Witty Fay is a translator by trade and a humanist by nature. She has been writing herself into her poems for some time into the virtual world. Also, she proudly had her bilingual volume of poetry, Nefelibata (Brian Brixon Books, 2014), published and she is aiming at unraveling prose. Wearing the many hats of the aspiring poet/writer, she draws inspiration from the people she meets, the places she travels, and the books she reads.
The same person twice
The guilt of wanting more life
Because all beginnings hide endings.
The motherhoods in the dying stances
We spend at large and the selves we break
As we are still walking this length of ours,
While the eyes are wandering houses on end,
On hungry limbs of gossamer strength.
Could we bear fault in our fallen stars?
Remind, rewind, rebind, refined-
The kind of love we fell for, in the first
Of all lives we took from unborn dust.
As be your wont
The chronology of running water
Counts centuries of time remote
Into building one story to die for.
Decentered and fashioning a storm,
I flow that river of rapid whispers
And tell the world it should not come
To soothe, to sin or to bathe its feet.
This life comes in the waiting room
As we undress a skin or two, silently.
We like to watch each other shedding
Of lives gone, lives mourned and buried.
I am shortening, not sharpening a blade of grass
To pierce all good, fertile soil on my back.
The age of me shows in the bruises of you,
From eye rings to the pit of the fissures,
In the way I curl up under your smile
Or I shrink between the molten eyelids.
Your flair for petrifying my life in motion
With soothing illusions and black passion
Tells time to come rehearsed and reshaped
In the smell of the exhaled breath you take
And turn inwards into my own lungs.
I slide between fresh dreams and crispy days
And hold no broken flowers in the comb of me-
Instead the miniature fascination for endless
Raindrops coiled in the folds of your skin.
Too intricate for regular eyes,
Shallow into my own mirror,
I play words on a daily chord.
I feed them veins to run wild
And manifold eyes to flow deep.
In the great storehouse of life,
I cling to tiny feet that make
And choke my air lovingly,
I spread ashy wings of earth
Into the alabaster of the sky,
Only to lay bones of ice into
The fissures of the man who
Loves me blind and echoed.
Still, the wealth of talking
About and the luxury of it
Come from the shadows within,
A narrative that escapes the word.
Storm goddess of finicky colors
Hidden into the crook my shoulder,
Like a cello looking for a string
Down the bridge of silent words.
Seasons put on white slivery gloves,
Ready to undress the whispered secret
In the weather buds gone astray-
Give me rain in summer haze
And stars of ice into the soul,
As I bathe my tired feet into slush.
In the dash of the bearded night,
Bright porcelain fused to metal,
All resin heart in the core, broken.