Home » Poems » Best » Daniel Dixon » Best Daniel Dixon Poems

Best Poems Written by Daniel Dixon

Below are the all-time best Daniel Dixon poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Daniel Dixon Poem

Untitled 8

Appearing from nowhere, a red stain in my colourless 
vision, I found them cold in the whiteness of the first 

snowfall. They lay there in the misty haze, stunned to silence,
smothered in their white blanket; that splendid state 

beyond shivering. All the swans are dead, their bodies 
melt, reclaimed by the snow. I watch myself in their vacant eyes,

staring out at me, as if I’m some kind of god- the sun’s 
sparkle has faded; black mirrors, an onyx iris. With wings

contorted, they lay limp, their broken necks hanging like empty white bags, 
their once-upon-a-time white feathers twitching in the wind, the veins

on their sagging skins unwrapped, all speckled with flashes 
of ruby, brighter than fire, and just as untameable. This

scalded mess looks at me; the ends molt through, peeping like scared 
children, and crawl along my frozen skin; it’s almost

pleading, the red ocean growing and overflowing, staining 
the pinking dirt. They are all equal here, entwined in strands that slither

like embracing fingers, numb to the bone from the biting frost; iced
to perfection, inseparable chunks. From high above in the black sky, he saw

it all, creaming with knowledge- watching through his terrible spyhole,
that ghostly hue that bones this new aurora’s gleam with sallow blemishes.

This scene infects me; I circle the remains in awe and continue; this sight’s 
colouring me green:  it is over; they are finished, laying in the soiled snow.

Details | Daniel Dixon Poem

Untitled 12

Mother of nothing,
the buds that do not blossom:
empty cradles rock.

Details | Daniel Dixon Poem

Untitled 9

"You walk away from this disaster unscathed, whilst I
stand next to the wincing tulips that battle Apollo's snapping frost.
Beneath the tweeting birds, unaware of the destruction below,
I stand still. Like a statue. In the spot where I was left, by you.
If i stand here long enough, If i inhabit this place for enough time,
maybe i can become stone. Maybe i can embrace numbness,
the prize that comes with abandonment. If i am still,
I can become this solid form, this camouflage can become me,
and i will be known throughout the kingdom as the girl who became stone
when her heart was stolen. If i stay here, i can trade this shattered heart
and maybe you'll return and save me from this rock exterior.
I wait alone, and the destiny i yearn for sets, like the crooked sun.
I've looked into the face of Medusa, and she was a heartless man
whose snakes threaten and strike, void of pity and love.
With downcast eyes, bleached by this sun, I'll be restored by Achelois
and she'll reflect her ghostly light off my smooth, cold skin.
I'll stand here, alone, and simply wait for the ivy to creep up
my hard limbs and cover me with their reviving leaves.
I'll peep out at the world, free from the bars that come with their eyes,
and wait to watch the final sunset before natural annihilation.
But, wait,
these cats, in all their glory, huddle around me,
inhaling my smell, being engulfed by my aroma.
Maybe I'll embrace Niobe, and loss will pour from these stone
eyes like an unceasing fountain. I'll flood these lands, each drip, each muddy tear,
building to waves that swirl and crash and destroy,
flooding forests and deserts. I'll worship Artemis and the waves will gallop
and stride and hunt him down, forcing him from his hideout until he chokes on
my grief, like a child swallowing a huge pebble.
The hooting owl dares to interrupt my thoughts? Hush, you cannot quieten me.
Foul tears, hold your rank! I'll never bow to supremacy. I'll never kneel to him.
This wretched beast recognises me, it's knowing eyes wink like devil's spears
and claw at my stone shell. I long to pounce and throttle its feathered neck.
I can devour it. I can rule this place like a sovereign, an Egyptian Queen.
You cannot withstand my stone clasp, you disobedient demon.
Quake at my feet you subservient fool, yield to my greatness,
kiss my base with your impoverished lips that crack like glass.
I see its reflection in my dull eyes and, through the fog, I see my stance,
like a God. Fear me all."

