What I Was Thinking.

Old Posts

Angst and heartbreak straight from my freshman year of college.  Enjoy!

Little Alternatives to Crying (or, nonsensical rantings)

waiting winning losing

winning losing waiting, losing 

putting that thing back together and painting it a new color. it'll stay in my chest as long as I can keep it there
last time it got out it bounced its little self all over the walls and made a mess of every hallway
those things aren't like skin
they aren't like women who are back on their feet days after giving birth
when that new life is its own the pain goes away and the essence of softness is all that remains

but when you let that thing out of your chest, if you think you're gonna get it back the way it was you are wrong

baby I rewrote The End. We changed our lives. we grew
we grew up and acted down, and it was fresh cold
I grew faster, I was so much taller and you shrunk me and stood
stood on my toes and then left me there, half buried
and you ran
you ran faster than I could, but it wasn't a bird, it wasn't like the sun
it wasn't drinking in the air like life
it was down, falling like you do, falling into countries and metaphors
yawning at emotions when they try to get out 

doubt stayed awake 419 days

muted like brass, sad and unsure

but you are here
and i am here
and we tested the waters while you slept

You didn't think to jump.
I didn't think not to.

My Baptist Girlfriend

No, I have absolutely no idea where the title came from.

I wrote this during Hebrew class, and I'm not the speaker in this poem.  I'm sure this will sound strange and pretentious, but I have no control over what my poetry says.  It is my thoughts, it is my feelings, but it comes from a part of me that I can't contain.  It's honest, deep expression.  My brain and my soul told me the title, and I agreed with them.  I usually do.  This poem is a mostly subconscious creation.

My Baptist Girlfriend

We will not talk about pigs.

I will not curse.

I will watch her crunch the soft armor

between white teeth, white teeth. Small.

And I will be even. I will

be even with a beating heart-shield.

She screams and throws,

she touches and sighs,

she flutters her eyelashes either way.

She does not dance, she does not dance.

but she flies, my hand in hers,

my brutish instinct to

look up her heliotrope dress

Repressed.

we fall into it, we fall out of it

we fall to the stone that feels the pain we feel.

the bullets fill the air, whizzing

over my head

and into hers

but she isn't hurt,

she is injured but isn't hurt,

her dress riddled with holes

like a munched-upon petal.

and everyone can see her body.

and everyone can read her mind.

and everyone can see her heart

creeping out

amidst a bundle of nerves.

The word is in green because it serves its purpose in my poem with both its English meaning and its Hebrew meaning.

I now know what this poem is about.

Random Poetry Written in Poetry Class.

This one was pretty much stream of consciousness.  Pardon the lines; I don't know how to make them align properly.

"Popsicle Punks."

Make your body, Mohawk,

Crunched up on my Mohawk.               

The smell of the air In my aquanet hair

Little old ladies

They stare and they stare

And the little old babies all Mo-gawk.

Creamsicle swirled,

That damned little girl

With her stupid her stupid

Her braids all unfurled

Like wings like like

Nightwings beginnings

Hair thinnings

That Mohawk all crimson

And sleek spiky white

With its towering trembling

Mo-knocky might

And the creamsicle creams

And those girls and their

Dreams of the boys

And their cares and

The shapes of their hair.

This one is a response to the many, many poems written about the paintings of Pieter Bruegel the Elder.  He was an incredible painter.  Most of his paintings have some eerie quality about them that I can't quite put my finger on.  Look them up - let me know what you see in them.

"Much Mortar Wasted."

In Bruegel's strange portrait,

Tower of Babel,

The ruin is screaming. It is empty and crumbling.        An abandoned wedding cake.  

There was no marriage.

There was no divorce.

(There was no war here.)

But the ruin is screaming

So many things

 The artist is whispering

So many more

A silly wax-wing society

 That poor boy.

And all of them talking, talking

And all of them talking

And all of them hearing

But not listening

Or not listening

So as not to hear, to understand.

And now,

Now,

They'll tear down their bricks

And rebuild

And maybe

 (maybe)

 They will listen

 
 

"This is Just to Say..."

For those of you that don't know, the title is a reference to William Carlos Williams, a brilliantly simple poet.

I've been having a negative day.  I don't know why.  I voted this morning (pro-libraries, against casino, democratic judges, pro-livestock) and got a lot accomplished after my survey class.   I think it was poetry that pissed me off.

We spent the period discussing Emily Dickinson.  I enjoy her poetry - think it's lovely, even brilliant at times.  In most cases I like learning about a poet's background.  It enriches the poetry.  For instance, knowledge of Sylvia Plath's bouts of severe depression and her eventual suicide deepen the effect her poetry has on me - read "Daddy" or "Metaphors," for example.  She's fascinating.

But learning about Dickinson's reclusive, antisocial life depressed me.  It gave her poetry a sense of longing, a feeling of self-pity, and made her seem like a pretty pathetic person.  I appreciate the air of mystery that surrounds her, and I wonder what caused her to hole up in her home.  But she seems to pine for the outside world and question why the world never speaks to her when she almost never set foot outside the garden gates of the Massachusetts home where she grew up.

