Cool Jazz [revision 1], Thoughts/Critiques Options

[Anisha]

I used to write poetry as a kid, and just started writing again now that I'm in college. Please let me know what you think/how I can improve! Just a fair warning, I'm not too knowledgeable about the technicalities of poetry, so explanations in layman's terms would be greatly appreciated! I've always loved reading, but I'd really like to develop my writing. =) Thanks!

Thanks again! Here's a revision. I kept the repetition, but hopefully the rearranging of some words and the new line breaks make it seem less out of place. The jury is still out on that one for me so I might end up changing it later on! I incorporated your other comments though.


Cool Jazz - Revision 1

I like to remember the sound of your voice, snatched
from overheard conversations,
tucked away in the depths
of my mind.
I unfold the memory
on lonely nights, when the arch
of my spine aches,
for the sensual reverberations,
of your sweet bass.

The memory of your voice is the clay
that I spin. Contorting and distorting
mundane utterances
into quixotic shapes, I thrust
my hands into the slippery smoothness
of those invented words.
They swell into my open palms, caressing
the curves of my longing,
toes curling in a pottery dream,
where you are the vessel
that I
am spilling into.

The next morning I sit beside you, the sliver
of space between our shoulders
throbbing
like an open wound.
You play your sweet bass for some friend,
the coolness of your jazz
raising goose bumps on my brown arm.

Your brown arm, supple
as polished wood, is riveting.
My eyes survey
the rugged topography
of your veins,
a raised relief map,
these vagabond fingers
are itching
to explore.

In the afternoon I pass you in the hall, yearning
for a moment of contact.
By chance my plain black eyes
meet your emeralds,
so brief, but in that moment, my heart screams
for oxygen, turning purple,
then blue, asphyxiated,
strangled,
by the immensity of an imagined intimacy,
of a soul peering out
from behind your jade curtains,
if only.

Long after sunset, when the lonely silence
encroaches again, I unfold a deep corner
of my mind, releasing that sweet
bass music. It tickles my spine
with rhythmic kisses.

I dream of holding emeralds
to the light.

I prod the fresh
bruises on my heart,
again and again, limbs writhing
beneath sheets—

Oh! The excruciating ecstasy
of impossibility.
The agonizing seduction
of life—
unlived.


-------------------------
Original:

Cool Jazz

I like to remember the sound of your voice, snatched
from overheard conversations,
tucked away in the depths
of my mind.
I unfold the memory
on lonely nights, when the arch
of my spine aches,
for the sensual reverberations,
of your sweet bass.

The memory of your voice is the clay
that I spin. Contorting and distorting
mundane utterances
into quixotic shapes, I thrust
my hands into the slippery smoothness
of those invented words.
They swell into my open palms, caressing
the curves of my longing,
toes curling in a pottery dream,
where you are the vessel
that I
am spilling into.

The next morning I sit beside you, my
shoulder a throbbing heart so close to yours.
You play your sweet bass for some friend,
the coolness of your jazz
raising goose bumps on my brown arm.
Your brown arm is flailing,
gesticulating.
My eyes are riveted
to the topography
of your veins,
a raised relief map,
my vagabond fingers
itching
to explore.

In the afternoon I walk past you in the hall, yearning
for a moment of contact.
By chance my plain black eyes
meet your emeralds,
so brief, but in that moment, my heart screams
for oxygen, turning purple,
then blue, strangled,
asphyxiated,
by the immensity of an imagined intimacy,
a soul peering out
from behind your jade curtains,
if only.

Long after sunset, when the lonely silence
encroaches again, I unfold a deep corner
of my mind, releasing that sweet
bass music, that tickles my spine
with rhythmic kisses.
I dream of holding emeralds
to the light.
I prod the fresh
bruises on my heart,
again and again, limbs writhing
beneath sheets—

Oh! The excruciating ecstasy
of impossibility.
The agonizing seduction
of life—
unlived.