I created this blog to share my poetry with the internet. I wanted to know if what I scribbled onto the pages of my journals were fit to be called poems at all. Maybe they are. I have yet to find out.
2019 is upon us in a couple of weeks and after good bout of arguments with my boyfriend about where my writing career is headed, I have decided to deviate from publishing dreary alienating poems. To what? I’m not entirely sure and I don’t think I will be until I begin whatever I think I’ve planned.
I like to read. I used to love to read but maybe that’s why I’ve ended up where I am ; not reading nearly as much as I want to. Booktube has terrified me with it’s ability to read close to ten books a week and collect Goodreads statistics to the jaw-dropping hundreds annually. I don’t have that kind of stamina nor that kind of interest.
So 52 books is where I will start. One book journaled in a week. Every week, I will sit with one person (an author) and hear what he/she has to say and then reflect upon it here. Here is not Tumblr, which is an instantly pacifying thought and here is not the salivating, snarling mouth of a beast waiting to snap shut at my fumbles.
If I get to the end of the year in one piece psychologically, I hope to feel accomplished in some way. If I don’t, it doesn’t matter as long as I’ve gone a few places, seen a few things, talked to a few people. All of which reading is able to provide, in the comfort of my living room & in the hungry spaces of my mind.
From here, I migrate…
all our truths meet in secret to decide who must come out first.
soundlessly they take size of one another.
the truth of the world, the truth that exists outside of us, it is never welcomed at these meetings.
the elusive truth, the truth, the one we die never knowing, it stands shy, naked, without reason.
the garbed truth always prevails.
picture credit : The MET Greek & Roman Art.
this child was born in the wind,
free of freedom, ignorant.
bathed not in happiness, neither looking for it.
this child lives between the leaves and the skies,
silently awaiting nothing at all.
no stories to tell, no death to fear.
picture credit : tumblr
She’s throwing faeces at the wall. She’s lost her mind. You want to lock her away, give her to someone else.
She’s throwing faeces at you. She wants you to remember the same way as she does. Can you?
Hurt, humiliation, torture, agony, numbness & madness. Can you remember all this, Papa?
Can you imagine the pain you gave her?
Somewhere in her mind, you stand with her in a closed room. She screams as she hurls faeces in your direction.
Powerlessly, she tries to hurt you too.
image credit : tumblr
the first man to give me roses
never fell in love with me.
so i gave them back,
dry & faded.
You look like you’re going to leave me again.
You kiss fervently, deeply – you’re not here to stay.
You smile more, caress my arms, hold on to my waist, stare at me longer.
If you’ve come back to hurt me, look right at me,
do it quick, don’t give me time to look away.
Picture Credit – Boston Post, Massachusetts, October 7, 1920
This forest can bow and bend and shelter my nights
it can awaken in my dreams
not unlike the path of the Earth giving rise to the sun.
Art work – Winter (The Flood), 1660, Nicolas Poussin