Poet Baby
My tender and sweet (and daunting) dream of writing and publishing a poetry book has been in my sentimental heart for years. I have tossed so many ideas and approaches and themes around in my head but perfectionism and other creative pursuits have halted this particular manifestation. This is fine, as I really want whatever I publish to be good, to have a strong voice and skill in craft, and to avoid being trite or cliché.
It’s been a long journey, and I’m still writing poems with a sense of self discovery… and under fierce scrutiny. I am, however, really starting to get a genuine feeling of confidence, and a beautiful poerty book will come in its time. To honor the process, and to honor the ripening and flowering of my own personal voice, I want to share some poems that I’ve written about four years ago. These, to me, are a little bit clunky and unsure, but to be clunky and unsure is the inevitable initiation of any art form.
To Nyx
after Rainer Maria Rilke’s Poems To Night
Your coolness
has been daunting to me
my whole life.
Have I confused your caress
for an ornery grip?
It was me who felt faint to begin with,
as you blew your resilient life
on the back of my neck.
Plundering the Free Flow Palace
I am wearing rags / I swim in the ocean / a robbery / I just…
never feel prepared / falling behind / going slow/ invisible invisible / what’s in my hand / I’m racing to prove / to escape / I’m suffocating / inadequacy / friend crush friend crush / lonely girl / there's much to do so little time / or I’m not a master of it yet /
I don’t mean to ignore my mother / but / it’s all what’s for dinner hair gets grayer and going through clutter / so aloof / gathering interests like a scavenger hunt / each find makes me a more interesting /
something / fun to say at parties / I don’t go to parties / what else is there to do but question why you even exist / I tried getting drunk on weekends like a handful of times and it was stupid / repressed memories replaced emotions /
daughters shouldn’t have to teach their mothers how to communicate and daughters shouldn’t have to mother men who resemble their fathers /
making from strength / in between / asleep and awake / I came up with the best line for a poem but / of course I forgot it but / it’s in my brain somewhere /
you’re still in my brain somewhere /
I hope I’m funny / I like my naked body but I abuse it / what else about me do I abuse/
I just…
I love the rain and cloudy days / I miss big trees and falling leaves / autumn colors / cider / where can I run to and who will go with me or who will I meet there / I want to play dress up I love getting dressed up I never get dressed up / I want someone to go to the symphony with me and actually appreciate it / redeem downtown for me / circadian rhythm cadence / I am a muse / I want to hurry up and accomplish things /
I just…
Promise
an afterglow (subtle pink hue)
soft (fleshy)
our smallest fingers (intertwined)
roses clustered (seducing bees)
A kiss.
no fanfare (arrogance dies)
only yes or only no (oath of the heart)
strength of power (in paper thin pulses)
the earth and the ether (tremble)
A miracle.
What will come to pass
will come to pass.
A Promise.
The Full Picture
Each of us:
shattered glass-
jagged blades that pierce
the prism of the sun,
our eyes,
each other-
infinity confused in itself.
A kaleidoscopic catastrophe.
Or mosaic,
depending on the angle
of the light
and the distance
from the view.
Inspiration
inspiration is body
fancy and flesh
back and collarbones tickled
by ringlets washed with whimsy
and rinsed twice with delight
eyes flutter in ecstatic elation
soft and slow
concealing tender insight
wet lips part Red Sea trembles
remembering the revelation
it causes a revived heart to pump
beneath supple breast
so one can drink in
the flood of fervor
rest intertwined in arms
that climb and build and fight
to refine a talent
a gift
inspiration is body
fancy and flesh
Drafts
If you dug your hands into the rosebush and came out unscathed, would you still have a story to tell? Did you cheat somehow? Or did you not reach far enough into the center of origin of that angry beauty’s teeth?
All focus simmers into a tiny pinprick from a needle thin wand, wielded by a resounding cry of the will to bring forth what comes from the tear duct of God.
Do you hold the sheets of every empty night tight against your chest, balled into your fists, and weaved between your legs in a vigil for starting over? Your spit and your tears and your cold sweat are just water ripples under the bridge you’ve reluctantly burned.
Can a cradled body fabricate a chrysalis woven with a single coupé? Turning, leaving wistful sentiments behind, it can, it can.
My beckoning fibers have been hoisted up from their subliminal arsenal- I’ll throw a tendril your way to tangle into your spine- can you decipher what’s minefrom yours?
A stormy landscape is the predecessor not of danger, not of darkness, not of doom, but of dreams too secret and ecstatic in their pleasures to be shown in the sun.
