Roald Dahl is my favorite children's author of all time. I don't know who in their properly wrong mind wouldn't love him. Whenever a rogue sense of decorum infringes upon my worthier squalor and imparts a degenerate level of circumspection, I take it as a sign that it is once again imperative for a Roald Dahl reading, in order to interject a wee bit of good old fashioned giggleumpting back into existence to sloppy up the smarmily straight laces. He never disappoints.

Censorship is one of those devilishly imbecilic notions which generally raises my hackles against it in the defense of free speech anyway... But THIS?... this mind bogglingly puerile war on puerility... goes far beyond my natural inclinations. I'm something approximating livid. Personally, I take the censorship of Roald Dahl as a preposterous affront to all writers everywhere; and by extension to all humanoids who ever deigned to pick up a pen in the courageous endeavor of literary entertainment.

Roald Dahl is dead. (He met his demise more than three decades ago, tragically, at the scarcely-ripened age of 74, as it happens.) As such, he clearly cannot give permission for his works to be rewritten. Furthermore, from what I know of him (and I'm fairly certain I've read close to everything if not literally everything he ever published and I've been madly in love with his works since the very first moment I became capable of comprehending written language...) I am about one zibajabbagillion percent certain that he would DIE before giving his permission for such a senseless mutilation of his intellectual property. The thing about Roald Dahl which a lot of people might not be aware of is that he was an intensely deliberate writer. I heard him mention in an interview once that he hated working with editors because they often found "spelling errors" in his works which were actually painstakingly formed and fully intentional word creations. Following in the wondeously rebelacious footsteps of ingenious giants such as Carol and Dickens, Dahl is responsible for originating many of the most scrumdidliumptious words in common usage today. I therefore find it to be a desecration of the highest order to alter his choice of language in any way whatsoever.

That said, I now must confess to my hypocrisy:

Whilst reading Roald Dahl's Revolting Rhymes to my younglings at bedtime (and as a mother of four I've read it a lot) I must admit to committing an embarrassing mistake during the oration of one of his lines. The line is: "Who is this dirty slut? Off with her nut! off with her nut!" from the Cinderella portion of the book. I can't for the life of me understand it, but I invariably manage to trip up on that one word...

.

.

.

(I'm referring of course to the word "dirty" ...I simply can't help but read "filthy" every time.) ...

This vapor tastes like yesterday,

and this drink smells like rage

Bleeding sorrow,

with every breath I take

All I do is sit in the smoke,

hallucinating words that sit in this cloud

Flying so high,

I may never come down

A once mythical creature,

has since become all too real

Fear of closing my eyes,

for it may disappear

Christmas treats come months before,

numb my body, my lips, my gaze

Make me dizzy with every sip,

until I cannot remember how I got to this place

All of these vices,

no reason to give them up

They bring me closer each day,

and my time will surely lessen as I refill my cup

Everyone can break your trust.

"When?" "Why can't you?"

"Please, not right now."

"I can't." "I don't know how."

"Goodbye or later?" "Now?"

"Forget, believe it." "Not gonna show!"

"For the love of God, please, let me go!"

"Will you ever give me another chance?"

The words I formed in different chants.

Your lock was ever open,

for anyone to go in.

Gullible, the bear of me,

who thought I needed a key.

What are the chances that I met you,

living in a world colored in blue.

I have no authority over my heart,

only an image of us that has been torn apart.

The blue has bled into all of my clothes,

giving me nothing but migraines and drives on empty roads.

What are the chances that we are both here,

in this world that breeds nothing but fear.

Fear and loneliness push us around,

but I have no where to look now except the ground.

Statistically we have beat the odds,

based on the probability of us being here at all.

What are the chances that I ever move on,

I guess it doesn't matter because it's the end of the song.

I breathe water,

you breathe air.

You had doubts,

mine were never there.

I shut down,

you explode.

You had your reasons,

mine you could not decode.

I am a Pisces,

You are a Libra.

You were dealing with crises,

and I with my cerebral.

Yes I am the fish,

but you have all my scales

So I've forgotten how to breathe underwater,

because you aren't there.

Weaving through the darkness

Of the garden

Bumping against the toolshed

Certain memories

Knot odiously around the

Bare lining of my slippers

A doll by the kitchen sink

Hangs

By its thread

Choking a vase of sunflowers

As they feel the wall

Laboriously climbing

Breathing

Walking barefoot through the forest

Pine needles impale the soles of my feet

Stumbling across the field of grass

Where we used to read aloud from mud-stained notebooks

Watching the waves appear as the dancing hem of a white dress

I pour out sand and starfish from my shoes

We let the rain scar our faces

We let the lightning burn our souls

Sitting on the steps overlooking the running track

I use a stone to write to her

Walking in the subway tunnels

I watch the wall's paint peel off like scabs from an old wound

Moth-fed light blinks and closes

At night I lie down in bed

Writing in my notebook

Burning the pages with my tears

Running through the forest

the beach

the grass

the track

the subway tunnels

Finding the other me

across from the tracks

I feel the cool metal, kiss my soft fingertips

The gleaming sword I hold, trails on the stone floor.

The world turned dark, but through a quiet eclipse,

I press my ear to the iron door.

The blood in my body turned black,

as I longed to go in, sword swinging.

But with a strained exhale, I held back-

For I heard the haunting song they were singing.

“Clothed in black, darkening red rivers,

Stay sleeping nimble beast of lore-

For your footsteps in the night bring me shivers,

as they hold unfathomable power forevermore.”

I touched my finger to the metal,

The rivers dripped from my stroking touch;

and my hurt withered away, as an old petal,

I was done being hurt this much.

I was no longer glass,

pieced together by blood.

Here I was metal and steel, alas-

My newofund sword cut through the flood.

I cocked my head slightly,

As I opened the door with a crack.

and smiled as my sword shined brightly.

I whispered erethrally, "I'm back."

#poetry #poet #challenge #sword #fantasy #rhyme #creative #writing #writers