biscuits

I think I'm secretly a self deprecating socialist. Good. Night.

Post- Romantic: Paisley Rekdal

Came across this poem today. This is just a snippit, the full version is rather long. Something about it made it both sharp, lively, losing, and bitter. The lines come with such a great power, very lovely.  Hope you enjoy :)

"I love you. Can I even say that? In this story,

I want to spend the rest of my life growing quietly bored with you,

locking away loom and spindle, sweeping out the piles

of rose petals and ash. For once, I plan to triumph

over smug experience. I marry you. Don’t hit me.

Please, just come in from the stars awhile, sit here

in this sitting room, let me find you another section of the paper

to argue over. The doctors said I get to wear a suit.

They said I’ll be released next Thursday. Listen:

even now, the junipers are whispering their dark good-byes,

thin limbs smocked in white. A riderless horse has appeared

on the horizon. And somewhere, out in the meretricious night,

somebody’s life is quietly changing."

Edit

Here's the version of the last post's poem (whoa, that was kind of hard to say...) that I ended on. I feel it a hell of a lot better personally, but that's why I have a blog...so, thoughts?

The Woman I Will Be

What I want is

to dance with my children,

                                    barefooted

in our living room,

to love a father --

.                                               some kind of activist--

and write

words that are trifled

by misapprehension

words you will love,

unlike mother’s

who are not

            the woman I will be.

 

 Late summer hearts, swollen

            from sun and seed, never make it past

            shallow lawn chair basins

or spots behind glasses of ice

perspiring, drowning themselves.

                        Everyone has stopped watching.       

                                   

Soon, wild black eyed ladies will blossom

from the scalp of earth

                        where beautiful things are

            rotting. 

This is as good as my triadic line poem is getting. I'm honestly not even fucking able to offer any legitimacy to the structured clauses, let alone the fucking format. aha.  But I'll offer it up to you, oh blog gods, to do with it what you will. 

In other news...

             

It's been a while...

You know, I was thinking that I really don't ever use my blog enough ever. For shame. Well, it's never too late.

I feel so separated from everything that otherwise I am a part of, as if I'm dissimilar in some way. I feel like I'm being forced out, but all I want to do is stay. It's the difference that's forcing me to make a choice: change or leave. Then again, I've always kind of different. Maybe I'm meant to be on the sides, never really understood. Am I understood? It's a scary question because really, can you ever know? Its this understanding that I need validated on days where all I can feel are the words on a page, and nothing else. We all need that person, those people who get us, who can say just one thing, one word, or perhaps just a smile or a look, and we know that out vantage point has been theirs. And you can't fight it, you can never fight it. Just like time, the change operates of its own accord, having little to do with what is controllable by humans. Like a decayed structure, it is meant to fall. But who's falling the world around you, or you?

Standing Up Straight

Standing Up Straight

We have only just found it

The ear’s drum is an orange

Smooth with wax, dimpled and spongy

With noise, palpitating pulp fists so vicious

But not for bleeding out beyond its zest

Since the flesh, too, hears its longing

And forbearance. My word is me. We

Try, for love, to plot by sound’s plundering,

How a tiny beating naval communicates its

tremors to beauty and understanding, the

orange pulp bursting behind the plump lips

of a child who sits in its mother’s lap, feeling

only the sleek slice of fruit. We are lounging

In fields beneath trees, wondering behind closed

Eyes, and like the bows we block out the sun,

Making homes for others in our arms. I believe

Now that the ear’s drum is an orange giving

up on itself and even for all we do to understand

its whispering, we will truly never understand

why is exists to hear what can never fully be understood.

((PS: This is just a draft, so I have major tweaking still to do, I think. Opinions??))

Istanbul

So, I'm kind of proud of myself: I deactivated my facebook account. It's so strange how liberated I feel now. hmm
Side note: Kinda tired of writing creatively. I've completed near fifty pages of short stories in about three days. The likelihood of having another creative thought soon, for me, is very very very low. And yet, I blog. Who knows what that's about. As much as I'd like to just copy and paste it all here for everyone ( or really the one person who actually reads but only kind of.

on a new note completely, Dumbledore just died, again, damn movie. I'm bummed now. Oh well, better get back to that hw stuff. blah

until then. later