Butterfly Cauldron
Wednesday, September 09, 2009
Decatur Street
If my grief were a tangible thing,
it would be a throbbing red ball
pulled from the deepest pit of my stomach.
Heavy and aching, but slowly, constantly,
in that way you can grow
accustomed to.
I could hold it like a pet,
stroking it in attempt to soothe it.
I like to deal with pain pre-emptively.
That's what I tell myself.
As if that were possible.
As if you can imagine, in advance,
the pain you will feel when your foundation
disappears.
As if you could imagine the hurt
of watching your sun fly away,
not being certain when or where
it will shine again.
Pieces of paper.
Fragile, stupid,
can-get-lost-in-the-mail
or
stolen-from-the-mailbox
pieces of paper.
Paper with government seals of admission
or rejection
or we-want-more-information-so-you'll-just-have-to-keep-waiting.
I despise them, even as I wait for them,
stake out the black box at the end
of my driveway and wait.
Just wait.
I'm tired of leaving.
Tired of brave faces at airports
and I-can't-cry-yet-wait-until-I'm-in-the-car.
I'm tired of worry.
Tired of no knowing when she'll be back
and if I can finally keep her.
If my grief were a tangible thing,
it would be a throbbing red ball
pulled from the deepest pit of my stomach.
Heavy and aching, but slowly, constantly,
in that way you can grow
accustomed to.
I could hold it like a pet,
stroking it in attempt to soothe it.
I like to deal with pain pre-emptively.
That's what I tell myself.
As if that were possible.
As if you can imagine, in advance,
the pain you will feel when your foundation
disappears.
As if you could imagine the hurt
of watching your sun fly away,
not being certain when or where
it will shine again.
Pieces of paper.
Fragile, stupid,
can-get-lost-in-the-mail
or
stolen-from-the-mailbox
pieces of paper.
Paper with government seals of admission
or rejection
or we-want-more-information-so-you'll-just-have-to-keep-waiting.
I despise them, even as I wait for them,
stake out the black box at the end
of my driveway and wait.
Just wait.
I'm tired of leaving.
Tired of brave faces at airports
and I-can't-cry-yet-wait-until-I'm-in-the-car.
I'm tired of worry.
Tired of no knowing when she'll be back
and if I can finally keep her.
Labels: poetry
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Another one
Fight with a Friend
What can I say?
Watching you derail
And spin apart
Knowing there isn't anything
I can do
Is taking a part of me
I thought was safe
And turning it into
A place where
Monsters live.
What can I say?
Watching you derail
And spin apart
Knowing there isn't anything
I can do
Is taking a part of me
I thought was safe
And turning it into
A place where
Monsters live.
Friday, August 14, 2009
More Poems
I'm thinking of calling the collection Ordinary Things. Lately, that's how I'm writing. I look at something and think, I could write a poem about that, and then...well. Here are a few more I've written. Wrote three in one day! Less than that really, cause I was just sitting in the doctor's waiting room... My muse is Very Very Strange.
Waiting Room
The key to
getting in to see
the doctor
Is to pull out
a book or attempt to write a poem or
scribble a grocery list.
The Waiting Room
cannot stand
to be ignored.
Garnet
It was smaller than
I expected but
I love it.
Now I paint my
Fingernails to
Draw attention to it.
Sitting on my finger,
Having banished all other
Rings to the
Jewelry box,
It tells me that
Garnets are for
Strength and Protection.
Far better than those
Colorless, Flashy diamonds
That always disappear
On a finger.
Doesn't the world look
Better in Red, it asks.
Isn't it nice to take
Fire whereever you go?
Anyone can have
A diamond, but
I get to wear the
Pulse of the World on
My hand.
Orange Soda (A love letter)
Before you there was
never anything but
Dr. Pepper or Sprite in
my refrigerator.
Since you, I am drinking
orange soda and
eating jellybeans and
listening to music made with synthisizers.
I'm waking up to your
Haven't Had Coffee So I'm Not Human Yet
face and
Finding your t-shirts on the
bathroom floor next to the
towels you never pick up.
Now dinner is no longer
cereal or Pop Tarts or
Bake It Yourself pizza
And you won't let me
Stay mad when a
news update interrupts
my favorite show.
You get up at 6 a.m.
even though you don't have to
so you can kiss me
goodbye before I go
to work and you
always kiss me hello when
I get home.
Waiting Room
The key to
getting in to see
the doctor
Is to pull out
a book or attempt to write a poem or
scribble a grocery list.
