Single September Breakfast

peanut-butter toast in my fist
glob of jelly on my palm
lick it off, wet kiss
the crust's crunching in my teeth

headache for breakfast
I should have
a glass of water
I should
drink something

baby did I tell you,
I get nightmares.
will I be alone.
I can't miss a chance

[The punctuation-play is intentional. Proud of myself.]

Party Poem

Are you up for it?
Are you really--
Are you really up?

are you really
are you really coming
are you, are you
coming with

"Party Poem" is more grammatically experimental than I'm usually comfortable with, but whatever. Definitely inspired by Daveed Diggs.

// Martin Fisch //

// deep space - cielo nyc by sookie //

// Danielle Scott //

Family-Inspired Self-Censorship

// Incomplete, Unstable by Kevan //

I want to write about sensitive sociocultural issues, and I'm struggling to figure out how to share my work without upsetting my mother. She worries that if I publish content regarding semi-taboo topics, it will endanger future opportunities. I'll knock on the door, they'll open it to glance at me, and then slam the door shut again. A potential employer might Google my name and be repulsed by what they find, for who-knows-what reason. It could definitely happen.

I don't want to limit my future more than necessary. A certain amount of limiting happens naturally and is unavoidable--for example, I'm unlikely to be a scientist, because of my personality and my academic choices. That's okay. However, someday I might want to work with a religious organization, or a school. I can always scoff, "I don't want to collaborate with close-minded people anyway!" But... I'm hesitant to declare that. Never say never, right?

On the other hand, I have an irrepressible need to express my thoughts and share them. It's compulsive, even imperative. I'm not me if I'm not writing and offering myself to readers.

My mom also worries that a preoccupation with "sordid" topics, especially aberrant sexuality, indicates that I'm falling back into depression. I go back and forth about it.

What I do know is that I want to feel free to tackle difficult subjects, and use "four-letter words", and engage in textual analysis of myself and my peers. I want my writing to be uninhibited by the last generation's mores.

It's funny; the poem that sparked this post isn't even slightly salacious:

swollen bug-bite
fat bottom third of my index finger
sore lump, red pinprick
fucking monsters in my bed

I was just worried about the profanity. I feel like "the F-word" needs to be in the poem, not that this poem is particularly essential, but swearing was necessary for the punchy finish I craved.

I don't know.

// Alexander Lyubavin //

Arab Spring

[Inspired by watching half of The Square, a documentary about Egypt's 2011 revolution.]

I am not a revolutionary.
My feet are not
brave.

Running on dangerous ground,
surefooted because the martyr
welcomes every stumbling spot,
rejoicing in the dirt that
grinds the skin
of the martyr's knees.

I am not
a revolutionary.
I am falling to my knees
in my own bedroom.
When I pitch forward
the maroon carpet burns my face,
rug burn,
a friction burn,
the fibers creating abrasion marks
on my face.

I am not a revolutionary
because I am warm
with bare feet.

Two Days Motherland

I've started writing in the morning, getting my words down first thing. Okay, it's only been two days so far, but I think this is a good practice to develop. Why not celebrate early? Also, two days running, I have felt nauseous before noon, but I don't think that's related. I hope it is not.

Last night and the previous night, I read Sylvia Plath in bed. I started with journal entries--I am still working through The Unabridged slowly--and then read a few poems out loud. It was hard to find a happy one to end on, which doesn't surprise me given the author. Poetry sounds best when voiced, and I understand it better when I say the words using my own mouth.

I haven't written a poem in a long time. My fingers didn't dry up, but I write to be read and almost no one reads poetry. I just bought A Thousand Heavens by Divya Persaud, so there's that. It was $4.80 which is less than some lattes. I know she offers a new perspective. I am about to reenter the business of learning.



The above is an excerpt--read the rest here.

Hiding

Depression is a slow crisis.
I'm in the dark like a mushroom, letting the TV run its mouth.
Ice argues in my pink juice--carbonation, grapefruit and grape--
making sounds against the glass.
Can't work. Can't play.
My engine is idling, protesting the tug of the key.

Gingersnaps

I almost finished the sonnet challenge that I undertook instead of NaNoWriMo. But not quite--I'm four or five poems short. It was starting to be a chore instead of a fun exercise, so I'm not upset that I gave it up. Here's the one I wrote for November 17th:

Rabbit teeth slice harder than you'd realize.
But you do realize, when the blood comes out
so quickly, like a big birthday surprise.
Yet you look at your bleeding hand with doubt.

"Am I really leaking?" That's what you think.
And yes, you are. You are red and salty,
dripping like an artist's knocked-over ink.
You're a mistake. You didn't have to be.

Don't ever reach between fighting rabbits
with your helpful, bare, earnest, eager hand.
You should probably break other habits.
Snap yourself back. Be a good rubber band.

This is what you get for trying, my dear:
A hurt finger. Hurt feelings. A new fear.

Being In Bones

Bodies are not shared resources. Your body is only yours. Don't trust anyone who thinks reevaluating capitalism means expanding their sense of entitlement, especially to your flesh.

