Saturday, October 20, 2018

Untitled (Nude Sketch #2)





I rise from bed, tie back my hair, touch
the scar where blade met skin
but could not excise my sense of me.

Such a love, I have learnt from me,
to wake from lucid dreams and touch
the tortured path of gravel on my skin

without regret for what was lost; skin
and flesh do not define the worth of me
who loves the mark it pains to touch.

And my skin will love you too, if you touch me.






A Tritina for Marian's Fussy Little Forms,
including words from Sanaa's Get Listed: October Edition
for Breast Cancer Awareness Month.



28 comments:

  1. No regrets is a pleasant attitude to have about love gone cold. I think that us where I am but I'm not sure it is reciprocal.
    ..

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  2. This is incredibly raw and poignant! The idea of one embracing scars says a lot about their level of courage and inner strength. Gorgeous poem, Kerry!💖

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    1. Thank you, Sanaa. So happy to have written something meaningful with the words you gave as inspiration.

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  3. I love how you used the form so effortlessly... I found it even harder than a sestina. The thought of those scars and the memories they carry...

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    1. It is a tricky form but it gave me focus, so I am pleased I got to try it at last.

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    2. And I love the sketch you have added... it adds just the right sense.

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  4. Your tritina is great...best so far I think. Enjoyed it immensely.

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  5. Whew! Powerful - this should be on the breast cancer awareness website.

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  6. Beautiful and powerful, Kerry.

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  7. Concur. so elegant, the form disappears ~

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  8. Ah, the scars tell a very personal story — "but could not excise my sense of me", is such a beautiful way of upholding the self which goes beyond what is in the skin and the flesh. I'd say it again that the repetition of "touch" and "skin" is spellbinding.

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    1. It is hard to lose a part of one's self and still hold onto self.
      Thanks, Anmol.

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    1. Thanks for the tritina prompt.. I enjoyed the form very much.

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  10. You did this form so very well. I do indeed like your last line so much. We war horses have the scars to prove our mettle and our tenderness.

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  11. Perfect for Magaly's weekend scar prompt. How incisive the lines:
    'the scar where blade met skin
    but could not excise my sense of me'
    and
    'the tortured path of gravel on my skin'.

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  12. Now here's the best part - you'd never know this was written to any form - because the form disappears, as do the "select chosen" words, which means, the two marry so well with your efforts, that they fade into the background, and the voice of the poem speaks - so brilliantly! So wow - magic in the making. And this is a true, concise and clear poem, that is subtle and yet confident.

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  13. This is so beautifully vulnerable. Pat's right; it feels effortless but it's the mark of a master to be able to put together all the different elements in a way that feels completely natural.

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  14. my sense of me... that is so strong...something one can never lose sight of!

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  15. At first you feel hurt that you are not the same then you realize that scar is the the sign of your survival and you have more living to do.

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  16. The ghost road of the body is worn and wearying in time -- our scars our battle with mortality. And we bring our bodies back to love's table, earnest to eat again. I remember reading a piece years ago about breast augmentation surgery, a woman wrote about this strangeness now in an intimate part of her body, a disconnection; weirdly that pairs with this tale of the opposite, how the lost parts sing of connection going beyond the visible. (And both, that writing and your poem, weirdly approach the same table, heavily.) Deeply felt.

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  17. So very true Kerry! A powerful and beautiful write so fitting and wonderful for the pink ribbon month.

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  18. This is very touching and beautiful.

    Teresa

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  19. This poem makes me think of "the soothings", the type of healing performed by the Kelda of the Nac Mac Feegles in Terry Pratchett's Discworld. The soothings restore the body spirit, heal wholly... This tone of the poem makes me think of that.

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