The Waiting Room
cannot stand
to be ignored.
Garnet
It was smaller than
I expected but
I love it.
Now I paint my
Fingernails to
Draw attention to it.
Sitting on my finger,
Having banished all other
Rings to the
Jewelry box,
It tells me that
Garnets are for
Strength and Protection.
Far better than those
Colorless, Flashy diamonds
That always disappear
On a finger.
Doesn't the world look
Better in Red, it asks.
Isn't it nice to take
Fire whereever you go?
Anyone can have
A diamond, but
I get to wear the
Pulse of the World on
My hand.
Orange Soda (A love letter)
Before you there was
never anything but
Dr. Pepper or Sprite in
my refrigerator.
Since you, I am drinking
orange soda and
eating jellybeans and
listening to music made with synthisizers.
I'm waking up to your
Haven't Had Coffee So I'm Not Human Yet
face and
Finding your t-shirts on the
bathroom floor next to the
towels you never pick up.
Now dinner is no longer
cereal or Pop Tarts or
Bake It Yourself pizza
And you won't let me
Stay mad when a
news update interrupts
my favorite show.
You get up at 6 a.m.
even though you don't have to
so you can kiss me
goodbye before I go
to work and you
always kiss me hello when
I get home.
Labels: poetry
Friday, August 07, 2009
First drafts
So. I've been thinking about a new collection of poems. They're really hard for me to write, but I think that's good. Anyway, I have a first draft ready to go.
New Shoes
When I saw them,
I had to have them.
Red plaid flannel, soft and warm.
They don't match anything and
I wear them all the time.
They remind me of the shirts
my father used to wear.
Practical.
Durable.
A wardrobe staple.
Sometimes, I wear my new shoes
and I cry.
He's not so sturdy
Anymore
Not indomitable.
Now, when I see him, he's
tripped by pain.
He talks through tight jaws,
trying to keep the pain from seeping
out to infect me.
He likes to pretend nothing
has changed.
He likes to pretend he'll always be here.
But he hasn't worn red plaid
in years.
New Shoes
When I saw them,
I had to have them.
Red plaid flannel, soft and warm.
They don't match anything and
I wear them all the time.
They remind me of the shirts
my father used to wear.
Practical.
Durable.
A wardrobe staple.
Sometimes, I wear my new shoes
and I cry.
He's not so sturdy
Anymore
Not indomitable.
Now, when I see him, he's
tripped by pain.
He talks through tight jaws,
trying to keep the pain from seeping
out to infect me.
He likes to pretend nothing
has changed.
He likes to pretend he'll always be here.
But he hasn't worn red plaid
in years.
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
I write poems
An Answer
There is always meaning behind it, Emilie.
These nosegays I give you each morning,
Black and purple pansies with
Yellow stripes for your hands,
Ivy for your hair.
They carry the same meaning as
Your silk nightgown
Crumpled next to the bed
Or the cat that you named that
Sleeps on the couch that
We bought last summer.
All Love is Unrequited
Emily fills me with the light of the universe,
An internal super-nova in her slightest movement.
She is unaware of this,
She only knows that I like her smile
and her new red sundress.
When we talk, sometimes she laughs and
there are rivers in the sound.
White-capped crashings through me,
the waters of rebirth.
But I cannot tell her this.
I can only comment upon the weather
or ask if she's seen the new roses I've planted.
(She does not know I planted them for her).
When Emily walks in my garden,
She brings with her the bees,
The necessities of life.
And I live, in the light of her universe.
Trace Fragments
My Emilea is a momentary fire goddess,
Able to plunge me to ashes with a glance.
On her lips, daggers are roses
Her kisses are saltwater blessings
From my personal Pele
You write in fragments, she says.
Do you imagine yourself a modern Sappho?
Do you think yourself the eleventh Muse?
I think you lack the grace for the part,
Though you certainly have the passion.
It is true that I am graceless.
In Emili's shadow, swans become albatross,
Wine becomes water and
I am but an artless girl
Whose heart quakes with longing
There is always meaning behind it, Emilie.
These nosegays I give you each morning,
Black and purple pansies with
Yellow stripes for your hands,
Ivy for your hair.
They carry the same meaning as
Your silk nightgown
Crumpled next to the bed
Or the cat that you named that
Sleeps on the couch that
We bought last summer.
All Love is Unrequited
Emily fills me with the light of the universe,
An internal super-nova in her slightest movement.