Don't trust men who feel like the world has done them wrong. Don't trust anyone who is looking for a soft object for revenge. Never forget how soft you are. You are not an object, but they do not know this.

And now, recent sonnets:

11/12/2013

Just living is an act of ownership,
of having, holding, to grasp and to keep.
Every pound of myself, from heart to hip,
is only mine to sow and mine to reap.

We are the earth that is rotten and roil.
I'm worn of my cliche self-perception:
very tired of women as ready soil.
I will not lay flat for your incision.

Who is wary of the changing land laws?
Lines redrawn don't mean property restored.
I'm on my fours, my aching clawless paws,
stucking in a new place where concrete was poured.

This flesh is just mine, to rend and to claim.
I treat with it fiercely; protect my shame.

11/11/2013

Warm muddled blankets and my drying hair:
post-bath nighttime in bed. Notebook and pen.
I will be safe from what I cannot bear.
Believing childish things like that again.

I used to be small and unable to dream.
My mother was so tired; I was so scared.
I recall how foreign the hall would seem,
wanting to run through but I never dared.

I'm foggy with sleep, like morning mountain,
coated with white mist and the grey sunrise.
My hands are cloudy but each is a twin;
I can use them at once to close my eyes.

Sleep is no escape, nor a tranquil rest.
It's brightly failing a wide-awake test.

Garden Lines

I took that photo in my garden a couple days ago. While bending down with the camera to photograph some flowers, I saw this little fella wriggling around! I like earthworms. They are cute and good for the ecosystem. When it rains and they come onto the sidewalk, I save them from being smushed by feet. I took this photo last winter:



Fittingly, my most recent sonnets have been set in gardens, and have employed "green thumb"-type imagery. The first one even mentions earthworms!

11/9/2013

Something grows on you tonight. I wonder
if the curls of green have roots in your blood.
The slow sun fell and we became fonder
of our earthworm friends wriggling out of mud.

Plants and soil-snakes drowning in all this rain
and I keep asking, "Get out of the bath!"
You don't want to be a garden in vain,
all dark swamp soup and no pretty rock path.

Something grows on you completely, and I
like the way you look in this brittle green.
Twigs snap in my hands. First you flinch and sigh,
then you tell me to bury what I've seen.

Your face is wet, rough bark smeared with sap gold.
Fresh scent leaking but too sticky to hold.

11/10/2013

A quiet world that would be good for us
isn't blooming in my dreams anymore.
Instead they are full of strong flower fuss,
a pretty-smelling squabble at the door.

What do you sleep on, my darling, my dear?
I hope you conjure a garden like mine.
Uneasy and fragrant as it is here,
with red bustle rose ruffles just as fine.

Maybe you are withering like my past,
dried up and cried up, your grey roots cracking.
Cliches agree: forever doesn't last.
Even for a gardener's favorite king.

We had a quiet world saved in my dream.
It's lost in a seed sack; drowned in a stream.

Ursa Minor

This is an outtake from my latest outfit post. I feel really pleased with it, so I have to post it somewhere, you know? While I'm here, I might as well type up sonnet #8:

Homes

I live in a house making noise at night,
a small bed that is popping cold, popping
like lamps going out, bursting up their bright.
I have a cut-up throat but it will sing.

The edge of the canyon cracks. Unsleepy
creatures rustle and run. I saw a stag.
I think he almost said something manly,
but I fled. Girl-kitten out of a bag.

At school the noise is pen-squeaking. Teach-speak.
Self-esteem in five-paragraph format.
I am good at walking stairs. I'm not meek.
Won't ever cease hating myself for that.

I live in a set of soundly spaces;
I forget the call and incur charges.

Bouquet

I only just noticed that these photos have distinct color palettes. I know why--I adjusted the hue and saturation on the second one--but I didn't realize they were so noticeably different. I guess it bothers me a little bit, but not much. Not enough that I won't post them together.

I wrote two sonnets last night--one more than I needed to, which is good because I'm gonna go straight to bed after posting this. Here's the first poem from yesterday:

Fantasy

Gingersnap tea and a fall-colored quilt.
I am made of red wool and hot water.
My mittens are soft. The ground doesn't tilt.
Have you ever held a rabbit's daughter?

It's not bad to build a story for yourself,
illustrating your mind with your own mind.
Cooking-fire stars, fairies, and mental health:
nothing to make up that you cannot find.

I'm like logs on the mulch. Drip-dropping leaves.
Careful suburban backyard carpet dirt.
Can I build a castle that I believe
on a pre-shaken place that always hurts?

Wonderment and self-doubt: both marvelous,
arising from my core of curious.

Thursday For Sonnetry

I haven't posted my last three sonnets yet... time to rectify that. In reverse chronological order, because I like yesterday's attempt best out of this lot. I titled each poem with the date when it was originally written, but I've made some slight edits since then. (In the interest of full disclosure, I guess?)

11/6/2013

Rabbits kicking out tufts of belly fur--

these two snatch at each other viciously.

Back legs too strong for my heart to endure,

and their quivering breath, so fluttery.

