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Literature by Leukippos

the written word by Wrayth-Acheron

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Submitted on
March 29


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Creative Commons License
Some rights reserved. This work is licensed under a
Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License.
my father is a man of many colors.
on the nights when the moon stays asleep,
he lotions his palms with pomegranate juice.

the sugared blood pools in the creases of his
skin, staining it India’s red.

sometimes, my father scrubs his hands until
they are nothing but flesh & fruit rinds.

when he was younger—all skinned knees and pocket
knives—he must've slipped on a thousand marbles.
my father’s father was a welder who rolled and spun
steel into tiny spheres.

when he died, my father’s hands became blue and
free of pocket knives. to this day, he keeps a bag
of marbles on our mantle.

from time to time, he shakes the cool metal into  
his open palms and waterfalls it back and forth.

see, this is the trouble with blue hands:
they never let go of the things that scar them.
they try so hard to be red again.

my father doesn't like whistling because
an old woman in India told him it was uncivilized.
she perched herself on the edge of the Ganges River
and kneaded dough with hands of stone.

my father's hands were so calloused and bumpy,
worn from the years he spent cradling marbles and pomegranates,
so she taught him how to smoothen his skin by soaking it in
the river and practicing henna on the rough patches.

in the creases where pomegranate juice once
gathered was now India’s orange blood.

my father was the most deliberate artist.
armed with a camel hair brush gifted to him
by a local who is now somewhere far off, he
softened himself by painting and repainting
the same flesh.

now, the old woman on the Ganges has eggshell hands.
she rests on a bed of banyan leaves and floats through
the heart of the river, teaching men how to calm their
skin with the breath of India.

for the span of one thousand moons, my father washed his hands
in the banks of the water, jingled a bag of marbles, and whistled
a tune that only red, blue, and orange could understand.
it's not a love poem

be proud of me

UPDATE 4.26.14: i'm entered in a national spoken word contest with this poem. PLEASE go click "like" on my youtube video so i can advance to further rounds of judging:………
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Daily Deviation

Given 2014-05-19
my father lived in India is a colorful, image-rich poem by learningtobefree. ( Featured by wreckling )
Sammur-amat Featured By Owner Aug 5, 2014   General Artist
i can't believe i only saw this now! congratulations on the DD, meg darling. :love:
PriyanshiPokharna Featured By Owner Jul 13, 2014  Student General Artist
It's awesome! :heart:
tjcooper666 Featured By Owner Jun 23, 2014  Hobbyist Digital Artist
i dont really get it to be honest but then again i never understand what poems go on about lol
introverted-ghost Featured By Owner May 23, 2014   Writer
Beautiful imagery.
learningtobefree Featured By Owner May 24, 2014  Student Writer
thank youu
introverted-ghost Featured By Owner May 24, 2014   Writer
My pleasure.
Dreamer-of-Magic Featured By Owner May 23, 2014   General Artist
Wow, this is beautiful. :heart:
learningtobefree Featured By Owner May 23, 2014  Student Writer
thank you so much!
Dreamer-of-Magic Featured By Owner May 24, 2014   General Artist
You're welcome! :)
jucyfairuz Featured By Owner May 19, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
its beautiful!!
truly proud!

~INDIAN! i am too :D
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