She is unaware of this,
She only knows that I like her smile
and her new red sundress.
When we talk, sometimes she laughs and
there are rivers in the sound.
White-capped crashings through me,
the waters of rebirth.
But I cannot tell her this.
I can only comment upon the weather
or ask if she's seen the new roses I've planted.
(She does not know I planted them for her).
When Emily walks in my garden,
She brings with her the bees,
The necessities of life.
And I live, in the light of her universe.
Trace Fragments
My Emilea is a momentary fire goddess,
Able to plunge me to ashes with a glance.
On her lips, daggers are roses
Her kisses are saltwater blessings
From my personal Pele
You write in fragments, she says.
Do you imagine yourself a modern Sappho?
Do you think yourself the eleventh Muse?
I think you lack the grace for the part,
Though you certainly have the passion.
It is true that I am graceless.
In Emili's shadow, swans become albatross,
Wine becomes water and
I am but an artless girl
Whose heart quakes with longing
Labels: poetry
Monday, January 01, 2007
Going in the right way
I decided I should make my first post of this brand new year something positive, something that makes me happy. And so, I'm posting the beginning of a poem I wrote. It's not nearly finished and I feel like there are more verses, but I haven't gotten them out yet. Be kind, this is a first draft.
(As Yet Untitled)
I wake up,
missing her dark eyes and ink-stained hands, to find her
drinking black coffee at 3 a.m. trying
not to wake me.
But it's impossible to sleep in this heat,
with a busted air conditioner and creaking overhead fan
that stirs up mosquitoes and scares off dreams.
I call her back to bed,
missing the weight of her hips pressed tight to mine.
The sweat pools between our breasts,
escaping to soak the sheets and she smiles.
Another goal this year -- more writing! I always feel better when I write and so...more writing.
(As Yet Untitled)
I wake up,
missing her dark eyes and ink-stained hands, to find her
drinking black coffee at 3 a.m. trying
not to wake me.
But it's impossible to sleep in this heat,
with a busted air conditioner and creaking overhead fan
that stirs up mosquitoes and scares off dreams.
I call her back to bed,
missing the weight of her hips pressed tight to mine.
The sweat pools between our breasts,
escaping to soak the sheets and she smiles.
Another goal this year -- more writing! I always feel better when I write and so...more writing.
Labels: non-resolutions, poetry
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Wednesday morning poetry
Emily in Italy
There's a cat in the ruins, she says.
Actually, there are three,
Two more than yesterday.
I've been feeding them too much, I know,
But I couldn't stand to see them starve.
I sit up in the bed, the blanket falling to my waist.
The air is cool, raising tiny mountains across my shoulders.
Next, you'll tell me you want to bring one home, I say.
I can't imagine how we'd get it past customs,
But I suppose we could try.
She laughs, falling back into the bed, pulling the blankets over us.
You'd do that for me, I know.
Where should we go today?
The Sybil's cave? The Mysteries' villa?
I thought we could wander Herculeneum today, summon visitors from our past lives.
Past lives? I'd rather live this one--but we'll go.
We'll walk through graveyards, tumble over our old bones,
So long as we can come home again
And I can hold you--and maybe
Find a way to smuggle a cat through customs.
Labels: poetry
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
A prayer for the dead
Beloved one, you are dead,
but you are not alone.
We are here with you,
the beloved dead await you.
You go from love
into love.
Carry with you
only love
May our love carry you
and open the way.
-- Starhawk
but you are not alone.
We are here with you,
the beloved dead await you.
You go from love
into love.
Carry with you
only love
May our love carry you
and open the way.
-- Starhawk
Thursday, July 06, 2006
The world loves a poet, so why can't I get laid?
Moon in Scorpio
I ache with this
Bones hollow, like birds
Knocked down by gravity,
Feathers spinning before me to
Cushion the impact.
I will crash
(the repeating pattern of my life)
Against the rocky hills of you and
Scramble for purchase.
How often have I done this?
How often grabbed from flight and
Held by hands,
Fingers stroking at my desheveled heart.
I don’t learn.
I love recklessly, over and over.
And it’s always a surprise,
This aching, downward spiral.
Eagles are wiser than this,
But not hummingbirds and
My wings beat faster, wilder,
More frantic than theirs.
I ache with this
Bones hollow, like birds
Knocked down by gravity,
Feathers spinning before me to
Cushion the impact.
I will crash
(the repeating pattern of my life)
Against the rocky hills of you and
Scramble for purchase.
