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Literature
Lover on top of a mountain
They who scale mountains
content themselves with the feeling
of love, not confirmed
with action. They can fly the arrow- never mistake- truer
than any romantic. But
height is a lofty mistress, and the
keenness of the wind is
ever seductive, because it whistles
the story clearly that gets
mangled below.
Who -wants- to get mangled?
We are not beasts of burden, even if
we've worn this fur for thousands of years.
To dive from the clean, clean edge into
chaos is unthinkable.
To frolic among the tumbling bodies
and risk trampling and being trampled
is enough to curl back and reach
for the highminded pleasures
of love
Oh, but such a dream
veiling a cliff's face
eventually reveals itself to
appear only to those who
fall from the sky. So the lover
spends all her time devising paths
of climbing
to those below. She braids the ropes
and drops the chains, even taking a sledgehammer
to the rocks for a perilous winding road
but the danger she
undermines, and it is
few who exceed the intimacy of
faraw
:iconmySeity:mySeity
:iconmyseity:mySeity 101 13
Literature
the uproar of downpour
an eyelid flashing white
the city hangs upside down
I fold the laundry as the world
melts and stops
holding it in
sheer relief
these spaces between scorching
the air between walls
my feet
feel damp
the ankle whines,
squeezing-
just thinking about the
sidewalks in the morning
where carts of
food, quicker than pedestrians
will set up, as will
hundreds of suitcases
attached to bodies
routine, unsurprising
even,
this upset of habitual motion
where the earth is pounded and cleaned
during the night
and day draws upon us
a more marked closing,
a slow sun
raising its lashes
against sheets of smog,
pillowcases of cigarette smoke
:iconmySeity:mySeity
:iconmyseity:mySeity 6 6
Literature
What we produce
I am handed
tomatoes
astonishing in
their
smooth red skins
that slide off
with heat
to wrinkle like an
old woman's
heartbeat
without
remorse, I
must hold them
how could
I explain
the weight suspended
here, inside
of me like
heavy groceries
this big
polluted world, beautiful
in its own withering
too much
I want
to
say
but those
two syllables would
fall, incomprehensible
like a mouth
refusing to eat
so I carry in
the produce, their
straining
plastic lining
and put them away.
:iconmySeity:mySeity
:iconmyseity:mySeity 7 3
Literature
Getting wasted
I am eighteen
years old on a friday
night
in new york city
reading bukowski. I cried
a little, earlier,
trying to jump on
the words who
wanted to be left
alone, like
a girl
on friday night.
so I lay down
on my bed
with the old
man's new
book
and now I'm all
weepy again
because he writes
about good people
with cat's souls.
I know
exactly what
he's talking
about, and
my cat's all
the way back in
virginia.
:iconmySeity:mySeity
:iconmyseity:mySeity 7 12
Literature
existential bronchitis
I wake up with
gauze in my mouth, wounded
from the inside out. I am the
kind of patient whom a doctor fears
and forgets his handshake for, in
his haste to finish smiling.
the days fly before me
like magpies, coughing more than
me, thick and
black. rebuking in its irritation,
rattling with longing.
all around me they are falling to their
knees and still I wave
my dogged red flag. when I am
tired of living I will stop. this seems
like a reasonable statement, but
when I spat blood in the
sink, they kept fixing the plumbing.
:iconmySeity:mySeity
:iconmyseity:mySeity 5 9
Literature
There are trees in Manhattan
Sun
over smog, like
a light struggling to
become clear, over the
makeshift heads of buildings.
             I wave
my hand like a flag and
hope that I am still patriotic.
Across the street there
are single candles, standing
like houseplants
on the seventh floor sills.  
You look away, a window closing
I draw the curtains.
Solos burst free from
a carefully orchestrated
week. I listen to the hum
inside my chest, then
surrender it to the traffic
though just along the river
thin red-tipped reeds sprout out of wanting
:iconmySeity:mySeity
:iconmyseity:mySeity 2 4
Literature
I Hope New York Does Not Sink-
Open, these
arms like elevator doors
aggravated too many times
by the pressing of a button.
The dark breaks in through my curtains
and I am looking at a stranger
the way I never do on the train. Each day
is sun and jeans and aching licking at heels, traveling
around the ankle, throat
much lighter than kneecap, eyes
wider than my stride.
The first thing I
learn from the city is why
my posters keep falling off the walls.
They are colorful and expressive, but
do not know how to cling
to that which sustains their brightness.
We are seven blocks off broadway
and the traffic is spot on. I am
constantly
five minutes ahead
of exhaustion, until I deposit
my breath onto my bedcovers and
sink my steps like ships into the carpet.
Bouyancy, you see
remains a theoretical state, until suddenly tested
by the weight of daring.
:iconmySeity:mySeity
:iconmyseity:mySeity 7 7
Literature
a familiar metaphor
before a family
materializes
we sit on our brushes
of air
and dream of painting life
into existence.
