This is another poem by me (post title is poem title -
duh).
I wrote it about a year ago, I think in the fall. Its a bit random, as its not personally related to me in any way (BLOODY HELL, IT'S A DISCLAIMER).
But I just liked this idea of a evil satanic bastard child being born into a noble family from a surrogate mother. I guess I read an article about surrogate mothers in India somewhere sometime, and wrote a poetry based around that. I also liked this idea of a noble high-class man, who is full of cruelty and loathe; moulding the mind of an already evil child into even more twisted realms; with the artistry and detail of a sculptor chiseling a face.
Oh, and some words are made up (
as Microsoft Word was nice enough to point out), so don't mind them. You can guess their meaning from the context.
The idea is of the surrogate mother writing a letter to the original father about the birth of the child, and degrading herself in front of him, because he is just of such noble heritage.
I edited the poem around a bit, because looking back, I found some of the lines a bit embarrassing.
I know in many places it doesn't make sense...but what poetry makes sense anyways?
To Sir,
Its with great pleasure that I inform you,
I have delivered my womb to your wife.
How delighted she was!
Cheeks that impaled with joy!
A joy so reckless,
It pierced her face, pouring more blood into them eyes!
The child that has been produced,
It rolls around in all directions,
Spitting out not shrills of laughter,
But caverns of loathing,
Urns filled with cruelty,
It takes delight in battering our hopes,
For its own little desires to be fulfilled!
God bless’d this child,
So sorrowfully bestowed in these graceful arms,
Its minute hands callousing my own,
As if all these lives of mine,
Were embedded within it’s seams of flesh.
Now I must comfort you not to worry, Sir,
Them white-clothed ladies just put their hands right up ‘nd said,
“It is a very miracle of God this child is as such!
You must clusp your hands out to Him,
Thank Him dearly for this!
You cannot disgrace such noble birth!
Cannot cannot cannot!”
Oh Sir, how harsh their voices were,
All rising in one shrill hymn,
Bowing every now and then to bestow more prayers,
On foreheads of old prophets,
Stuttering as their lips - enclosed with years of thoughtless pleas –
Uttered facaded desires,
Long forbidden by most men (not unlike you!) to sinful perceptions.
Sir, I hope to see you soon,
Wife talks daily of you
- how she wishes –
You could hold this creature of ours in your embrace,
Breathing your wisdom into it’s ears,
How you would mold it!
Within your arms holding it,
Crafting this raw unearthed fruit of my womb,
Into an architecture of your sensibilities.
Pulling a limb here and there,
Chiseling off some vagabond heartstring,
Carving in great doming archs as eyes,
Filled with the purest tincture of white,
Looking upon the produce in delight,
Only to restore to more carvings.
Smothering the fine plaster into the flesh,
‘Till all layers are fitted to the bone,
Sheets of linen ironed across the forehead,
Embedded with names of it’s makers.
The last touch –
Violent convulsions to embed the mind into prosaic terms.
I give you all the happiness
from this cavern of mine,
Sir,
Of course –
Not worthy of even the greatness
that is dust on your feet,
I hope your lives will not encrust
my path again,
For I know I would
bow in shame,
For such noble lineage
is forbidden
to burst froth from filthy wombs
as my own,
That is not God’s intention.
With great pleasure, Sir,
- I
