I was never brilliant, I was never bold; anything I ever touched has never turned to gold. Quiet toil daily, seed the soil old; silver is the next best thing for dull and shy, base souls. … © 2018 Anna-Christina Betekhtin, All Rights Reserved. Advertisements
*not an ars poetica, but close* … If the clichés come, let them. Sometimes they are the only way to speak, the huddled mass that chimes low in the throat, sing hymns to a wrist, what do you worship now, love? And say, it is you. Descending dust, deep full thrum of feathers falling, who … More ars cliché
Broken open by the song of sparrows, winds that will not wait shred feathers, fish scales. Sweat the street, cherry blossoms and the gutter grime. Rumpled linen ripped and whipped pebbles, asphalt that burns the begging storm, when will this begin? Scattered shards of inane sound, salted blood and the guts that were cleaned out … More a seafood restaurant in summer
If not the bumblebee, the fly. If not the cricket, a close-kept thigh. If not the beetle, then the flea. If not the moth, an open knee. If not the gasp, a sigh. A table small and nothing shy. … © 2018 Anna-Christina Betekhtin, All Rights Reserved.
Have care, be kind, do not spill wine on strangers you have not yet met. Thank the glass for every drop; for the crystal that is not true cracked, for the shard that is not sharp as yet. Steady hand, sure-footed as she goes; look into the eyes of strangers and ask how much you … More a wine song
If this is not an ambush, why am I so afeared; who is it that behind me murmurs threats so sweet, so dear. I glory not in gore or pain, there is nothing I adore. But if this is to end in terror true, let me have it more. … © 2018 Anna-Christina Betekhtin, All … More surprise
Choke the smallest kindness, scorch the frozen earth; do not give the foolish merchant what it is not worth. Bury all the letters, burn the soft old shirts. You will cling to anything that will become dark dirt. Nothing soft to stay and soothe, everything will be abused by time; so cheat it. Kill it … More ruin
Give me something golden, something I can hold; if I was King Midas, I would not be so bold as to burn each touch with molten metal, curse my daughter, purge the earth of water, wine, good grapes that burst. Say I, with ore clutched close: I will tend the forge, close braid and curl … More gold & grapes
If this should come to naught and the nothing is a choice, all that mourns in grey grimed streets wrecked with wasted winds will voice the sorrow that careens full fleet through avenues too bright; mid-flight the pigeons swerve and bank, avoid the light. … © 2018 Anna-Christina Betekhtin, All Rights Reserved.
I look to my hands, and remember when they were small. When they first changed, the palms thickening and spreading, the tight spring of fingertips curling over, newly bony knuckles revealing tendons too tight and fragile. Slice peppers, peel oranges, untangle the small chains my father could not, tie double, triple knots, rinse thin champagne … More hands