Details | Daniel Dixon Poem

Untitled 22

The heat soaked day drags on: each daisy sweltering
every buttercup melting into the dry ground,
a golden oozing of petals. I watch them through the window knowing
that I could not be ready, this I that’s still unknown
plucked before the first blossom. The hum of the sun
repeats like an assembly line, robotic, in essence,
clawing its way into the conscience
and residing in the mind like a panther. I, too, 
am reclaimed by the ground.
It seems to pulse, reaching and breathing me in
dragging my limbs into its dark depths.
I let it go on from the white bed, sterile- so I’m told.
Even the sky dulls me with its aqua face staring vacant and shallow,
its vague features too-sea-blue for me. The seed that’s cracked inside disintegrates,
the doctors say, “it is no threat”. 
But I feel the leaking egg rise in the heat
trying to engorge itself like a cat eating its tail.
I want to grasp a handful of the straw-grass
covering the ground like a yellow wound, to watch it
infect the air and bleed into the wind. 
My hand reaches for the stomach,
cupping the heat that steams from my skin, unstretched- as far as I can tell.
I know when it happens, I knew when it fell, 
feeling the red spots, all the blotches of myself
costume my insides like a cracked cauldron, the unhatching complete.
A sea of suicides, as the dark lump rises to the throat.
If water is life, I gargle and spit its corpse from my mouth
like a cactus. I imagine the tumour deflowering,
its thorns still jagged like teeth or as black as a squatting toad.
Before the window, out of captivity, the flowers’ faces all resemble death, 
each seed trembling with my pulse, afraid to look into the eyes
of the lifeless that forsakes being. Dead trees with ringless bones,
boughs bent into unnatural contortions
like deformed ballerinas performing offensive dances
I watch with blindness. I rise and leave withered shell remains, 
the parasite shrivelled and discarded like old skin. 
In the window view, the snow rises once more as the sun turns to bone
whilst the wind passes through me. I am a mine, full of black on black
atrocities, that has dead birthed the unknown.

Details | Daniel Dixon Poem

Untitled 13

There's no through road so
with iced courage and steeled breath
She opens each scarlet line,
watching each blank page wave in the wind.
She renounces, orphaning it through self sacrifice and,
through Her crimson puddles,
She sees the barren paths- untrodden-
retreat as the oven scolds the cake inside.
It leeches, and Her skin, the colour of sour milk,
is creaming, each foam washing away the marked gold sand.
It's too late, the clock's already struck and chimed
for the still unborn - stillborn unborn.
Enclosing, the bud swallows the bee,
it's shallow heart fading,
like the bleaching sun drying the caterpillar.
She collapses, clasping, dragging Her burden with Her

Details | Daniel Dixon Poem

Untitled 6

She isn’t dormant, she moves through the dark in this new phase, 
as exact as a silver snowflake.  Despite her voicelessness, she speaks to me.
Her swollen body is idolized in the black that she unstains; she owns the shadows.

                I live for the night, it rejuvenates my scars; it’s my only pleasure.

But she soon becomes entangled in his net of branches, in his
labyrinth of wires. The moon-bruise aches in these hands that grasp 
her too tightly, the constant stroking; her whole existence is fingered blackly.

                I crackle with his razor touches that hook on to my skin.

Each vein sticks to her, emptying her white cup, eating her souring flesh;
to you the moon is just a stone, her presence doesn’t haunt you,
she is more than my reflection; and I feel myself becoming cold.

                This struggle makes me scab but the yellow puss still leaks from me.

And I am numb with fear. She peeks through the branches like bone 
in a deep cut, only she never stops bleeding. Her bleached corpse-body 
aches for freedom, but she is truly caught; her ends fray and we unravel.

                I wear her scabbing scars too, she is my sister after all.

