Poems and Prose

Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.

It is a sad thing, a goodbye long coming and too soon met.

Autumn frosts have slain July...

I seem to cycle through beautiful bursts of obsession, musing through poetry, aliveness, philosophy, all mighty knowledge, prose, and art. Currently, I am enamored with poetry.

Dreaming as the days go by,
Dreaming as the summers die:

"My favorite gift was..." Both an English prompt and freedom. I wrote about my first set of wheels, an open top Jeep, that fire engine red adventure-mobile exactly my size circa 1998. It got horrible grass mileage, but was endless on sidewalks. Too bad there were no sidewalks. I read my prompt like Cheryl Trykv in Teen Getaway, pregnant with dramatic pause and that cool, indifferent whine. It got a few laughs, some snaps. Even as I write, my thoughts pause unnecessarily for effect. It's very- me.

In mercy lift your drooping wings and go.

Langston Hughes' poem "Harlem" contains the line "...a raisin the sun," from which Lorraine Hansberry titled her play. One of the girls in my class read the novel, and related that this particular allusion implies "one should not let their dreams shrivel like that eponymous line." This is not, I think, the intent of choosing those words. Hughes does not declare statements on the nature of dreams, only questions it. He merely suggests that perhaps shriveling is a fate of dreams deferred, or maybe "they explode?"

We warned ourselves. That you might despise
Me—hate all we both loved best—
None of us ever guessed.

Being in Lit. Mag. brings an incredible appreciation for talented authors, namely because most people aren't. The exposure to all writing styles clarifies how to improve my own ability. Whereas I formerly assumed that my writing was disconnected and abrupt beyond comprehension, I realize that, relatively, this is not the case. Beyond the syntactical improvement, I've grown to discriminate on the basis of substance. A number of poems dwell on themes I would have written in the past. Now, I see them as trite adolescence. Still, I am unable to create my own original expressions. Still, I try.

But I say it’s fine. Honest, I do.

And I’d like to be a bad woman, too,

And wear the brave stockings of night-black lace

And strut down the streets with paint on my face.

As far as I am aware, I have never met a prostitute. Its criminalization is, I think, an atrocious manipulation by males of morals and the female body. It is not desperate women who drive the streets at night looking to satiate their desires; men, no matter how powerful, will always be subject to their irresistible needs. Because of this, lady of the night sounds classy, but is as in opposition to class as day is to night.

So let us melt, and make no noise

"After working sixty hours again for what reason" stirs my fancy and notions of bureaucracy.
"Amor Mundi" is a another good poem.

Oh, I have picked up magic in her nearness

In context of the rest of the poem, I perceived the above line in reference to myself. However, as an independent sentiment, I thought of Viv and Molly. Viv, and the idea of her, has nutured a restlessness in me and an awesome appreciation for blue M&Ms. Molly, fantastic resident of the written world, has a penumbra of life, even when I am not near her.

I wrote some poetry tonight.