An Introduction To Hillary

Hello Everyone...I'm a poet...writing poetry is the only thing I've ever felt I do really well. I've never written for mass recognition. Writing for me has always been a means for me to chart my way through this uncertain world, and ultimately, to save my own life. I've been published twice before in small poetry journals, but this fall I've finally got two pieces due to be published in what I believe to be a well known journal called The Salt River Review. Here is a more recent poem of mine which I wrote when grieving the loss of a long ago marriage. This first poem marks a departure from my usual poetic style. The second is more than a few years old, but it better represents the way I usually write...

"Exorcism"

a spore
slipped in unseen.
the tainted meat
still reeks
for him to hush her
outbroke apocalypse
years to sleep.
these juices
won't run clear.
scabbed back on the spit
she dreamed plague rats 
shat the antidote
to his disease.
this pox
needs quarantine.
the dime store devil
mask she wore
for armageddon
felled
like the fever
he left her
to feed.

- Hillary Hays, 2008


"Adultery"

"Yet listen well. Not to my words - 
but to the tumult which rises in your body 
when you listen to yourself." ~ Anon. 

Home of my eroded roads, I had chosen you - 
was used to briar-scratch, and risk 
of fallen trees, lives struck to their knees - 
I knew not to disturb, defer, please step inside 
but made my way beneath, and felt ashamed 
beside the parched and gaping mouth of ditch - 
emptied, starved with thirst, resembling me. 

What I wanted was the love 
within a grain of sand, the dying branch, 
the hand of God emerging from withered leaves 
or stones which creeks once cradled, soothed. 
And now, you - music I hear through carcasses 
of trees, the peck and howl, the voice 
inside the grain, the only shoot of green 
in beds of seared wheat - 
you, sweet meal, asked for plucking, 
as I knelt then, and would still kneel to drink of you. 

But God's hand is nowhere. 
Only you, your palms, your fingers, clutching 
at something you cannot name, 
define, honor or cherish. 
I am what you keep - a seedling, 
or the last crust of bread coveted - 
as if it could rise towards what might have been. 

~ Hillary Hays, 1994

Anyway, I'm new to Experience Project and I'm really glad to be here. Please feel free to add me to your circle (unless you are a sex-obsessed pervert, LoL, because I have no time for that sort of ickiness.)
Faersylphaelsea Faersylphaelsea
41-45, F
Aug 11, 2010