birds, perched
on the other side of the wall
mock us with their
zest for living
before dawn.
improbably, the loudest calls
now emerge from inside,
fluttering past the door into the trees.
:iconmySeity:mySeity
:iconmyseity:mySeity 1 2
Literature
A rationale behind linguistics
Undulating the roll of our
r's. The fluttering of the
tongue like flies over
the water, stilled
with evaporation.
Upon deliverance
into the mouth of this world,
we should have been
informed of missing teeth.
Like all good Americans,
we pledge allegiance
and follow faithfully the
breadcrumbs leading
into the dentist's office.
The only worthy man
left
is the one who dares
to learn his own language.
But as it is,
we are vehicles
of controlled
movement. An excess of
speed, and the words will run
over each other like roadkill.
Too slow, and the meaning
ceases to exist at all.
:iconmySeity:mySeity
:iconmyseity:mySeity 3 8
Literature
Stockings
when you buy
a new pair of stockings,
trust blossoms in
a second skin, an
onionskin mask against
stage floors, infidelity, and
car exhaust
I bled through the
knee when I fell, going
down to the flat part
of town. you should
have asked me whether I
always tripped on my way
towards relief, but
you only winced
at the stained rayon.
I fiddled with
a loose thread as I
practiced picking up
the phone, rehearsing
for a play that
would never show
this hosiery full of holes
each one a reason
for the lack of seams
between us
I seemed to wear
you for six glorious weeks
that tangled
and ran, until
we lay discarded
at the foot of my bed, and
forgot what it meant to walk.
:iconmySeity:mySeity
:iconmyseity:mySeity 4 7
Literature
Love by design
if I unzipped your
spine, what would
I find underneath?
you smile at me
with the conviction
of someone who has never
tried to count his ribs.
would that you
miss one, so that it
could come back in triumph
but no, you are the type
whose skeleton
would never abandon
you ride an elevator
all the way down
to my stomach. by this time
I have hopefully stolen
up into your heart.
these architectural
details
make us forget
the possibility
of undoing the
entire structure
:iconmySeity:mySeity
:iconmyseity:mySeity 5 6
Literature
Accidents
you brushed against
my life, the way
dirt enters a wound
no one asks
for pain, and yet
it takes the responsibility
of answering
all our questions.
no airplane
could have matched our
momentum, running
in opposite directions
as if the only
accidents occured
in collision
across the room, you
caught my eye and
I reached instinctively
for a scar
leftover from
the fall. how fortunate
it is that in two weeks
we will grow
into the throes of summer.
:iconmySeity:mySeity
:iconmyseity:mySeity 2 4
Literature
irony of the dying
we stay awake,
agonizing over
the alignment and
dissembling of our bones
you say:
the worst way to die
is unchristened by
philosophy
let us make
arrangements. you
choose existentialism
over me and the
spine of your old church
I pray to
integrity, as if honesty
will save me from death,
and I will never
lie beneath this earth
and I hold your hand,
thinking of
the way some
learn the methods
of love, the discipline of hope
through the squinting
black pupil of a shotgun
curious, how
interested eye of
death reminds us
of what it is
to live.
:iconmySeity:mySeity
:iconmyseity:mySeity 4 5
Literature
Nevermind about the brain
upon twisting my ankle
for the seventh time in four years,
I face the improbability of the
human physique.
a few centuries ago I would
have been written off as a cripple. make
that millenia, and I'd be eaten,
left for decomposition.
and in this modern stupor
of pain, I idly discourse on
the pros and cons
of becoming feed for dinosaurs.
:iconmySeity:mySeity
:iconmyseity:mySeity 1 5
Literature
Give and take
You and I
have dancer physiques,
but not their intelligence.
They understand
that which is beyond us,
flummoxing gravity away from
their dragonfly frames, leaving
only the thin skin of
their toes
tethered to the ground.
I have little cause
to desire escape.
But once you opened the
refrigerator door, I could not
resist the knowledge of
cold. When you lifted the
ceiling, I had nowhere
to hide from the sun.
And when you introduced
the concept of height, how
could I but dream
of falling.
:iconmySeity:mySeity
:iconmyseity:mySeity 2 7
Literature
Evolution
we are seven sundays
slept in and shielded
from the blood of morning. I
look at you and do not feel
alive.
if this isn't evolution,
then the world must
be as flat as your voice,
sliding across the floor
to land at my feet.
ape to man,
man to genius.
genius diving back
underneath the covers, scorned
by productive algae. I hold these
words
the same way
you ask me to hold my tongue.
always wanted a man
to stalk my notebooks to the
ground, pounce on my leg
to read what I scrawled
on the underside of my ankle.
some people have giraffes in our spines.
they stand and stretch,
ready to hijack the thorny trees.
while we are rolling
out of bed, they have already
opened the eyes, the knee joints,
and then the mouth, to survival
on the eighth
day of the Lord,
I leave you to the lions.
:iconmySeity:mySeity
:iconmyseity:mySeity 7 8