How often have I done this?
How often grabbed from flight and
Held by hands,
Fingers stroking at my desheveled heart.
I don’t learn.
I love recklessly, over and over.
And it’s always a surprise,
This aching, downward spiral.
Eagles are wiser than this,
But not hummingbirds and
My wings beat faster, wilder,
More frantic than theirs.
Labels: poetry
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Sometimes I forget I'm a poet...
Reflections on Yet Another Family Reunion
You drowned me there, I say to myself as
I stumble over old photographs.
It's been my life's work,
This endless resurrection and death --
How shall I kill myself today?
Only, please, no more choking on love for Emily.
Emily who is burrowed into my flesh,
Who is consuming my creativity
And rendering me too weak to speak her name.
My muse in her red dress,
A sandalwood prayer to purify my distilling existence.
I've died too many times for Emily,
Bared my throat and drank my poison.
And yet. . .
. . .and yet the scent of her is enough to still my questing hands.
Hands that seek my salvation through destruction.
Her laughing, light touch enough to
Cease the spinning in my head.
She is my stability,
My favorite green-and-white pill
As necessary and deadly as water
to the drowning.
You drowned me there, I say to myself as
I stumble over old photographs.
It's been my life's work,
This endless resurrection and death --
How shall I kill myself today?
Only, please, no more choking on love for Emily.
Emily who is burrowed into my flesh,
Who is consuming my creativity
And rendering me too weak to speak her name.
My muse in her red dress,
A sandalwood prayer to purify my distilling existence.
I've died too many times for Emily,
Bared my throat and drank my poison.
And yet. . .
. . .and yet the scent of her is enough to still my questing hands.
Hands that seek my salvation through destruction.
Her laughing, light touch enough to
Cease the spinning in my head.
She is my stability,
My favorite green-and-white pill
As necessary and deadly as water
to the drowning.
Labels: poetry
Monday, March 13, 2006
Because I can't handle thinking about the badness one more minute...
And this is threatening to turn into Zan's Abortion Blog! , I'm posting some more of my poetry. I'm pretty fond of it. Hopefully, anyone whose actually reading this will be too. Or at least it'll make you feel something besides absolute rage at all the shit our government is pulling.
Heresy
It was a false start,
this public display of wanting.
I should have known better, but I had no point
of comparison.
Yearning, I reached for your hand. . .
(I've touched you before. Surely, this is no different?)
My fingers feathers, your hands like water waved away
Leaving me anchorless.
(Can't I touch you when others can see?)
Your eyes deny me, question propriety.
I've tripped a hidden wire.
All Fallen Human Beings
I would be wise, Emily.
Wise enough it wouldn't matter what our Mothers said
Or if the electric bill was late
Or if I forgot to turn the lights off again.
I would be strong.
Strong enough that this cancer wouldn't eat at us,
That they wouldn't dare throw stones,
That I could carry your pain in my heart.
I would be kind for you.
Kind enough to forgive your Father,
To embrace his hatred,
To love him for you.
But I can't forget my Mother's sarcasm or your Mother's tears.
This cancer grows, invading your smile, our hope.
And my hands are powerless to hold it back.
I am fallen and broken,
Fractured by the hatred of your father, my brother,
The unknowns who pass us on the street.
Untitled 26
When I was a child,
You wanted me to plant roses for you.
"My little rose," you called me and pinched my cheeks.
But I preferred Black-Eyes Susans,
Wild and untamed, uncultivatable,
Growing in roadside ditches and under bridges.
Not limited,
Pillowed down in beds by rake and trowel,
Picked for china vases and public displays,
Then thrown away when they've bloomed too long.
There's no glory in being a rose.
(I've never been a gardener, Mother.)
Paradise Lost/Regained
I plunge my hands into controversy,
sinking in to my elbows.
(You sigh and hand me a towel. Do I never surprise you?)
I've lived my life here, turning over rocks,
looking for darkness.
(You've lived your life here, holding a candle for me.)
I'm a revolutionary figure,
in some sense.
(You'd say I was only restless.)
I spend my life denying
my weakness.
(You turn my weakness into your strength somehow.)
I envy you (and despise you) (and love you)
your serenity.
(You say you're rather have my courage and fearlessness.)
I don't believe in any great chain of being.
We are (only?) what we make ourselves.
(You say you think we are all divine similitudes.)
I am undone with wanting,
this separation cleaves me.
(You close the distance and heal me.)
