I have come to believe that the whole world is an enigma, a harmless enigma that is made terrible by our own mad attempt to interpret it as though it had an underlying truth.
20130417
20130403
-- Spaces
This is the "final installment"* of a series. See Part I, II, III, IV, & V. (*Quotation marks denote lighthearted self-mockery)
Dear ,
What do you see in these words?
Comprehension, expression, catharsis?
What more are words,
But ink droplets, coerced into shapes,
Forced into ideas.
No, idea.
What do you connote with connotations?
Words (and again words) of people
You don’t know. I don’t know.
I don’t .
("Red")
The ocean. It feels red.
Does it feel red?
Full. Of meanings you don’t mean.
Feelings you don’t feel.
Thoughts you don’t think.
He. He thinks for you.
Him over yonder.
He does not like his oceans red.
Nothing. Can be empty.
Perhaps a word, full of permanently stained molecules
Passed over with quivering fingers. Or just
.
And how about this ?
Everything. All at once,
Filtered, contemplated,
Eliminated
The demarcation, intrusions.
Full. Of everything.
All at
once.
So , you can’t explain.
Of daydreams and night terrors,
Cloud-shapes and closet-shadows,
You.
One cannot look at a and see nothing.
--
Spaces
20130331
Receptacle
Prior to this receptacle of thoughts, I scribbled on Word documents. 53 (give or take 13) half paragraphs, more eloquent than I ever need to be to myself. Ever the penchant for dramatics, you know.
Like diaries, without the malfunctioning locks and pink ribbon bookmarks. A recent one reads:
How right Me is. In the past, I've described myself to friends as, "A constant oscillation between a 10-year-old girl scout and an 80-year-old man who only drinks Earl Grey." The latter may or may not be consuming the former (starting with her cookies).
50% of all conversations I've had in the last year involve lamentation about how old we are. After which someone always says, "But we're not, really. We're not," followed by unconvincing nods and unsupportive thoughts. We never really feel our age, someone told me once (doff of the cap). I brushed it off at the time, but I increasingly find this to be true.There's just a lot of faking and waiting in vain for it to feel right.
The purpose of this series of poems is not to throw glitter balloons in your face and flaunt how devastatingly happy I am (because 1. I'm not and 2. glitter-filled balloons sound horrific). Rather, it serves as a self-reminder of what it's like to be nauseatingly young and carefree.**
*Yes, I write these things to myself. Because I sometimes think my life is a movie. You know you've done it, too.
** They were written when I teetered dangerously close to glitter-balloon territory.
Like diaries, without the malfunctioning locks and pink ribbon bookmarks. A recent one reads:
"Dear Jen: You're too young to be old. Love, Me."*
How right Me is. In the past, I've described myself to friends as, "A constant oscillation between a 10-year-old girl scout and an 80-year-old man who only drinks Earl Grey." The latter may or may not be consuming the former (starting with her cookies).
50% of all conversations I've had in the last year involve lamentation about how old we are. After which someone always says, "But we're not, really. We're not," followed by unconvincing nods and unsupportive thoughts. We never really feel our age, someone told me once (doff of the cap). I brushed it off at the time, but I increasingly find this to be true.There's just a lot of faking and waiting in vain for it to feel right.
The purpose of this series of poems is not to throw glitter balloons in your face and flaunt how devastatingly happy I am (because 1. I'm not and 2. glitter-filled balloons sound horrific). Rather, it serves as a self-reminder of what it's like to be nauseatingly young and carefree.**
*Yes, I write these things to myself. Because I sometimes think my life is a movie. You know you've done it, too.
** They were written when I teetered dangerously close to glitter-balloon territory.
20130317
-- Pen that Smells like Ink
This is Part IV of a series. See Parts I, II, III, V, & VI.
I’ve always liked ballet
Bars as straight
as lasers
A
backbone
And
the weaving
In
and out
Out and
about
It reminds me
Of paper,
college ruled
Lines
not dark enough to overpower
Crisp,
clean, waiting
For
weaving. For a dance
Between lovers, unrequited
I
get a high, a thrill of waiting
At the tip
of a rollercoaster
Have
you followed the feet of a dancer?
Tracing
ribbons into infinity
Like
so, everyday.
Butter on a heated skillet
Tracing
letters on a lover’s back
Waft
of pungence
Of dusty attics, yellowed pages,
Leather, detergent, incense.
Weaving through my ballet bars.
Weaving through my ballet bars.
Evidence
of my love.
--Pen that smells like ink
20130310
-- Red Keds
This is Part III of a series. See Parts I, II, IV, V, & VI. No, really. Those links are meant for clicking. Otherwise, this poem will just be a face-palming mess of rhymes.
You’d think I’m made for skipping
But really that’s not so
You’d think I’d want to dance and sing
But to that I’d tell you no.
I really hate it when I talk in rhyme
It makes me want to cringe
To melt into embarrassment
And perhaps go on a binge.
I hate it when I make you look
Prepubescent at best
I’d rather you didn’t swing your legs
And put my anger to the test.
I hate your friends who point at me
And tell you that I’m cute
They’d see I’d rather give you blisters
If they were really that astute.
I hate that your toes cramp into me
Stretching and writhing about
Stop complaining that I’m too small on you
When it’s really that you’re too stout.
How dare you complain about my stench
When clearly you’re to blame
Who cares if I don’t ventilate
When your other shoes do the same
You left me on the bathroom floor
For months and months on end
Where my life consisted naked bums
And the taste-less singing of your friend
Stop implying that I’m juvenile
When it’s obvious I’m not
I’m worldly enough to write this poem
And I can rhyme...bergamot.
-- Red Keds
-- Red Keds
20130308
-- Book that Smells like Time
This is Part II of a series. See Parts I, III, IV, V, & VI.
Waterstained into wavy pages.
Layers, like the rings of a tree
And dead, usually.
And time.
March 23, 1956, Page 34
“O that this too solid flesh would melt”
Thumb, larger than average, rested
2 inches from the top
Barely touching
Pause.
December 17, 1967, Page 68
“Words. Words. Words.”
Wedged within worn pages
Pencil with an over-used eraser
An unstrategic scribbler, no doubt.
April 2, 1978, Page 83
“But I am pigeon livered and lack gall”
A ticket, red with 2 ridges, hastily ripped
Commissioned officers’ mess open
Camp LeJeune.
June 17, 1994, Page 128.
“My thoughts be bloody or be nothing worth”
Smear of jam, quickly swiped off,
Licked off freshly manicured fingers.
2 cm from a jotted phone number.
Pages in danger of tearing
Apart. Fluttering at the seams
At every bend. Fragile.
Strengthened by time.
Hamlet.
-- Book that smells like time
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)