The first time I saw her eyes, I was mesmerized. There she lay in the arms of another, but my own arms ached to hold her. I was impatient, too impatient to wait a single second more as professionals confiscated her to do their bidding. I could only watch with anticipation, my very corps bleeding and in pain. She was wet and waxy with her brilliant newness and my heart leaped out of my chest onto a pool of pride. Life appeared before my very eyes. A life that felt yet another pair of arms before she could feel my own that had carried the growing seed for what seemed a millennium. The strange man cuddled her and offered a smile. She would remember his voice forever. He could see my anxiety crest as I fearfully took this new being into my life. I stared into a face that was my very own, a reflection of myself with eyes so alert that a mirror came to mind. I gently stroked her crown covered in a cinnamon softness and touched a perfect silken skin. I breathed in her essence and would remember that scent forever, a scent that would refresh me until the day I die.
Writing
La Lune Mangée
I saw it from my open deck
That shadow ate the moon tonight
Slice by slice, the darkness
Slowly swallowed every bite
One star hovered to the west
Another from the northeast
A misty cloud of heavenly fog
Surrounded that cannibal feast
And soon the moon looked sad to me
Exposed in that black sky
Like a rubber ball hung by a string
In a universe of blackberry pie
Turned into a 7th grade science project
The moon lost its shine and glow
Destined to win a prized blue ribbon
For achieving Best in Show
The stars seemed to protect the orb
Saving it from fate or fame
Until it could once right itself
Wrest away its cloak of shame
Tasted an eclipse myself that night
Watching an orgy of the sky
Oreo cookie melted in my mouth
The moon be gone, as was I.
–Victoria Emmons, 2014
Advice to the Love Lorne: Begin a New Chapter
Appreciate those who eagerly
Await your return
Those whose wet noses
Press against your leg
And whose warm bodies
Find your sleeve.
Don’t lament those who deftly
Cast your feelings aside
In favor of a new town,
A new love, a new adventure
And wander out of your life
As easily as they broke in.
By Victoria Emmons
2011
Is Poetry Pathetic?
Some people do not understand poetry, much less poets. They say that poetry is pathetic, has no real meaning, and is nonsensical. But I disagree with the naysayers. They are simple minds with no depth. They have no way of knowing about the pleasures of poetry and the pleasures of poets.
The poetic mind is constantly filled with song…words that dip and dive into action at any moment. Poets are able to see life through the natural rhythm of words, no matter what language. From deep within, a poet is able to create a mood, a thought-provoking scene, a self-battle of tortuous dimension, a humorous spoof, a loving tribute. No matter what, the poet can carve words out of nothing. And do it over and over again every moment of every day.
Long live the poet!
Celebrate National Poetry Month – April 2014
La Vue de rue Sleidan 