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Caitlin Cacciatore

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  • December 01, 2017 05:30:45 PM
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A Little About Us

A poetry blog featuring works that will move you, entice you, and stimulate your creative fancy.

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Vanishing Act

Imagine your ancestors, and my ancestors – For they are one and the same – Soft feet padding across the good earth, Which bore life, and reclaimed it, Whose black, loamy soils are rich with the sacred dead; Imagine them turning their primitive faces to the sky, Which is burning; Imagine their fear (feel it … Continue reading Vanishing...

Imagine your ancestors, and my ancestors –

For they are one and the same –

Soft feet padding across the good earth,

Which bore life, and reclaimed it,

Whose black, loamy soils are rich with the sacred dead;

Imagine them turning their primitive faces to the sky,

Which is burning;

Imagine their fear (feel it as your own)

And think of the insurmountable drive to survive

That has led them to me, and to you;

Imagine my ancestors, and your ancestors-

For they are one and the same –

And how they would have wept,

Had only they known how,

To learn that so many of their fellows

Have gone to dust.


and i was made to sing a siren’s song

and i was made to sing a siren's song, and from my lips they drew such sweet sounds...

They took me down

Past the dregs of November,

Into the depths of winter –

Down into those icy waters,

Past the tide line on the shore

Where all our dreams went to die –

Down into the belly of the beast,

And I was made to sing a siren’s song,

And from my lips they drew such sweet sounds,

Yet I stood on that shore and wept,

And thought only of you.


Lion Enough

My love / Was I not lion enough / For you? Lion Enough - a #poem by Caitlin Cacciatore

Based on a South African star myth of a girl who had such fierce magical powers that when she looked at a group of hungry lions, they turned into stars. The largest of those lion stars are in Orion’s belt.

My love,

Was I not lion enough

For you?

 

Crane your head up to the sky,

And let me watch

The stars through your eyes.

 

Don’t look upon me;

Let’s make this moment last,

Don’t count your sorrows until they’ve passed.


Exodus

(the fruit is still ripe where it has fallen / from her hand.)

A seabird collides with an oncoming train –

And a girl on the platform screams out,

But it is drowned by the screech of the train

As the brakes activate, and

By the whistle, not of mourning,

But of victory –

And what a feeble thud

Of the gull as it soars one final flight,

And hits the ground; dying, but not dead.

The red mouth of the girl on the platform

Is still open,

And she is still sounding the ancient death-cry

Of her people.

(The fruit is still ripe where it has fallen

From her hand.)

And the girl is the gull,

And she is the train,

And, of course, she is

The man on the platform

Who does not look up from a newspaper

With yesterday’s date emblazed on the top,

Does not bear witness,

But who hears the cry of the gull-girl

And who later,

Without quite knowing why,

 Turns his face up to the moon

And howls.


Yet You Are Still Golden – A Poem by Caitlin Cacciatore

I want to ride this wave All the way to shore – Back to the ocean of our youth, Back to the wild crests And the tempests we navigated By the stars That governed our two orbits, Each around the other.   The sun is setting on the promised land, The moon is rising over … Continue reading Yet You Are Still Golden – A Poem by Caitlin...

I want to ride this wave

All the way to shore –

Back to the ocean of our youth,

Back to the wild crests

And the tempests we navigated

By the stars

That governed our two orbits,

Each around the other.

 

The sun is setting on the promised land,

The moon is rising over the hallowed ground,

Yet you are still golden,

And I am still young,

And the two of us

Will not be submerged

In these boundless waters;

Rather, we shall be buoyant

And brave – somehow,

This ship’ll carry us

Home.


That Blood-Red Throne

You cleaved me open And left my sun-bleached ribs Scattered Across the shores of our youth.   There, by the sea, I gathered sea glass with which to build my home – And every glittering, skittering ray of light Was a reflection of the darkness I bore within.   I built the foundation on an … Continue reading That Blood-Red...

You cleaved me open

And left my sun-bleached ribs

Scattered

Across the shores of our youth.

 

There, by the sea,

I gathered sea glass with which to build my home –

And every glittering, skittering ray of light

Was a reflection of the darkness I bore within.

 

I built the foundation on an eon’s worth of driftwood,

Claiming the detritus of long-ago civilizations as my own,

Yet I am still waiting

For the day you’ll come storming back in

And set fire to my bone-dry flesh and blood home.

 

I tried you tell you;

I spoke unto you,

“My heart is not made of stone,”

But all you ever wanted

Was to sit on that blood-red throne.


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