27.9.11
NANOWRIMO
Don't know what it is? Google it, I'm lazy and having internet woes like you wouldn't believe. But anyway, I'm going to try to participate this year! And if I finish in November or not, I'll have 5 weeks of winter break in a city where I have no friends to finish and edit. Then I very well may publish it serially on this blog. Now how about that?!
18.9.11
Between 8th and 9th Avenues, Right Across from the Hospital
I couldn't sleep last night (probably the chocolate frosting, but I digress), and this little poem floated into my brain, and came out of my fingers.
When I think about that house
I am reminded of a discarded exoskeleton:
The utmost protection and structure,
so easily crushed between my thumb and forefinger.
I imagine some other family
will eat breakfast in that kitchen,
spilling milk across the table
and reminding each other of their manners.
On Sunday nights they will likely
gather in the basement,
chairs across that squishy place in the carpet,
to watch old movies, over and over.
Chore days will find a petulant child
crouching over the toilet upstairs
cursing whoever it was who thought
intricate black and white tiling would look nice on that floor.
I imagine a girl will open those west windows
and let the curtains flutter in the breeze.
She may use the barre for ballet or for displaying her scarves,
But will she ever notice the outlines of where I smeared poetry onto the mirrors in soft blue wax?
What if the shelves by the fire
are filled with knick-knacks instead of books?
What if the yellow walls are painted white?
What if music never fills the kitchen at Christmas,
and the porch light loses its supernatural glow?
What if I forget how it looked like then,
and all I can see is what it looks like now?
What if, in a moment of carelessness,
I close my hand into a fist
and hear the horrible crunching sound
of old beetle flesh becoming dust?
When I think about that house
I am reminded of a discarded exoskeleton:
The utmost protection and structure,
so easily crushed between my thumb and forefinger.
I imagine some other family
will eat breakfast in that kitchen,
spilling milk across the table
and reminding each other of their manners.
On Sunday nights they will likely
gather in the basement,
chairs across that squishy place in the carpet,
to watch old movies, over and over.
Chore days will find a petulant child
crouching over the toilet upstairs
cursing whoever it was who thought
intricate black and white tiling would look nice on that floor.
I imagine a girl will open those west windows
and let the curtains flutter in the breeze.
She may use the barre for ballet or for displaying her scarves,
But will she ever notice the outlines of where I smeared poetry onto the mirrors in soft blue wax?
What if the shelves by the fire
are filled with knick-knacks instead of books?
What if the yellow walls are painted white?
What if music never fills the kitchen at Christmas,
and the porch light loses its supernatural glow?
What if I forget how it looked like then,
and all I can see is what it looks like now?
What if, in a moment of carelessness,
I close my hand into a fist
and hear the horrible crunching sound
of old beetle flesh becoming dust?
16.9.11
Input?
So, my college puts out a literary magazine once a year, and submissions are due in mid November. That may seem like a long way off, but there are midterms between now and then, and I am very much already thinking about what to submit. Of course, new stuff will be posted, and there are some things I haven't posted that are under consideration as well, but if anyone has any input, I would love to hear it! Just leave a comment or shoot me an email. I promise I'll post something more interesting soon, but this week has been busy and full of school and all that entails.
8.9.11
Two Nights
Have you ever accidentally gone on a date? I don't recommend it, particularly not when you are new to a city, and therefore must rely on your accidental date's knowledge to prevent getting lost, even though they are making you increasingly uncomfortable. True story. We went to a show on Broadway, and I paid for my ticket which caused him to insist on buying me cake and a cab ride home. What an awkwardly silent cab ride it was. Eventually, I started composing poetry because the cab driver's French phone call was getting too fast for me to understand.
i.
Sometimes-
in the corner of my eyes-
I think you are
Someone else.
Those particular glasses,
The way your voice
pitches when impassioned-
a subtle perfume
of clumsiness and pretension.
ii.
Last night-
it was almost this morning-
I was huddled in a blanket
and he was giggling madly.
Beside me.
I wanted him
(both to stop and to hold)
but I could not reach out.
I would not speak.
Even in sleep
I am afraid.
iii.
Now-
that I am sitting across from you-
I see you have
that same 5 o'clock shadow
speckled by acne,
broken by a sneer.
Your hands are the same shape,
nails trimmed identically.
I am not speaking;
on the inside
I am determined not to give you
a reason to comfort me.
I do not want to feel your hands.
iv.
Later-
crawling from a bumbling taxi-
I understand.
You have two eyes
that can't see everything;
a voice
that knows its birdsong;
an air
that colors your actions;
a cleft chin
that spouts oil and hair;
and ten fingers
that grow strong from listing facts.
You are human.
He is human.
I am lonely.
It is all the same.
i.
Sometimes-
in the corner of my eyes-
I think you are
Someone else.
Those particular glasses,
The way your voice
pitches when impassioned-
a subtle perfume
of clumsiness and pretension.
ii.
Last night-
it was almost this morning-
I was huddled in a blanket
and he was giggling madly.
Beside me.
I wanted him
(both to stop and to hold)
but I could not reach out.
I would not speak.
Even in sleep
I am afraid.
iii.
Now-
that I am sitting across from you-
I see you have
that same 5 o'clock shadow
speckled by acne,
broken by a sneer.
Your hands are the same shape,
nails trimmed identically.
I am not speaking;
on the inside
I am determined not to give you
a reason to comfort me.
I do not want to feel your hands.
iv.
Later-
crawling from a bumbling taxi-
I understand.
You have two eyes
that can't see everything;
a voice
that knows its birdsong;
an air
that colors your actions;
a cleft chin
that spouts oil and hair;
and ten fingers
that grow strong from listing facts.
You are human.
He is human.
I am lonely.
It is all the same.
6.9.11
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