My Stigmata Don't Twinkle In Raivola's Garden
Poem #39 (My Olympians Series Pt. 1)
This series is an homage to some of my favorite poets, an homage not only of celebration but necessity. Due to this unnamed yet acute necessity, I won’t name the poet. But any poetry lover curious about my silent homages is more than welcome to message me in private and I will happily provide and promote said poets and poetesses, Bards and balladmongers. In the meantime, enjoy!
Also if you like these poems and the others, let me know and I’ll publish this series in book form in 2024. If I can figure out how to do it, I will provide a discount for all you cool Substackers and gift it as a present to paid subscribers.
We were all aborted at birth
A constellation of novas, death
Illuminated self un-cuperated
Claws in place of healthy hands;
”Now, Felix, rise as untermensch
Shed those feathers we glibly infer will
Never lift souls into our vaunted, Cumulaic void -
Your star-rays are light-years from Raivola, voidoid!”
Bereft of all senses I caught the daisied garland
Breath of larch death rattling, my metal palm rusting
My dator tries to date me like a redwood ring, computing
The truth: I should have never left my garden of Raivola
My garden of Redwood, my shelter from Orion
The pre-emptive nova clings to nebulaic straws -
You can grip your aviators, but you cannot close the maw
Now blink, little princes; hide your pupils from the glare!