her majesty

[Slow John]

highborn princess
lines drawn well
within boundaries
no corset needed
mental or physical
wisps through life
flirting with gravity
dancing on moons
moving small muscles
fells giants
while speaking softly
or not at all

[tentative]

Nice. Just the right touch of coolness. I like the detachment. What would happen if 'within boundaries' became without boundaries?

[Gamer]

thank you JT,

this one is about that high bred heartbreaker

we all know them well.

the markers of evolution, the front growing face,
the jaw, the supple neck, the breast, the waist to hip ratio,
the lines as it were...

these lines have boundaries. they must be within certain
parameters for if they fall beyond these parameters,
they no longer carry their darwinian signal.

sometimes you see someone so effortlessly within these
boundaries, it warrants a poem.

imagine drifting through life being so within boundaries that
you never have to strain to appear graceful or beautiful

for a woman this means never having to suck in their cheeks
or pout their lips, or otherwise strain to nudge or imprison themselves
into the cute range if but for a second.

it means having things handed to you,
and breaking hearts of giants
without having to lift a finger.

people like this are given everything,
and in the end, what they give to the world,
is often nothing. for to give outward, we must
imprison ourselves, we must catch a butterfly in a net.

the last line, she speaks softly, or not at all, pays this off.

perhaps in this last line, we find a call for depth,
we find different parameters to focus on.
the poem is both a lament of the inevitable
unfairness of genetic grace,
but can also be read as an entreatment
to changing our perception of what matters.

after all, grace can't exist unless the viewer imbues it.

it's up to the reader

having described my motive, does it help you read the piece differently?

[tentative]

Yeah it reads differently. I was reading snow queen... Is there another poem from her perspective? Are these 'perfect' women not trapped in a bodily prison where mind is dismissed? Are they not unintended victims of superficiality? Do we ignore the gift and covet the wrapping paper?

[obe]

Haughty but forlorn, appearant bounderies but only to play, enticing yet not comitted, at once resentful of her chains which others covet. . Her inheritance not well understood neither by those political, nor even those who will be forever inside but tenants. Pity not, her, for sure she is shared by many but pure remains..

[Gamer]

obe, that is interesting, thank you for adding to it.

JT, i think she's just physically and mentally effortless, comes to the world fully formed and in pure harmony with the mechanisms of natural selection. she doesn't know what it's like to come up against any sort of friction or opposition.

yet.

the great thing about humanity is that the strong become the weak, the beautiful become the decrepit. everyone has their turn at the lonely end of the table if you live long enough. perhaps this will be our heroines only real chance at beauty, the kind of beauty this poem seeks.

[tentative]

The smithy forges steel in fire and the hammer shapes and marks the beauty of the forging. Real life, real beauty, real poetry, all must enter the flame and be forged. Therein lies true beauty. All impurities are burned away leaving only the essence; that which has been forged. We must embrace the fire, for only in it's grasp do we become alive...

[Ichthus]

The world praises or refines the finite external, but the smithy first accepts, then refines, the heart that seeks to return to his infinite essence, which is love. Unfading beauty.

Nice poem, though. I like "while speaking softly, or not at all" but it doesn't do justice to Deborah, who spoke firmly, or not at all.

[Gamer]

beauty is forged in fire; but what of fire itself? is fire not beauty? we can wax poetic about what we wish were true of beauty. we scarred by the smithy's hammer swear by it. wise men will prattle on about true beauty. but the silent princess, with her glorious idiot knowing, speaks more truth in an aloof glance, makes armies sigh. it is the primal sentencing, echoed eternal. while we struggle to find flaws irresistible and scars sublime, the diamond, in her perfection, struggles naught. beauty needs no defense, no explanation. the blood of men are all the poetry it will ever need, bodies locked in lethal competition, impurities, burned away over the eons, reflected in her virgin eyes.

[tentative]

Then beauty is her-unto-herself, and not in the metaphors of men. Her silence becomes our silence lest we choose to be poor imitations. We may see her, but must remain silent.

[Ichthus]

Yeah. Let's all make like beauty and be silent :-p

[Gamer]

we must talk only of our emotional reality in her light, as she waltzes through life having everything handed to her, and even as we grumble and curse, we fight for the privilege of handing her whatever modest offerings we have.

it's a stupid poem and I am an old fool. All I can say is I'm excited to see batman. fuck all y'alls.

[Ichthus]

Bleh. I guess we are all like sheep about something, no?

Looking forward to Batman