Through this frustration with learning about sad little Emily came a Villanelle I wrote during class. It is untitled, although the title of many villanelles are taken from the first lines of the poem (much like Dickinson's 1,700 untitled works).

To venture out would be a mortal sin

The garden gate and house becomes her lair.

With fear the note is sealed, and holds her in.

 

She spent a spell in college, tried to win

But she was tethered to her bedroom chair

To venture out would be a mortal sin.

 

Expecting love to simply let her in,

She hoped the men - the world - for her would care

With fear the note is sealed, and holds her in.

 

Adventures in her mind cause quite a din

She breathes, and in her face a flush does flair

To venture out would be a mortal sin.

Her one friend says she's too much to take in

Her mind dissects your every flaw and tear

With fear the note is sealed, and holds her in.

The loneliness just waiting to creep in

A self-inflicted exile, cue despair-

To venture out would be a mortal sin.

With fear the note is sealed, and holds her in.

Ode to Dr. Scheiner's Handiwork.

<--she has a toothache, too, but she's way cuter than I am. At least for now.

With the assistance of the anesthesiologist.

So, I got my wisdom teeth taken out today. Whatever they tell you...well, don't believe the sugarcoated candy lies. It's very very unpleasant. The first three hours after the operation are very very very very VERY painful and uncomfortable...especially if you have another monthly-occurring problem taking place inside of you at the same time. At least there's ice cream...

So while I sat on the couch with a tube sock full of ice on the right side of my face, I wrote a little ode to my mouth and to my experience.

Also, I have like, no feeling in my chin and lower lip.

2 Metaphors.

“2 Metaphors”

I’m a fortune cookie with no message.
I’m a mind-reader at a loss for words.
A meaningless affection expression.
A train screeching along a trackless road.
I’m a snail on a journey with no end.
An empty envelope going nowhere.
I’m a frog’s heartbeat in a frozen lake.
A clock with no hour hand, ticking, ticking.
A floppy stuffed dog, but empty of fluff.
A poem, littered with words, devoid of thought.

Cravings.

“Cravings”

I’m not feeling well, babe, could you get me a glass of water?

I’m so hungry.

I said, “I’m so hungry.”

That means wake up.

This migraine will never go away unless I can have
Three hot dogs with relish
(yes, I need them right now), a glass of Tang
(no, I don’t know where they sell it.  The astronauts drink it, don’t they?),
maybe some coffee
(oh god—on second thought, I don’t even want coffee in this house. You can’t drink it either.),
a popsicle and some peanut butter
(that’s what I said, isn’t it?),
I guess a strawberry one and chunky peanut butter
(peanut scare?  Do I look like I care? I’ll scare your peanut.),
and some maple syrup with that as well.

Make sure the syrup’s cold or I’ll probably throw up.

Seafood, oh, I miss jambalaya so mu—ohhh—get me a trashcan, I—
(Sorry.  Your contact lenses weren’t still in that glass, were they?)
Oh, my head.  On second thought, maybe I’ll just take a few Advil.

Do we have any Nestle chocolate milk for me to wash it down with?

Babe?

Oranges in Humanities, per. 3.

“Oranges in Humanities, period 3”

The potent smell of citrus fruits
Wafts through a room without compare.
Febreze and candles hold no suit
To Clementine that fills the air.
One only need peel back the rind
An arc of sticky, pulpy spray
From grapefruit, orange, tangerine
Does chase the foulest smells away.
Citrus erases pungent gloom
And brings new freshness to a room.

An Ode to Ogden Nash

“Ode to Ogden Nash”

Little Children’s concerts
Rarely are fantastic.
Trumpets may be shiny,
But flutes are made of plastic.
Toots and trills squeak loudly
Never quite together.
Honestly, I’d rather
Strip in frigid weather.

As it were, I do require
That my tykes
Partake in choir.

If We Were Christians.

“If We Were Christians”

he’d have curly hair
and dark skin.
I’ve heard he was middle-eastern, anyway.
I would wear just a little one
with a little diamond in the middle
like The One my Catholic ex-best friend
lost
in fourth grade.

we wouldn’t be catholic.

our christmas would be
MarthaStewartRedGreen-free.
soft white
sparkling gold
sweet-smelling
christmas tree.

we’d believe what the pastor says,
but laugh at our fellow congregants
with their River City devotion to
The Unchanging Word
and their Simple,
Boring
Lives.

I’d wonder if
Mr. Jesus The Christ
wanted followers that would only
muck up his sin-free self.

I’d go to Jesus camp
and take my own interpretations
to everything
and make people mad.

I’d wonder how Jews stay so communal when
they don’t even have a curly-haired guy to believe in.

I’d wonder how all of us could
believe the same thing—
weird.

I’d eat pork ribs
and love it.