Favourites

Journal
Daily Literature Deviations - May 1st, 2009
Daily Lit Deviations for May 1st,, 2009
We are proud to feature today's Daily Literature Deviations!
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article by: Eloquent-Weapon for DailyLitDeviations
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featured by: musicalgenius321

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the unimpressed by bryan-cuttance the unimpressed :iconbryan-cuttance:bryan-cuttance 2,083 176
Literature
continental drift
x.
do you remember how the earth shook
during afternoon tea, the porcelain
quivering as we moved as gracefully
as tectonics, your magmatic lips
shifting fault lines against mine;
how the waves we watched
on the seismograph haunted us
with its binary of mountain or rift?
        if we are to remain
     static, we will be
         side  
              by side,
            no?

  i do not remember.  
y.
tonight, my legs lay still beneath
a lithosphere of flannel – tired
   
of rubbing against the other –  
remembering earthquakes only kill  
when the things we’ve built
on top of them
              &
:iconjonzoiplu:jonzoiplu
:iconjonzoiplu:jonzoiplu 43 66
super horoscopes by loish super horoscopes :iconloish:loish 27,877 3,021
Literature
2669-B
In the early hours, when he is still asleep, she begins counting the tiny black and white tiles plastered to the ceiling of their flat. Some are chipped, some are covered by a layer of dust, and some are not tiles at all, but cockroaches in disguise. By 143 he has stretched his arms and kissed her neck, by 206 he has tied his shoes and lit a cigarette, and by 262 he's always gone. She knows that the smell of coffee will dissipate by 329 and that if she can bother getting out of bed to call her worried mom for once, or even just go to the damn bathroom, he will be back by 2338.
If she counts slowly.
--
Sometimes, late at night, when she has named all of the constellations she knows without the familiar sound of his second-hand car pulling into their garage, she likes to sit and ponder, with a bottle of Jack Daniels, where she went wrong. She wonders if by living here with him she's wasting away the best years of her life, years she could have spent at college in order to get a job and b
:iconDibujando:Dibujando
:icondibujando:Dibujando 365 97
Literature
II.
insomniac bird
with eyes like marbles
lost in a nervous clamp
of feather and claw
strung out on a branch
a telephone wire buzzing
on a dead line
narcoleptic cat
too tired to yawn
she dreams of birds
who fall in her lap
:iconjonzoiplu:jonzoiplu
:iconjonzoiplu:jonzoiplu 19 22
I am tired of making up titles by bubblexw I am tired of making up titles :iconbubblexw:bubblexw 3 0 The Rose by Frannernanner The Rose :iconfrannernanner:Frannernanner 2 1
Literature
Love Story
He develops the habit of always facing backwards on trains.  It's not a matter of preference but the intentional development of what he believes to be a character quirk.  She is accustomed to red wines lighter than clay and white wines darker than pearls.  He eats shark for dinner, as a delicacy.  She is vegetarian as a fashion statement.  She shot heroin in a past lifetime.  He cleans his gutters regularly is so enamored with the act that he letters it neatly in his planner, every Saturday of the week, six months in advance.  He smokes marijuana.  He owns a leather couch.  She is 26 today.  She prefers gin and tonic and prepares one now in celebration.  He once gave an ex-girlfriend a fashionable purse made of tree bark.  He once broke up with an ex-girlfriend by taping a "fuck you" sign on her window (facing in).  She was once broken up with under a brid
:iconwildoats:wildoats
:iconwildoats:wildoats 18 12
Literature
Communication Poem
The girl drops the words.
They clatter like kitchen plates.
The boy picks them up
Piece by piece, wraps them
In gauze and hands them back.
I'm across the hall so I can see them.
This is only reason why I know this so
the girl goes and sits on the steps
And delicately unwraps the package.
Some of the pieces tumble down.
I venture to guess she doesn't want
them anymore and that maybe I shouldn't
be watching something so vulnerable.
And so I close the door.  
Then I guess the pieces clawed into her skin.
That's when, my neighbors say, she sliced off
her ears bit by bit, and left them at their apartment door.
They all agreed it was very courageous of her.
The words showed up again when the baby was born.
First, it was hidden in a diaphanous shroud of silence
And then the most wonderful thing. The crying.
:iconpearlingrain:pearlingrain
:iconpearlingrain:pearlingrain 2 4
Mature content
Nathaniel :iconventurus:venturus 124 122
sleeping beauty by suzi9mm sleeping beauty :iconsuzi9mm:suzi9mm 6,722 853
Literature
To Go Far
Woman, you said you wouldn't
leave the world behind. All the pieces,
you had all the pieces in a line and you were measuring
and drawing routes, bus trips back to where
you think things start. This suitcase
on the stoop, then, mustn't be yours.
Woman, you said you'd got a ticket out
and a ticket out for me, that we'd both be
over the moon by now. But you live limpid
in the city lights and I live the same nights
and between us, we can't weave enough of a day.
There is no fading, love, and no saving.
This white-on-white hospital light
you've brought outside with you
is all of your strength. You show up against
grey skies, you ghost in lamplight,
you love your children unborn. They are
dreams, as you're a dream, as is the hand
warming your palm. There is no hand, woman,
warming your palm, you've left it behind, named
for a dream dissolve. So no one is saviour, or victor, or love.
There is just us alone. Why remove us
from the road? Why remove us to jasmine
and this melancholy star? Woman,
:iconmanchaliaina:manchaliaina
:iconmanchaliaina:manchaliaina 68 40