Yeah -- okay, on second thought, maybe those weren't all so happy and chipper. Hrm. Well...at least it's not government-inspired rage, right?
Heresy
It was a false start,
this public display of wanting.
I should have known better, but I had no point
of comparison.
Yearning, I reached for your hand. . .
(I've touched you before. Surely, this is no different?)
My fingers feathers, your hands like water waved away
Leaving me anchorless.
(Can't I touch you when others can see?)
Your eyes deny me, question propriety.
I've tripped a hidden wire.
All Fallen Human Beings
I would be wise, Emily.
Wise enough it wouldn't matter what our Mothers said
Or if the electric bill was late
Or if I forgot to turn the lights off again.
I would be strong.
Strong enough that this cancer wouldn't eat at us,
That they wouldn't dare throw stones,
That I could carry your pain in my heart.
I would be kind for you.
Kind enough to forgive your Father,
To embrace his hatred,
To love him for you.
But I can't forget my Mother's sarcasm or your Mother's tears.
This cancer grows, invading your smile, our hope.
And my hands are powerless to hold it back.
I am fallen and broken,
Fractured by the hatred of your father, my brother,
The unknowns who pass us on the street.
Untitled 26
When I was a child,
You wanted me to plant roses for you.
"My little rose," you called me and pinched my cheeks.
But I preferred Black-Eyes Susans,
Wild and untamed, uncultivatable,
Growing in roadside ditches and under bridges.
Not limited,
Pillowed down in beds by rake and trowel,
Picked for china vases and public displays,
Then thrown away when they've bloomed too long.
There's no glory in being a rose.
(I've never been a gardener, Mother.)
Paradise Lost/Regained
I plunge my hands into controversy,
sinking in to my elbows.
(You sigh and hand me a towel. Do I never surprise you?)
I've lived my life here, turning over rocks,
looking for darkness.
(You've lived your life here, holding a candle for me.)
I'm a revolutionary figure,
in some sense.
(You'd say I was only restless.)
I spend my life denying
my weakness.
(You turn my weakness into your strength somehow.)
I envy you (and despise you) (and love you)
your serenity.
(You say you're rather have my courage and fearlessness.)
I don't believe in any great chain of being.
We are (only?) what we make ourselves.
(You say you think we are all divine similitudes.)
I am undone with wanting,
this separation cleaves me.
(You close the distance and heal me.)
Yeah -- okay, on second thought, maybe those weren't all so happy and chipper. Hrm. Well...at least it's not government-inspired rage, right?
Labels: poetry
Monday, January 09, 2006
Another poem written today
Cast
This void is not
The Void.
It's just a step you have to take
on your way to something
Wonderful.
This fall could bring you to
Emily's new red dress
or
Sera's good-night kisses
or
1,000 other blessings you've never dreamed
which are looking for you
Waiting for you to say
Yes.
This void is not
The Void.
It's just a step you have to take
on your way to something
Wonderful.
This fall could bring you to
Emily's new red dress
or
Sera's good-night kisses
or
1,000 other blessings you've never dreamed
which are looking for you
Waiting for you to say
Yes.
Labels: poetry
Writing again
A poem I wrote at work today. First draft, no title.
She says there isn't anything left
Not a single piece of me I recognize in these
pictures or this mirror.
When did my hair turn brown and
my eyes go dark?
There was, I think, a freckle on
my cheek.
Sera used to kiss it at night,
before we went to bed.
It's gone now.
I'm all faded, pale skin unkissed.
She says there isn't anything left
but the bones and fragments of me.
And it's time to rebuild
Time to put down mirrors
and pictures
and memories of lost passions.
Time to love brown hair and
dark eyes, unkissed skin and
freckless cheeks.
Even time for empty beds and
blank notebooks.
She says there isn't anything left
but me and time and space to remember.
She says there isn't anything left
Not a single piece of me I recognize in these
pictures or this mirror.
When did my hair turn brown and
my eyes go dark?
There was, I think, a freckle on
my cheek.
Sera used to kiss it at night,
before we went to bed.
It's gone now.
I'm all faded, pale skin unkissed.
She says there isn't anything left
but the bones and fragments of me.
And it's time to rebuild
Time to put down mirrors
and pictures
and memories of lost passions.
Time to love brown hair and
dark eyes, unkissed skin and
freckless cheeks.
Even time for empty beds and
blank notebooks.
She says there isn't anything left
but me and time and space to remember.
Labels: poetry