This new phase is exhausting, he wants to lick my skin off. 
My white body is caustic; it bites me back; I scratch and feel myself flake
beneath the nails. I touch the tree and feel its poison enter me.

                You are my immunity. But I don’t think I can go on.

We are septicly whole. She is draining, pouring herself out, as animated as 
the old skull with its thin layer of skin: its veins pulsating with the starved 
appearance of Death. I don’t think I’m here anymore either. I am in her bone casket.

                You know this crippling well; we have both lived with these deformities.

I am now in the tree with her. She is now all of my eye, we touch and 
I am frosted. We are one to the wet core, that stuff that white is made from,
and we are each swallowed by his trunk, living inside his chest of ill health.

Details | Daniel Dixon Poem

Untitled 1

The moon can withdraw; she will crawl
into her colourless body and stitch together her new skin;
she is reborn and basks in her costume of cadaver.
The heart is not that evolved; once broken, she is dead forever.

Details | Daniel Dixon Poem

Untitled 2

Like a circus freak,
glared at through the safety of glass,
they all ask to see my dead heart,
that I dedicate to you.

Details | Daniel Dixon Poem

Untitled 30

I portray the mother of dust:
the rattle in our empty nest,
echoing, echoing like the bray
that escapes the moon at noon,
the shrieks from soft white rooms.
These unhatched eggs cry,
crawling to my windows,
peeping in, trying to frost
each dirty sheet of glass
with their shallow dirty breaths.
Is there humanity in this reflection?
I am a factory assembling
cadavers: cold glassy eyed dolls
all wearing the same vacant faces:
blurred, blurred, and terrible.
Their little fingers stain the walls
like the pages of blank novels.
I try to hold them. They go.
They let me go, for now.
I don't fear the darkness anymore,
but it is their tongues of silence
that leave me unhinged.
Remembering is to ache
like a shadow. Mother
mothering dirt, a stranger to health.
My cramping hands pray and
hope my past can eat itself.

Details | Daniel Dixon Poem

Untitled 19

Look closely. What do you see? A white rabbit in snow. 
No? I’m the memory of a bride, wedded to eternity:
an extincting marriage. Draped in a pearl gown.
Laced to the throat. Dressed like some decadent uneaten cake,
ignore the teeth marks in the shadowed parts.
I was his bridal-feast and now I feast on white,
it’s in my breath and crackles in each bulbous vein. 
It eats me from the inside like an infection:
my white veil now my shroud. The crows gather, 
their pebbles eyes stare.

I’ll be the portrait of a bride, the hollow image,
slant-hanging in an echoing bedroom, the odour 
of rose petals masking the creamed bed.
Certainty can die in a heartbeat.
Search my lifeless, unblinking eyes,
wash your feet in their shallow waves-
these puddles can’t overflow, the wound’s opening deeper.
I’ll leave your moon-daisies in my hair and feel them wilt,
or grow, rooting themselves to my mind.
My skin’s the colour of cobwebs;
I could stitch myself together and become, in the right light,
a remembered figure. My veiled face could be any other bride’s.

But the stench of my clenched wound forces me to shut Spring out.
Numb the clocks, each tick the sound of grinding teeth.
Dressed to die, am I already dead?
He did not want my skin, the one that I gave him,
but it’s no longer mine; it hangs loosely on the precipice.
When in doubt, I loved; who knew 
that the skin could still bruise after death.
In this skeleton costume, the statis blinds.
The new moon watches obliquely;
If I am still enough he’ll think I’m stone;
he won’t recognise my newly marble heart:
the dead meat-organ hard and cold.

I fade and even the outline of my shadow disappears.
I ooze that white smell from every pore and it
twists my unbreaking insides into knots.
I am decay, all I touch turns white
but watch me yellow as the moon grows, 
beaming in the candlelight.
Give me his heart. 
This ghost-bride is owed a heart.