Nov 25 09: Low-grade Normal

November 25, 2009 § 3 Comments

Well, clearly I’m re-entering my horror phase, if that’s the correct word. I’m not sure it is, so if you can name it, please do.  I have two past poems I consider to be of this ilk: one in Literary Mama and another in Scalped, as well as yesterday’s and some other unpublished work.  Something opened this vein in me, and I think I’ll let it flow, if it wants to continue.

Do you ever have odd voices that come through you?

(The prompt was temperature.)

Low-grade Normal

i’m a low-grade normal – if i’m not careful,
my bones turn blue

i was a blue baby too. i emerged an icicle;
my poor mother’s box took weeks to thaw

and her feelings for me never did. papa
tried to warm me at the stove, but soon his

hands dropped off and so did i.  so
pussy shared her life and nursed me

with her kits. only one survived; a burly
tiger-puss strong enough to withstand

my emanating chill. he’s with me to
this day, my feline daemon.  

once at the hospital, they took my pulse
and asked if i was still alive;

of course I couldn’t say.

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§ 3 Responses to Nov 25 09: Low-grade Normal

  • purple says:

    chillingly beautiful … lots of moments within your words to pause and enjoy. Thanks for sharing the stimulus for your poems too — I find that little extra adds so much to my experience as a reader, as well as being inspiring and motivational as a poet myself … new blood (ideas) is/are always welcomed.

  • It’s funny with me; I love written horror, King, Straub, and Koontz but I’m not a fan of it on the big screen. At least not what’s been coming out these days. I’ve never tried to write horror, but you make me at least want to try.

    I loved your poem. Chilling in multiple ways!

    Happy Thanksgiving, I hope your turkey thaws at least!!

  • Neil Reid says:

    Ha! (Another body poem! Beautiful! Like a storm is a glory to behold.) You can take this poem in your hands. Your hands are cold. Yet you admire, respect the wildness that also dares to say, to speak its piece! I do.

    Vincent Price would be proud my dear! Wonderful.

    Your images here will not sit quietly, well-behaved, on the page. Cold may chill, but it is not expressionless. That is a difference I deeply appreciate. This poem squirms with life (is that funny for being cold?).

    Did you ever read Carolee’s “body” poem inspired by Frankenstein? Thank you Pamela. This is stunning!

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