Wishlist

Waiting for the Day by kchilt Waiting for the Day :iconkchilt:kchilt 779 96 dreamer by suzi9mm dreamer :iconsuzi9mm:suzi9mm 1,876 670 white kittyness by suzi9mm white kittyness :iconsuzi9mm:suzi9mm 2,647 725 In Dreams by cosmosue In Dreams :iconcosmosue:cosmosue 2,102 422 morning light by garrit morning light :icongarrit:garrit 891 251 God of Fire - Fox Fire by Ashwings God of Fire - Fox Fire :iconashwings:Ashwings 21,594 1,799 Angel by red5 Angel :iconred5:red5 396 187

Activity


deviantID

mySeity
Tessa Zeng
United States
Favourite genre of music: piano anything
Personal Quote: "To love oneself is the beginning of a lifelong romance." --Oscar Wilde
Interests
  • Listening to: the restlessness of two years gone by
  • Reading: Cat's Eye - Margaret Atwood
  • Watching: the hearts over the emoticon
  • Playing: with how to say these things
  • Drinking: a crystal glass of water
What can I say? I've been away for a long time. But I have not stopped writing poetry. Rather, I've been trying to live out my poetry in real life.

The changes in my absence have been extraordinary... There are now skins for journal entries, twitter icons for deviations...

Haha.

But really, things have changed. The last summer I was writing here was spent slaving away in New York, interning in the fashion industry and dreaming of a day when I could breathe more easily. Now I've left the fashion industry forever, left the art school of my old dreams, and am diving full-force into a new digitally-driven revolution.

The other day, I slowed down for a moment, and asked myself:

What would my life have looked like without the Internet?

And I remembered this place.

Without this community, the amazing support of all of you, the countless comments and favorites, the DD's, and most poignantly- a single gallery by onthemetro that changed my 14-year-old life forever... I would never have been a poet.

Not like this.

And so I thank you. I posted a last poem, today, dedicated to you.

*

>> If you're of the changing-the-world-through-creativity variety, I invite you to stop by my new website, at experiencingrevolution.com

>> You can also find me on Twitter twitter.com/teezeng !

Keep writing & devouring poetry, and may it light your way as it did mine.

:heart:
Tessa

Comments


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:iconqueenhrosie:
queenhrosie Featured By Owner Dec 15, 2008
Ha, I thought she already went. But she is always making like, giant ten foot sculptures or magical rainbow cows, so it should be expected I thought she was already in the fancy art school!

Ceramics was a fun class, from the lowly semester I took in my normal college haha.

*#*
Reply
:iconmackwrites:
mackwrites Featured By Owner Dec 10, 2008
I've watched you because I am curious to see where your writing is going. (I just felt like explaining myself :))
Reply
:iconmyseity:
mySeity Featured By Owner Dec 14, 2008
thank you, I'm glad you're interested enough to do so! :)
Reply
:iconprairiedaisy:
prairiedaisy Featured By Owner Sep 4, 2008   Writer
you write so beautifully i have to watch you.

and good luck with risd! hope you have a blast.
Reply
:iconmyseity:
mySeity Featured By Owner Sep 21, 2008
thank you! I really appreciate that.
Reply
:iconprairiedaisy:
prairiedaisy Featured By Owner Sep 22, 2008   Writer
most welcome. :)
Reply
:iconbubblexw:
bubblexw Featured By Owner Apr 8, 2008
Hopefully RISD as well,
still waiting on my transfer application acceptance or denial. Congrats on your acceptance :)
Reply
:iconb1gfan:
b1gfan Featured By Owner Mar 1, 2008  Student Writer
The stars in the sky of your words are bright indeed, full of the sparkle of poetry.
Reply
:iconmyseity:
mySeity Featured By Owner Mar 12, 2008
<3 thank you.
Reply
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