology. Through the process of writing I am able to explore my spirituality in connection with nature, and an aching passion for the unknown.

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