Rabbits fight like witches, their desperate

grunts and twists and the little, little bones.

I wish I could call in an alternate,

a growing ghost: it vanishes and moans.

I can't feed them to each other like this.

Harshly hormonal. Full girl aggression.

Can't tell a bunny to be a good miss,

'cause they're small and under wild conditions.

Their savagery breaks. It breaks up my chest.

Sorcerer ladies in tiny fur vests.

[I agonized over the phonetic repetition of "two"/"too" in the first verse, but I eventually decided it was best to leave it.]

11/5/2013

The warm, soft drag of bed calms my crazy,

even if it can only keep my demons

down for the night. Can't expect more lately.

The perpetual influx of new ones.

I feel the relief of sleep in my eyes.

Un-wakefulness is bliss and it's so near.

My alarm: a blaring morning surprise.

Not allowed to tranquilly stay in here.

Too much un-present euphoria--sleep--

and my daytimes turn dull and grainy grey.

So although I despise that hostile beep,

it keeps the more minor demons away.

I ward against my own mind. It's like hell.

I want to save myself. Can't do it well.

11/4/2013

You are tired. Say it into my hands.

It is okay for two people to melt

together at the shoulders. No demands,

just slippery about the way we felt.

I said "okay"--didn't mention "healthy".

We ignore how our skin is dissolving.

I wish you'd stop telling these things at me.

Who knows what the neighbors are wondering?

You're tired. Use all your breath to say it.

I'll fill you with leftover sentiment.

I am the peach flesh, so you be the pit.

Too red-ripe in an autumn apartment.

It's okay. Break into cliche pieces,

and stop fitting me into your dresses.

[The phrasing of the third line in the second stanza is very intentional, and I'm worried that it seems like a typo?]

Third In Line

This sonnet was somewhat inspired by Rosanne Cash's "Seven Year Ache". Accordingly, I gave my poem the same name.

Seven Year Ache

Night takes to you like you never left town,
touches your cheek, forgives the small bad things.
I guess you're a dog in a wedding gown:
awkward and can't remember what to sing.

Someone taught you how to apologize,
but not how to stop stepping in the cake.
A little girl-person couldn't realize
the self-sufficiency we're s'posed to make.

Walk down the aisle; you're barking through your veil.
Night waits, arrayed in too many lapels.
Guests are half-certain this marriage will fail,
but you stay convinced it'll all go well.

I've lost the instructions; done it again.
Remember when you took off, way back when?

Express The Surface

Dramatic outtakes from my Halloween costume shoot. One photo crisp; one photo soft.

On a totally unrelated note, it's time for sonnet #2 in my sonnet-per-day-during-November project. This one came out unexpectedly, and it's more, uh, gruesome than I would prefer. Consider this a content warning for light gore, body horror, and general anatomical grossness.

Subcutaneous

I have an attachment to my fingers,
the pearl joints and the rough-edged scratching squares.
Nails press into thighs; impressions linger.
If only I could have no skin or hair.

Imagine me as bare-bald as a wound,
all sides sealed up by sticky white cotton.
Very raw, even lashes and lips pruned,
all my girlish pains all but forgotten.

Yet my body stays contained by this sack
of elastic pores, deep follicle roots.
It grows and flakes, expands and stretches back.
I stay special in my new human suit.

This arrangement of too-much disguised flesh
makes my infection harder to refresh.

A Month In Verse

I don't have it in me to fully participate in National Novel Writing Month. What's the quota, like 1,500 words per day? That's not happening. But I want to do some kind of writing project for November, and this is the idea I've settled on: 30 days of sonnets. I wrote my first one this afternoon.

Rabbit Relations

Stooped apple tree and silent rabbit mouths
accompany the thrum of early heart.
The tree's been cut away to just one bough.
Rabbit pounces on leaves; tears them apart.

Two lonely buns thoroughly clean their fur.
I briefly wish that they could speak, could say.
But their quiet panic does them better
than if a lexicon got in the way.

The tree drops half-yellow leaves to fracture
as they hit, cracking soft against the ground.
Three rabbits pursuing one another:
feet and fear and hot eyes but never sound.

My breath comes caffeine-quick and perfectly.
Morning melts and fades beneath the tree.

Temporary Weight Loss

[A personal poem. Necessary context: Galatea of Greek mythos.]

Temporarily, you look in the bathroom mirror,
at your stretched profile,
and the abdomen that holds the right curve.
Straight muscles and soft insulation.
It's time to make friends with Galatea:
"Did you have a surgery too?"

It was a throat surgery.
Temporarily, you have a lilypad voice.
You swallow like a debutante,
taking tiny bites and wishing you had champagne.
Temporarily, you are not allowed
to put bubbles in your stomach.

Some doctors,
they carved out two chunks of your throat.
You wonder where they put
those swollen excised pieces of self.
Apparently you leaked when they cut into you,
letting out the fluid of infection.
Plenty of blood, too.

Temporarily, you can't eat so good,
and you love yourself like a baby.
Therapy is all about
being gentle.