Sunrise, #2 RED

put a guy & a bible in a desert

and a Moses girl is bound to appear

it turns the event over

in something sexy; there is a kind of

magic in the red, worn out setting



outside floods the west wing

wall behind my solar

hills. See that

point of disappearance

see that blind spot of decreation

see that hero’s mound behind the

screened-in house of life― i



can’t see myself letting go here;

need the wing with the

making action in the soul of red

outsider girls draw blood

to that


i.e. enliven

bleeding and beating

in the death of a totem dye

a kind of magic

is red



a turning power is the bird

gathered in all those parts (except one)

brings life with humor

to life without



unheard is the little minute

in all (h)ours; don’t mistake this

for something



emerge



©2010 Sunrise, #2 RED
stephanie pope mythopoetry.com

Ad Mortuos

...and the dead came back to me when they'd heard I'd found it

sitting on the rock sunning itself, a coiling unpinned


thing, a wing, burning and glowing
chorus growing in the water there on the rock like me
a loaded knot like me
unknotting suddenly and green; ascendant
in amphibian sing
coiling unpinned plopping
down (like me)

betrayer, she (betrayed the rock)

my night of madness in a drop
forced back by death
and calling

surely some tremendum is at hand

a night of madness in a drop
teetered there and clung to stone
until what shook began to rock
in rocking splendor terribly the moan
through frogs and toads and tatter
garment torn; belittled and dismembered spot
smaller, weaker, harder to believe
raised itself still wet and shorn and dressed in
wing (and of its own accord began to sing)

here is where is still the growing tree

her bright spot glazed in christic night
and in betrayer too, the wing eternal
danced das ding

O Sing! O shadow word (but just this once)
of that to which the lord of frog and toad relies
of that to which the dead return with rage and cries

the unperfected stillness

in the speech
of man; O
shadow, slur this speech and stir

bright
love

her death
came back to me and when it did
athanatoi came too;

the whisper full in emptiness
and sign; a glowing
darkly burning yet divine

This poem first published ...©2008 En Kata Poetry Series Ad Mortuos stephanie pope mythopoetry.com



Writing For Ghosts

the best episode

of Buffy
brought together
in solution
the slayers of all times
& formed them into a
timeless series
gathered at once
to muse upon &
doing as they do
you and I will too

to touch this new meaning
the wounded image used,
we imagine our stories
the way ghost writers do

when what they do
is write for ghost bodies

how, in newer poetry,
timelessness moves
a timeless story along

ghost ritings
honor virtual things having
no futures & are not passing
anymore for things;

not things
they
shape the way
haunted blood flows

I loved the fiery tongue
of that final Buffy season
suddenly torched by the
wounded fate in a
divine female form
offering the bodiless fleshed
slayers to paler font; the

little minute― the many
on fire at once
made this talisman