A Room of Her Own

The Thing's Gone Wrong

Mon, 9 Jun 2008 22:34:33 -0500

Inspired by two different prompts, Lucille Clifton (via ReadWritePoem) and sleep via (Mad Kane). I think it needs a lot of work, though.

The Thing's Gone Wrong

when I watch you
I see your shame
layered like winter clothes

you wrestle
under nightmares
and strained sunlight

life's juices
leak from the corners
of your eyes, your mouth

it has taken this long
since your heart broke
to see the cracks

Old Dog, New Words

Thu, 5 Jun 2008 15:05:42 -0500

I was waiting to get my tires fixed again* yesterday for two hours. On the other hand, I got to read about 40 pages in Lady Chatterley's Lover. Here are some words that I wrote down to look up later.

perspicuous - clearly expressed, intelligle, distinct

soporific - something that causes sleep

insouciant - free from concern, worry, anxiety; nonchalant

imperious - urgent, pressing, overbearing

Glimpses

Wed, 4 Jun 2008 19:40:41 -0500

Every now and then I see glimpses of my father in other men, his arm, his profile, his hair. It's weird, but my relationship with my dad is like that - in pieces. There's the piece that calls every month to check in on me. The part that is mad at my life choices. The bit that is more concerned about his own life than mine. The piece that loves me, so much that he stopped drinking when I was born, worked as a day laborer when he was forced out of the military, and helped me when Ishmael was born.

I remember his heavy work boots and the smell of his aftershave in the mornings. But I also remember how tired he was when he came home and all he wanted to do was watch television. I remember how he actually turned the volume up when I tried to talk to him.

Our recent interaction still stings and I don't want to talk to him for now. I'll settle for these glimpses of strangers. I'll grieve over the fact that the sum of these pieces don't add up to the father I need.

Sexy Back

Thu, 5 Jun 2008 15:08:27 -0500

I've been reading (and loving) Lady Chatterly's Lover by D.H. Lawrence. I can see why it was considered por.nographic in its day. I wonder how Lawrence was so able to write so well from a woman's perspective. I see there's a recent movie version, but I'm hesitant to see it. I'll wait at least until I finish reading the book. I'm usually disappointed by the movie version of books anyway...

Here's one of my favorite passages, echoing not only the post-war era from which Modernism was born, but perhaps fitting for today's age as well.

All the great words, it seemed to Connie, were cancelled for her generation: love, joy, happiness, home, mother, father, husband, all these great dynamic words were half dead now, and dying from day to day. Home was a place you lived in, love was a thing you didn't fool yourself about, joy was a word you applied to a good Charleston, happiness was a term of hypocrisy used to bluff other people, a father was an individual who enjoyed his own existence, a husband was a man you lived with and kept going in spirits. As for sex, the last of the great words, it was just a cocktail term for an excitement that bucked you up for a while, then left you more raggy than ever. Frayed! It was as if the very material you were made of was cheap stuff, and was fraying out to nothing.

If you haven't read it, I highly recommend it. Of course, I love Lawrence and will probably read a few other novels of his this summer.

Words

Mon, 2 Jun 2008 15:22:03 -0500

I walk around with words in my head. Grocery lists. To do lists. Craft ideas. Blog posts. Pieces of poems. Stories.

ceiling fan
slices the sunlight
into strands

his quick annoying barks
shockwaves
no pauses in between

***

I knew something was wrong. The neighbor's grey cat hovering over my brother's form on the floor, his arms splayed like the crucifiction. My mother used to say that cats would steal a baby's breath if you let it. And she never let cats into the house. I don't remember lifting my feet to move forward, but I found myself kneeling next to him on the worn hardwood. A cry escaped from my lips, from deep in my gut. The rest was a blur.

Not all of it adds up. Not all of it builds into something bigger. Not everything is finished or final. Bits and pieces like coins fed into a machine.

Seen

Thu, 5 Jun 2008 15:11:15 -0500

This poem might as well be called "An Attempted Visit" because I got to the Seen Gallery right before they opened, waited almost 15 minutes, and nada. But I could see some of the art through the many windows, and it was very nice and peaceful on their patio. Yay poetry!

Visit to an Art Gallery

May 30, 2008

robot art
yellows of an artifical sun

lucky Chinese cat
paw raised
expectantly

metal twisted into bouquets
daisies that will
never falter

moth
caught in oil
and the likeness of
plum blossoms

figures long and sad,
sister, mother, but
cartoonish

miniature clothes
woven from paper
or banana leaves
or the refuse of the
rich

this art
for their eyes,
their senses,
their credit cards

one hundred feet away
with their backs to the
white brick building
people wait

the bus stop
under oak
cigarette ashed
beer scented
human stained
picturesque

Sexy Mama

Thu, 5 Jun 2008 15:09:12 -0500

It took me a few days to unwind and time away from the internet definitely helped. This prompt is from Totally Optional Prompts, about "absent friends." Well, this is about a most beloved friend and a certain kind of absence. I guess something else is stirred up when I'm not at work...

Missing Him

cavernous
immense and rumbling
with each tremble
my skin contracts
down to my toes

wanting
like summer
wants
the ocean

like a tongue
waits
for taste

senses heightened
so a hand
over shoulder blade
sends boulders into the river

already full
of flood water

Advice

Thu, 5 Jun 2008 15:15:20 -0500

One of my coworkers that was pregnant at the same time as me, who actually had a dream about me, found out she was pregnant again. She had tried to have a baby for so long and her son was a miracle. Being pregnant again, though not the best timing, was another miracle. Unfortunately, things went south very fast and she miscarried.

When another colleague told me about it, I was floored. I made a comparison to what happend to me, but my colleague said she knew what I went through was worse. She said, too, that she used to hate it when people would compare their miscarriages to my experiences (or offer such experiences up with their condolences). She said sometimes she would just have to leave the room. I guess, unlike many people, she saw me everyday and knew how pregnant I was (7 months) and hard it must have been. Anyway, a nice thing to say. Especially since I thought everyone was being insensitive.

Anyway, these events and this prompt have inspired me.

Advice to the Childless Woman

time heals
with red, fleshy scars

god has a plan
written like fire on my heart
Latin or pain or mystery

I am still young
but each month
is heavy and long
like my empty arms

The Final Cut

Thu, 5 Jun 2008 15:10:18 -0500

Let me know what you think about this poem. I like how the theme is transformation too, even as I blogged about the words taking form into a poem. I need to catch up with my supposed NaPoWriMo mission! Whatever, I just want to write more!

Transfigure

mood swinging

shadows stretching

nerves stretched long

sharp as glass

edge of pain

dull and rounded

tempered

from heat and pressure

pin prick on skin

inside of wrist

a shameful scar

a former life

Poem Notes

Fri, 9 May 2008 12:43:00 -0500

Here's just some notes, a freewrite of sorts, for a poem I'm trying to write. It doesn't have an anchor or a strong sense of itself yet. But I thought it might be interesting to see how it "transforms" into a poem in the next few days.

mood swinging

shadows stretching

long

skinny feeling

nerves sharp as glass

edge of pain

dull and round

tempered glass

pin prick of cactus

on inside of wrist

the shameful scar

of a former life

lessons learned the hard way