Friday Poem: Pivot Point

Pivot Point

I am not interested in being the child
of death and rage
I’m sorry for my outburst, but were you even listening?
There is more at stake here
than your petty ego.
It has never been about
what you want,
or care about.
It’s not about
the end of days, either,
though we do like our ecstasies of fear
in this town.
Let’s be real:
You are pivotal, just
like the rest of us.
But where do we turn on the pivot point?
That’s another question.

 

 

 

About This Poem
I’m… not entirely sure where this poem came from. It’s from my own personal NaPoWriMo. I wrote it on the downtown R train at a late hour of the night. It’s a lot angrier than I really understand myself to be, especially given that I’m not sure what exactly it’s about. I’d love comments or critique, as always.

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Friday Poem: When I was a kid…

This is something I worked on in my Music Therapy Group. We looked at Andrea Gibson’s poem “Andrew” and wrote our own responses to it starting with the line “When I was a kid…”

Mine looked something like this:

When I was a kid
I took on many roles:
                Blue and Yellow Ranger
                Sailor Mercury and Tuxedo Mask
and saw no contradiction in it.
Fighting evil on the back porch
or swimming with Neptune at the beach,
legs turned into dolphin tail, making bottlenose noises in the banya.
I never cared to have a leading role,
was happy to cede Red Ranger or Princesshood
to my friends.
I’d happily serve so long as I could shapeshift too.

 

 

It’s taken on several iterations since then, but I haven’t quite become satisfied with it. It’s gotten both longer and shorter; I’ve taken the ’90s kid references out and put them back in… It’ll probably go through more iterations until it’s complete, and I’ll happily take comments and critique, even in this half-formed state.

Friday Poem: The First Living Autopsy

The First Living Autopsy

I covered the pages with scribble:
an attempt, maybe feeble, to dissect my life.
I make a poor taxonomist on the best days
and desperation eats my competence —
My shaking hands can’t manipulate this
scalpel, the pen,
Laying open only the skin of it;
the subcutaneous tissue hides more
than it reveals. I don’t want to feed
on the fat, only learn from it
the answer to the only question I have ever asked.

I’ll reveal myself to myself in the
whispers of ink, the first living autopsy:
soon, they will be all the rage.
Who doesn’t want to know what lies beneath?
I never lied on purpose, but you must know
I never knew the truth to tell it.

About This Poem
This poem actually predates my own personal NaPoWriMo by a few weeks — I wrote it on April 15 of this year. I don’t know how I feel about it — there’s some good images here that can probably be rescued into a better poem, but it doesn’t feel like the final version. Not yet. As always, critique is welcome.

NaPoWriMo2015 Poem 9: Complaint

 
Complaint

The sardine
is too salty & lean.
The calf
is too bland by half.
The kale
makes me quail.
The quail,
in turn, is rather pale.
I may be too picky,
But I won’t eat things that are sticky
or slimy or tough
or spiny or rough,
or if the touch, taste, or smell
makes me feel unwell.
I don’t care if it’s rude,
I’m NOT eating your food.
 
 
 
 
 
 
About This Poem
I’m not sure where this came…

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NaPoWriMo2015 Poem 9: Complaint

 
Complaint

The sardine
is too salty & lean.
The calf
is too bland by half.
The kale
makes me quail.
The quail,
in turn, is rather pale.
I may be too picky,
But I won’t eat things that are sticky
or slimy or tough
or spiny or rough,
or if the touch, taste, or smell
makes me feel unwell.
I don’t care if it’s rude,
I’m NOT eating your food.
 
 
 
 
 
 
About This Poem
I’m not sure where this came from, but I actually kind of like it! It’s pretty silly. Maybe a little Learian? Or is that too cocky of me to say? Critique, as always is welcome. 🙂

NaPoWriMo2015 Poem 8: I’m Not Here

CN: self-deprecation, dreadful self-esteem, negative self-talk, whatever you want to call it.

I’m Not Here

Dull as dirt & with less life
Lazy, lazy, ill at ease
Striving, failing, full of strife
& of Pyrrhic victories

I’m not in, I’ll be anon,
Say I when friends come to call
But in truth their friend is gone
I’m just an image on the wall
 
 
 
 
 
 
About This Poem
I guess I wasn’t feeling so hot about myself and my lack of poetry updates so I wrote a poem to yell at myself about it? It’s not even a good poem, frankly. The meter is off and although I like the rhyming of “ease” and “victories”, I’ve always thought rhyming “life” and “strife” is somehow cheap. Also I came up with the title literally just now while I was typing up the poem, so it’s not an ideal title, either. Critique is welcome: if there is a way to shine this dross, I’d be most grateful.

NaPoWriMo2015 Poem 7: On Actually Looking At A Tree

I’m a little behind on posting these up (writing them, too, but more so on the posting) so here’s three all at once.

On Actually Looking At A Tree For The First Time In Ages

The deep green stirs something in Lide
that lay dormant in the winter months–
Ve cannot tear verself away from
street-facing windows, second-story windows
in line with tree branches, black with aliveness.
Lide rests vis hands…

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