October 28, 2013

Broken glass


I dreamt
That I was on a plane
That went down
I dreamt
That my cat had my bird in her mouth
I dreamt
That my sister announced her engagement
I dreamt
Of eating shards of broken glass like potato chips

 
I woke up
To thunder and rain
Purring, slow, patient
Between the sunrise, when I went to bed
And when I opened my eyes
The heat haze had gone
And fall was sitting on my couch


I fed the bird, the cat, and the hangover
My body had deflated
Into the line that runs down the middle of my being
I exist in two
Languages
Places
Bodies
My dragon tail drags behind me
And I am broken, transitioning

 
When I open up this suitcase
It smells like old souls meeting
And the spread of a pair of white wings
To go Noplace real slow, purring, and patient
Come find me
And find me again
This God’s child is in love with you
Come tell me
And tell me again
No music should be lost
In this short short life.




11 comments:

  1. I adore this poem. ADORE. Every bit of it becomes me...poking and showing me— nodding, knowing. I see and I want to be every bit of me and make this short life shout. You, my poetic scholar, are amazing.
    Love!

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  2. Thank you so so much, Leah. I'm not even sure if what I've been producing lately is poetry, might be closer to prose broken down for rhythm and easier reading. I have been screaming on the inside, madly clawing for the life that is mine, that I have earned, that I can't stand to be deprived of anymore. Magma bubbling underneath the surface, air compressing just before the tip of the nose of my airplane before breaking the sound barrier... Or perhaps the 'plop' of a soap bubble out of the mouth of a toddler in a bathtub.

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  3. Bubbling "Soul Magma" is the key ingredient, in my opinion...for poetic Truth. The more one mine's such spontaneous Truth...the more they will find themselves being lead down life's most fantastic trails and alley-ways. You've becomes the Soul's lost Love Hiker my friend....and it's been magnificent to tail along for the ride!

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  4. I would like to see this gorgeous poetic language appear on your own blog, T., now that you've made the commitment to amp up your writing again (and we will hold you to it). "Soul Magma" and "Soul's Lost Love Hiker" - such power in those words, all of them. For better or worse, I've always written from that place on this blog, less than that just won't do. Thank you so much, it's great to see you here again.

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    1. Ah yes, so the gauntlet has been thrown down. I should have known that "word jousting" with the Soul's Lost Love Hiker was the same as playing with FIRE...oh well, I shall relish the burn!

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  5. Thormoo I agree that soul magma and truth are the key key ingredients to poetry. Raw honesty dipped in hopelessness and sprinkled with sugar. Relish the burn!

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  6. I would be lying if I said I didn't live for these moments of poetic exchange... So proud, dear friends! Don't hold back.

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  7. Me too Chris. Although I'm not really certain what constitutes a real poem, I do know how to put words together from my gut. If they originate from my head the words tend to be as lifeless as a stillborn.

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    1. I could give you the Comp Lit 101 version from college, but I actually left my scholarly approach to poetry there. I can still flip on the switch, but being a child of prose through and through, I prefer to feel poetry in my gut, like you do. I let the language, the rhythm, the play sweep me up and if it is poetry, I know.

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  8. Ok, I am really loving your poetry. It's such a subjective medium in general, I know. Those who ascribe themselves as professionals would hate my poetry. Freestyle and stream of consciousness, filled with allusion and allegory that no one but me could possibly understand. I generally have no meter, or if I do, its of my own design. I would assume my poetry is to poets what a little girl splattering paint onto a canvas is to artists. But I didn't mean to post a response to your poetry about my poetry. My point is that, whether or not I am correct, the words you write and the way you write them come together for me and shine as clearly as if I had written them myself. Your self portrait, seeing "letters and colors," and not wanting to be a princess anymore. Razor blades falling from your mouth and Tasmanian devil passionate. Yes, yes, and yes. And now this, the line that runs down the middle of my being, broken and transitioning with your dragon tail dragging behind. Yes, yes, and yes. Like a Viewmaster of my life. Click, click, and click. Yes.

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    1. Hey girl, you were missed on here.

      I think I read some of your poetry on 30+, and remember being appalled that not a single person commented. "A community of writers." Just wow. I recently discovered this guy (http://brudberg.wordpress.com) actually writing poetry in meter, and a non-native speaker of English to boot. I was blown away that someone would experiment with meter in this day and age. One of his commenters (there's always one!) responded to his statement about English not being his native language with "why don't you just write free verse?" I wanted to smack this person across the face and forbid them to ever pick up a piece of text again, any kind of text. Making that ridiculous suggestion says that you've pretty much missed the whole point of his endeavor. And it's such an impressive one that I'm giving myself time before I drop him a line or two.

      So it depends on the context. If every asshat out there thinks they can break up their private diary into what looks like verse on the page and call it poetry, then writing in meter is actually revolutionary. I asked a prof once why Milton's blank verse was so radical when there was an entire history of it in the English language, and he reminded me that Milton's immediate predecessor was Spenser, whose Spenserian stanza and The Faerie Queene had imposed an entirely different standard. So going back to a "simpler" form was actually a touch of rebellion. Or it could be the other way round.

      I don't really study poetry, even though I should be equipped for it. With the exception of T.S. Eliot, I am a special dud when it comes to anything after the 17th century (and he was kinda keen on them too so I guess that's about right). I have no clue as to what is going on in the contemporary scene(s). But I find individual poets who move me, and they make me write differently in turn. Like this one: http://thefeministwire.com/2013/06/3-poems-by-ian-ellasante.

      When I taught at university, there were a few wannabe poets among my students. They were OBSESSED with the supposed alpha-omega fact that their "poetry" was an expression of their persons, personas, and personalities. I gave them some tough love by informing them that readers don't give a shit about their persons, but about what the poetry does for them. And that's always been the beauty of it for me: I say one thing, you think another. And we both own it. How cool is that.

      Keep swinging that dragon tail. And thank you.

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