NGC 604 in the Triangulum Galaxy is a very mas...

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a nebula snakes its way
across my face
like a veil
a rosy trail of gases
upon my cheeks

lonely planets and
dark stars
trace down my legs
up and over my hands
to guide me home

star charts drape across my shoulders
up my jaw
across my arms
old white galaxies
new red dwarfs

maybe someone
will draw me constellations
from these blemishes

© christine DINGLEY 2012

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A Drawing keats rendered of an engraving of th...

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No one will care about this poem
until I am long dead.
Isn’t that the way of it?
Here I am to make
some impression
a ghost of a difference,
but it’s 2012
who the hell reads poetry anymore?


I borrowed an anthology of poetry
looking for inspiration.
I get more from the little inscription
on the back:
“Academic deconstruction
and intellectual dissection
are the death of poetry.”
or something like that.

The point is, I think,
that analyzing poetry to death
is desecrating the body
of the work
and missing the fact that
is a work of the soul
and who the hell even cares
about whether or not form is dead.

I forgot my point.
It was going to be brilliant,
life changing maybe
even revolutionizing the genre.

Doesn’t that sound so pretentious?

No one will care about this poem
at all, I figure.

They sure as hell don’t care about it now.

© christine DINGLEY 2012

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QWERTY : a tragic love story

The marching of thoughts sounds like Morse Code

lined up against the measuring tape

and black tape to telegraph

photograph them.


They are banished to a vacuum in a queue

though is it a void if there is something

even two ‘you’s in there

to fill it?


The queue and the double you collide

mid-clash and are suspended

in      mid         air

stepping on each other’s feet.


And while the embrace is glorious, eternal

a meeting of fairytale fate and chance,

the universe stands still

and that is not good.


While they are entwined there can be no

questions: who? what? when? where?

the all important why?

No answers.


So I disentangle the ‘q’ and the ‘w’ and keep on typing.

youth : introspection of a not-quite-adult

I am an impatient thing
with a lot of nothing to say
so I take
and take
consume the media.

something in there has to mean something.

I look up on the internet
how to pray the rosary
because either they didn’t teach us that
at sunday school
or I forgot.

it’s sad when both are equally plausible.

I devour my parent’s life stories
and my grandparent’s nostalgia
(this is why I took my granpapa’s typewriter:
I never knew him, but it’s part of who he was)
to craft a name for myself.

a name they can be proud of. a name I can be proud of.

as much as I sometimes dream
of the stardust
of my name up in lights
what I want more than anything
is integrity
so that I can live without labels without breaking.

looks like I’ll have to take scissors to those tags.

I drown in choices.

the world is my oyster
but I remember how my father
could pry them open with a chisel
serve them up with life’s lemons
and we would swallow them whole.

I’m not sure I like that analogy.

maybe I’ll create my own.

© christine DINGLEY 2012

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Esse ce la langue
batarditz ox ben
la langue ansenne?

O ben Scripta
ta biautez tujour
un schart nevax.

Esse ce la langue
batardiz ox ben
la langue purifees?

Bel meschine chimere
moz selment compri
quant lon parles.

© christine DINGLEY