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Literature Text
Little girl dancing
Through a winter night
Violin candles in ev'ry window-pane
Harpsichord snowflakes settle in her hair
Delicate
Filigree
Soot-black tree branches oboe-deep rise
Stretching their fingers to the upright-bass clouds
Singing, sighing, soprano
Holly
Red within the white
Flashing moonbeams breaking through
Reflect upon the frozen lake
Weeping like a bassoon
And she must weep, too
Soaring spirit
Buoyed up
On the wings of her eternal symphony
Her private
Her secret
Her holy
Music in her head
No one else can ever know
The little paradise inside her head
The forever flow of ever flow of sacred always music
Through a winter night
Violin candles in ev'ry window-pane
Harpsichord snowflakes settle in her hair
Delicate
Filigree
Soot-black tree branches oboe-deep rise
Stretching their fingers to the upright-bass clouds
Singing, sighing, soprano
Holly
Red within the white
Flashing moonbeams breaking through
Reflect upon the frozen lake
Weeping like a bassoon
And she must weep, too
Soaring spirit
Buoyed up
On the wings of her eternal symphony
Her private
Her secret
Her holy
Music in her head
No one else can ever know
The little paradise inside her head
The forever flow of ever flow of sacred always music
Literature
Conventional Tragedies
Her mother was a sphinx, she was her favorite riddle,
her father played lullabies on Lucifer's fiddle.
Her facade was a doll, with a torn out pull string,
she lost it in a battle with an innerspring.
Her hopes were static ivy that crackled so high,
white noise never failed in making her cry.
Her belly was a bird cage that was empty inside,
she buried the song in her mind when it died.
Her skin was a roadmap of savage tattoos,
and bruised evil eyes inked in with voodoo.
Her hair was a tangle of fate 'round her head,
so she cut it off madly, and colored it red.
Her heart was a temple, without any worship,
'till spiders replaced lov
Literature
songbird
hello little songbird
sitting oh so high
tell me little songbird
why do you not fly?
someone clipped your wings, you say?
how terrible, oh my!
I did this to you, you say?
songbird, no, I swear to thee
it was not I who did the deed—
oh no little songbird
you're sitting much too high
please wait little songbird
your wings are clipped, don't fly!
darling little songbird
your splut'ring little cries
are ripping through my wretched heart,
why did you have to die?
Literature
Dreaming the Night
Restless I lie on my bed tonight and pretend that it is grass,
The heavens shine above me, not mere plaster and lights of glass.
In my imaginings I see and believe as I shrug off the caress of sleep
That I lie in a verdant valley of green in a bower of flowers nestled deep
In the new spring grass, dewy, springy, barely feeling its touch.
The comfort might have lulled me to slumber, but then and there no such
Comfort could. For the night sky seemed a vision that my wishes would invoke
With its full haloed moon brighter than the sun with its chariot and many spokes.
This celestial panorama showcased clearcut stars burning in a sea of ink
With e
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Moved from my other account.
I have mild synesthesia - I feel sounds. I wondered what it would be like to hear sights, instead.
I have mild synesthesia - I feel sounds. I wondered what it would be like to hear sights, instead.
© 2011 - 2024 QuiEstInLiteris
Comments32
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I feel sounds as well! I think all humans do to some degree, but I haven't yet met a synesthete that does.
How exactly do you feel them? As in the poem, or somehow else?
Usually I feel a certain cluster of presence in or near my body, almost like an aura.
How exactly do you feel them? As in the poem, or somehow else?
Usually I feel a certain cluster of presence in or near my body, almost like an aura.