Tattoo poetry is visual poetry. It is ink transforming—telling a story or covering one, or giving a person something to live into that is yet untold.
Poetry Prompt
Be the ink that tells a story. Find your way under someone’s skin. Do you want to be there, or are you entering against your will? Give us a poem from the ink’s perspective. Tell a story or cover one—or give the person you’re entering something new to live into.
Thanks to our participants in last week’s poetry prompt. Here’s a recent Tattoo poem we enjoyed from Maureen…
Born in the Year of the Dragon
for Josh Burdette
You slept with dragons
without eyes, your chest,
your arms, that broad back
their shelter, semi-covered lair.
Who knew a man with silver
horns in his nose studied
the Chinese zodiac, believed
in legends no one tells sitting
amid the flash of downtown’s
ink shops? You made choices,
you said, marked your skin
over and over with the sign
of the year you drew your first
breath — yang to snake’s yin.
Hundreds of hours you spent
making your body a showcase,
the artists with their irons
careful to avoid the tangents
that deprive each spirit animal
space to roam your 340 pounds
free on six-foot four-inch frame.
You did security, checked ids,
made the bands feel welcome,
gave in to no temptation but
the tattoos and the piercings.
A guy with a psych degree, you
didn’t get to finish your story.
You always intended to give
them eyes, to let them waken
to leave you when you died.
Maureen’s poem was inspired by a recent Washington Post article about Josh Burdette, “security doer” for Washington, D.C.’s 9:30 Club.
Call for Tattoo Photos for September Poetry Prompts
Do you have a tattoo? Are you willing to photograph it and share the photo with us, for possible use for our September poetry prompts? (Our September theme is tattoos.) If so, please share via Twitter or Pinterest and give us an @tspoetry or @EDaypoems, so we can find the share.)
Photo by A. Pagliaricci, Creative Commons, via Flickr.
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Sometimes we feature your poems in Every Day Poems, with your permission of course. Thanks for writing with us!
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Richard Maxson says
Maureen, a fitting eulogy for Josh. Loved the finish.
Maureen Doallas says
Thank you, Richard!
Richard Maxson says
Eve’s Tattoo
Let the ink tell the real story,
not his dream of me—the assistant,
standing naked, the snake coiled
around my arm, the temptress
with the son who died
for pride and smoke.
Show my daughters how
we threshed the dry grain,
and baked the flat bread,
on the rocks of a sad history,
hidden behind splendor.
It’s not easy with gods
and men, nailing their edicts
to a tree, one way or another,
making their pronouncements,
from balconies and mountaintops.
Their gods expect compliance,
but we are the mavens
who haggle sheep for a life,
from our cloth and paper prisons,
to keep the promises true.
You can believe the old story,
if it helps you sleep,
but remember, I am in you
always, the cage bone,
the one closest to the heart.
Maureen Doallas says
Well-told! I like this a lot, Richard, especially the opening line and these lines: “It’s not easy with gods/ and mens, nailing their edicts / to a tree” and “I am in you / always, / the cage bone, / the one closest to the heart.”
Maureen Doallas says
Thank you for featuring my poem today. I still find myself thinking about Josh’s story, the sadness of his life’s ending. He was the perfect example of how wrong people can be in making judgments based on appearance, and the stories shared since his death confirm the lives he touched.
Maureen Doallas says
A new tattoo poem: ‘No Further Explanation’
http://writingwithoutpaper.blogspot.com/2013/09/no-further-explanation-poem.html
Richard Maxson says
I like the contrast between the way this begins and ends.
Anthony says
A journey on skin, in ink. Beautiful.
Richard Maxson says
When the Whistle Blows
After the boys came home,
she wanted the sunshine,
shifted back the furniture,
but couldn’t settled into it.
She kept her sleeves rolled;
sooner or later he would see
the tattoo, find the bandanna—
the respite from braids and brushes.
He would notice the fresh
breeze that ruffled her curls,
parted the curtains and covering
folds of her skirts, lifted her sassy
from a wife to a wet whistle.
He looked for her; the sounds
she made for him before his call
to glory were drowned out down
the outbound road, by her heels
in those new found steel-toed shoes.
Anthony says
prompt triggered a search through my database for this poem written over ten years ago.
Tattoos
Tattoo battered pendulum arms
Of the things he’s seen
Blue birds and tangled webs
Vines and dark angels on Harleys.
Back and forth his arms the
Hue of hope, descant, memory
Part flesh, part art.
Air, arms pumping
ahead of him, as a
constant reminder of
the things he’s seen
and where he’s been.
Mother, then
Loverlines
Then, Mother
Loverlines
Turning slightly, I see at the center of his chest
Sliced with dye, a crucified Christ,
His back, a Chagall canvas where
The winds whip welts, wounds, worn
The things that are behind
Him, part flesh, part art.
He stares ahead as he cuts a swath
Through the beauty of the lilies,
Picassos serendipity tracks mutilating his inner
Arms, pumping, self abusive, reborn
Through the passage of the day,
The poison slowly dripping off his fingertips.
Shelly Faber says
Black
will you embrace me?
thickly, brazenly in charge
over this rainbow pallet.
I know you’ll love me the most.
my love for you will never fade,
or let you down,
(never) clash with your life
in any way.
you can wear whatever you like around me.
I will love you deeply.
stay with you, forever …
and … you will always remember, me.
Anthony Connolly says
Love… You will always remember me